It's one of those made-for-television-movie moments. 

Me on the front porch under the hanging English ivy peering in the expensive lead glass windows of McCafferty's front door just before it opens to reveal her in a luscious peach satin robe, hair tousled, remnants of make up smudged.

And, right on cue behind her, Sarge strolls nonchalantly by on his way through the living room towards the kitchen in a pair of boxers, fingers curled around a mug of coffee. 

It's one fucking forty five and then some in the afternoon.

The sigh I heave is not amused.

"I should have called," I say and McCafferty widens her eyes and tilts her head in a silent and only slightly embarrassed 'duh' gesture.

"Probably," she says. "But you didn't."

I take a step back on the porch and jam both hands in my front pockets and glance behind me where the taxi is idling at the curb. 

"Should I have her circle the block a couple of times or can I wait here or what?"

I don't list my leaving as one of the options because it isn't one.  I have to know where she stands on the search warrants and seize orders and I have to know if Andrea Peyton had been served prior to her crashing Sylvie's Porsche and I have to know what the preliminary ideas on that are; accident or really convenient catastrophe?  And where's Sylvie? 

And I'm not in the mood for anyone's sex life to to interfere with any of this.

Although of course considering I'm striding forward with the plan based on no more than a mere message passed to me from S'Phear through C.D. someone's sex life already is.  Actually, two someone's sex lives.

S'Phear and Bad Ass.  Who'd have thought it.

"~~ridiculous.  Come in."

I blink at her, then grasp it was an invitation and turn and wave at the cabby who smooches a grandmotherly kiss to her fingers and then hurls it at me.

"Another Cooper fan?" McCafferty says, grinning and I mentally curse the kicked-puppy vibes I give off and shrug. 

"Beats another Cooper enemy."

I think Sarge is going to stroke out when I shove the swinging door open and stroll into the kitchen. 

"Coop!" he barks surprised and I decide to just ignore him and zero in on the fresh supply of caffeine.   It takes me three seconds to determine where McCafferty's mugs are; I merely stand back, think like Jase and hone in.

"I would really appreciate it if you'd go put clothes on."

I address it to the Mr. Coffee machine but it's intended for whichever of them is feeling generous towards me.  Which is apparently neither of them because when I pivot slightly and glance they've both taken up spots at the kitchen table and are gazing at me serenely. 

Fine.  Whatever.

"Status on the search warrants?"

McCafferty takes a sip of coffee and glances at the clock on the microwave.

"Served by now."

"Shouldn't you be there?"

"No."  Her voice is glacial.  "If I should be there I would  be there.  I'm staying out of it.  Less chance for Massey to shriek tampering and planting.  IA is handling this because it is an IA affair.  This is going down strictly by the book."

This is so ludicrous a statement given the various compromises due to myself, Jinny and C.D. that I find myself blinking at her in amazement.  The look Sarge directs at me as I snort in comment and lean back against the cabinet edge, should by all rights pulverize my bones inside my skin.  

I've donned myself in mental Kevlar now and so it barely registers.

"Served but you've got no results?" I direct it to McCafferty who shrugs slightly. 

"I'm doing this by the book, Sergeant.  That book doesn't include an amendment to clue you in on what my department discovered during a search warrant served locally.  Especially not when my division is in the process of conducting a simultaneous, somewhat related investigation into you." 

Ouch.  I keep my smile careful but I can't keep the sardonic note out of my voice as I repeat myself, without the questioning inflection at the end.

"Served but you've got no results."  I clear my throat and take another swallow, bumping the lip of the mug against my lip thoughtfully.  "But served and no results because you haven't got the call yet or served and no results because you're not sharing them with me.  That's the question."

I gaze at her over the edge of the cup and then transfer the look to Sarge and watch the fascinating transition of his ears from flesh colored to red.

"Ahh."  I grin at her.  "Served and no results because you're not sharing them with me.  Now that's interesting."

I tip the mug and empty it into her sink, then wink at them as I stroll for the door. 

"Cooper!" Sarge barks behind me, "Wait up!"

I am so tempted not to.  What I want to do is shove the door open and exit, in a maelstrom of piqué and temper, slamming my point (and the door) behind me.  But I've fucked up too much lately and there are still too many loose ends for this to be a viable option for me at this moment.

"Don't even look at me like that," he says, shaking his head slightly and leaning back against the door frame as I slowly turn, arms crossed, one brow lifted.  "Don't give me the whole 'how could you' 'another agency' blah blah crap."

I snort and roll my eyes.  "Give me a break.  Like I would dare do that right now with all the shit I've got hanging over my head."

"Yeah, well, your mouth may not be saying it but your eyes definitely are."  He pauses for a moment and scrubs at his face, the sound of blonde and brown whiskers rough as they hiss and rasp against his palm.  "You know she has to exclude you.  We can't afford to jeopardize the integrity of anything this big or this high up." 

He waits and when I have grudgingly nodded he sighs, rubbing at his face, grimacing slightly.

"I didn't plan for this to happen," he says finally, waving a vague hand around and I nod and jerk my chin in the direction of McCafferty and the kitchen where it sounds as if she's either launching a sub marine or making espresso.

"You okay with this?"

I blink at him dumb founded. 

"No," I say, surprising both of us.  "I'm not okay with this.  You came out here presumably to take care of business and a couple days later you're playing hackey sack with the other guys' chain of command and I come in asking legitimate questions and get rants about 'going by the book'. No.  I'm not okay with this.  Would you be?"

"You mean if you'd come out here presumably to take care of business and launched into a hackey sack game with someone?"
 

"Touché."  I point a finger at him, the sound I make close enough to a laugh to pass and I'm out the door on the porch before I turn back.

And even then there's nothing to say.

I feel like a homing pigeon whose internal radar is set to where ever Weaver is.

I decide in the dusk-lit parking lot at the hospital that I won't even question how I am so positive she is here rather than at her residence.  I am, however, disconcerted by the dark eyed female in nursing gear striding towards me down the hallway who pulls up so short her shoes squeak on the linoleum, takes one look at my face and immediately barks over one shoulder, "Kerry!"

"Do I have something stamped on my forehead?"

Weaver actually frowns at the mentioned body part sternly as she rounds the corner and pauses, crutch to floor, glaring at my Texas Sunset red forelock.

"No.   But if you did, what would you think it read?"

"Oh, like we can't already tell you live with a shrink," I retort and she grins at me as she slaps a green mottled chart down on the cabinet top.

"I know this will come as a huge surprise to you but I'm not much company when I'm at work."  She scribbles something fiercely on the sheet of paper that should be igniting given the focus of the laser beams upon it, then glances up at me. 

"I know you wouldn't be here if it weren't important.  Spill it," and she waits, with Weaver's version of patience, which is eerily similar to mine.  One can see the tolerance levels ticking down behind her eyes with all the discretion of discarded ammunition.

And I'm at a loss.  Because I have no idea why I am here, why I have come to her. 

Except of course that I have absolutely nowhere else to go.

She gets this out of me in less than five minutes; my defenses are not exactly up to par. 

"Where's Jinny?"

I'd probably handle that question better if it weren't the one uppermost in my mind.  I shrug and shake my head and in answer to the unspoken question, affirm that I have paged and dialed her cell phone. 

"Nada," I say succinctly and Weaver nods, all business. I'm spared the direct laser beam mode for a full ten seconds as it's directed forcibly onto an RN who blinks a couple of times but manages to stay upright as Dr. CIA spits out some presumably medical gibberish before spinning to face me and announcing, "Right."

The RN lifts a plucked brow of commiseration at me as Weaver informs me I'll be accompanying her to the break room.  I grasp I'm not precisely being invited right about the same time her hand flashes out and catches my elbow.

"I feel like I'm in custody," I murmur and she snorts derisively.

"You'd have more rights if you were."

"Okay," I volunteer as her hand flashes out and throws open the door in front of us, "Now I'm scared."

"See that sofa?" It's only just this side of a question and so I don't bother with a nod or a response and she contents herself with only a slight shove in its direction.  "Put your ass on it."

I'm two seconds from arguing but I'm facing a bank of windows and even in reflection there's a set to her shoulders and a slump to mine that tells me the discussion would be pointless.

And exhausting.

I sit and let my hands slide down my thighs and grip just above my knees before I look up at her, sighing and clearing my throat wearily.

"I have six hours left on my shift," she informs me.  "I intend to check in on you here at least three times and I expect you to be asleep at least twice.  Got it?"

At least three rebuttals ricochet through my head and I'm on the suicidal verge of actually voicing one as she sternly glares at me, flicking the light switches downwards and pulling the door closed but it's useless; I'm mute.  I can't decide if it's indignation or fatigue silencing me though and I stare at the colorful poster on the back of the door as it slices the light into dark, then leap startled, slapping for the SIG when a voice whisper-cracks the relative silence to my left. 

"Just give it up." Amber light from outside slides across a blonde head as it turns and I hear the soft hiss of fabric on vinyl as she lazily shifts her weight in a bulky shadow my brain interprets as a recliner wedged precariously into a corner between the wall and a counter top.   "If Weaver stuck you in here for a nap, you should sleep."

The Hink Meter knee jiggles spastically as I slide downwards, grunting, sifting through mental files as I search to place the voice.

"Yeah, you know me," she supplies, voice flat.  "Sort of, anyway.  At the doc's place.  After Bat Boy," she adds and my ears catch the laconic drawl and registers it.

"Sawyer," I say and she grunts some sort of affirmation in my general direction as she shifts again, sighing.  "What are you doing here?"

The pause before she responds is so long I think she's either not going to answer or has fallen asleep; the breaths I can hear from her sound deep and even and slow enough for her to be comatose.  When she finally does speak the words hiss out of her in a strangled mix of sigh and groan and whisper, startling me.

"Yeah.  What am I doing here?" she exhales and I see her legs go up as she wraps her arms about her knees.  "Good question."  Light and shadows play across her face as she rocks herself forward slightly, gazing at me before she relaxes back into the chair again, sighing.  "Let's see...  the Reader's Digest version is 'same thing you are'.  Weaver told me to park my ass in here and catch some zzzzzs.  The truth though...  the truth is a little stickier."

"The truth always is."

It takes me a moment to grasp the rather harsh and bitter words came from me.  I sort through a half dozen things I could say in an attempt to defuse their explosiveness but decide I'm too tired.  I swing my legs up on the dark vinyl and blink reflexively as a soft rectangle hurtles through the air towards me and bounces off my face.

Sawyer has great aim, even in the dark.

"It smells a little like dead Fritos," she warns me as I grunt a thanks and bundle the pillow under my neck.  "Try not to think about it."

"Or breathe," I add and there's a muffled snort I realize a second later is Sawyer laughing. 

"So why are you here?" I ask several minutes later.  I can hear people in the hallway; a child crying, a female's voice sounding strident and harried, a male responding in a lower, placating tone.  What was I thinking, coming here?

"You were thinking Weaver'd ground you," Sawyer replies and I can hear the grin in her voice.  "And she did.  She parked your ass on a sofa."

Of course I've said it aloud. 

"Well, yeah," she puts in.  "I'm pretty fucking intuitive, but I haven't quite developed telepathy."

"And you?  You here because you were thinking Weaver would ground you too?"

"Aww, shit," she whispers, then flashes a grin at me as she slides her ass deep into the recliner, swinging both legs up over the arm closest to me. "Yeah.  I guess."

Outside the room the child's scream winds upwards; a small and terrified peal of distress and fear.  My stomach knots in response and I rock up, grinding my teeth and three feet from me I see the same reaction and watch her head go briefly to her knees before she lifts it.  I don't need light in the room to know she's furious. 

"That," she hisses, "is the sticky truth."

I wait it out; three deep gulping breaths later she glares at me over the tops of her knees and clears her throat, grinning mirthlessly.

"Want me to walk you through what's happening out there?  See, the kid is crying and you think the kid's crying because she's tired or maybe she's afraid being inside a hospital~~ or maybe since you're a cop, you realize the kid is in a hospital and crying because she's been abused, injured, so we'll give you extra points for that one~~"

She pauses to lick one forefinger and pantomimes a quick slice through the air on an invisible score board. 

"~~and you hear the voices and you can figure out it's a couple, right?"

They're arguing now.  It's a subdued and contained verbal altercation, the sort conducted when one is in a public place with squeaky clean linoleum and beds with steel bars and hospital corner sheets.

I nod, uneasily. 

"And you can tell from their voices now that this is an argument they have had over and over~~  doesn't even matter what it's about or who started it~~  fuck, they don't even know who started it.  It's just there.  Like the sky.  Or trees.  Like infomercials. A fact of life."

Someone's shushing the child now; the wailing is plaintive and exhausted and behind it I can make out some authoritative, slightly whiny voice. I start a little, blinking and Sawyer grins at me in the dark, expression fierce and knowing as she nods her head and waves a hand at me indicating it's my turn.

"And that's Weaver," I get out, voice cracking.  "She's telling them she's called CPS~~Child Protective Services~~whatever y'all call them here."

"Yep."  The voice is patient and she waves at me to go on.

"And that silence is supposed to be them reeling in shock; how dare she think they'd abuse or neglect their beloved little~~"

"Audrey," she supplies me, right on cue.

"Audrey," I repeat.  "How dare she.  But..." I close my eyes, listening to the ride and fall of the voices for a moment before I continue, "...but it's not the first time they've been at this hospital and Weaver's telling them that." 

The voices raise slightly, the sound harsh and discordant and I can't help myself; I stand and move to the door and wait, listening.

"Yep," Sawyer drawls.  "And here's the thing...  Mom forgot Audrey was in here six months ago for a fractured radial.  Mom thought this hospital would be safe because it's not in their neighborhood, not the usual place she gets taken.  Mom special requested this one.  Mom had no idea how glad Jo and I were to bring her here." 

"Mom," I repeat and she nods, standing and shoving both hands into the front pockets of her uniform.

"Mom." Her voice is sardonic and crisp.

I shake my head in bewilderment, still listening, gauging the sounds outside the room.  "Why?" I demand, whispering it, "Why is that so much worse?  When it's the mother?"

She shrugs, motion lazy.  "I don't know."

"But it is." I hiss it. "Not that it's better when it's the dad or the boyfriend~~  just that it's worse when it's the mother."

"Yeah," she agrees.  "It is.  Preachin' to the choir here, Texas.  And what're they saying now?"

But I'm past listening. Listening is pliant and immobile and inert.  Listening without acting implies consent. 

The door sticks slightly so I have to tug to get it open and there's a subsequent noise which is punctuated by Sawyer's ambiguous utterance of "uh oh".  The hallway is bright after the gloom of the break room and I pause for a moment, listening, orienting myself before I move forward.

"~~procedure when we see a child with this type injury," Weaver drones and I zero in on her voice, strides quick.  The hand on my shoulder stops me abruptly and I'm spun around and slammed rather efficiently against the wall. 

"No." Sawyer's voice is adamant, if quiet.  "Weaver will handle it."

"Then why the hell were you back there cutting your heart out over it?" I demand and she blinks at me, shocked and then swallows, throat working. 

"Because that's what Tee does," a second voice supplies and I don't miss the chord of annoyance laced through the comment. 

"Jo," Sawyer says, startled, then accepts the cup of Starbuck's which is held out to her by the dark haired EMT.  "Didn't hear you."

"I noticed that," Jo assures her and turns a calm and placid gaze on me.  "See, Tee is ripped to shreds every time we bring one of these in; a kid, an infant, a child.  She's ripped to shreds inside and to cover it she turns into an asshole and then the Doc and I end up with two patients instead of just one." 

"Nice," Sawyer says dryly.  "I thought you left."

"I did.  And then I came back."

It hangs there between them, that statement.  It's weighty enough I feel I should be able to see it, should be able to slice through the muddy streaked colors of it and carve off a significant chunk.

"You came back," Sawyer repeats, voice blank, eyes wide and startled.  Her face has gone a rather disquieting shade of white and I'm close enough to see her pupils have dilated in surprise.

"I came back," Jo agrees affably.  "And I'll always come back."

The noise is harsh and ugly, the grin even more so. 

"Until that time you don't."  Her voice is flat and bitter, sharp enough to cut but Jo shrugs it off, smiling before she takes a sip of her own coffee.

"You're wrong you know.  I don't understand how you can consistently be so wrong about the same goddamnn thing, but you are.  I'll always come back.  Period.  Just deal."

Sawyer's determined to argue it; her face flushes with two hectic spots of color and there's a vein which instantly begins visibly thumping in her temple.  She's barely got one syllable of her tirade out through clenched teeth when both sets of pagers go off.  She's glaring at her partner as she digs hers out and peers at it, turning it to read the LED display under the harsh hospital lights.

She reads the address aloud as her partner removes the portable from her belt and keys the mike, head to one side as she listens to the static and burp of radio before responding.

"10-4 Dispatch, we're 10-8, back in service.  Go ahead with traffic."

The code Dispatch belches is unfamiliar to me, but the address Sawyer has read is not. After all I've lived there.  It isn't likely Sylvie Chandler's residential address will ever not own a significant portion of my brain's memory real estate.

"10-4, received.  Code 3." Jo says into her hand held then sighs, looking at Sawyer. "Well, so much for some nice hot latte.  Snag the cot, Tee."

"Got it.  Let's roll." 

"Wait~~" I have to run to catch them and the bit of Sawyer's jacket I snare is jerked out of my hand as she spins and treats me to a formidable glare without slowing down in the least. "That code, that 10-31X~~  what is that?  What's that ten code out here?"

Maybe it's the things we've left unspoken; maybe it's that I am a voice from home in more than just the familiar drawl.

She hesitates, obviously sorting through rules and regulations and violations of policy.  But in the end she sighs, the sound tired and drained and resigned.

"10-31X," she tells me voice flat.  "Suicide attempt.  Female."

For fifteen seconds or more I can't move; I stand in the hall and watch their rapidly disappearing navy blue uniforms grow smaller and smaller.  It's not until Jo pauses to slap at the red button beside the bay doors and they glide open noiselessly in response that my trance-like state breaks and I can move again.

I barely make it through before the electronic doors whir shut and I don't catch them until they are at the rear of the ambulance backed up to the ER, grunting as they maneuver the legs on the gurney, popping them up to load it.

"I'm going," I tell Sawyer, then repeat it emphatically to the brunette who immediately shakes her head, frowning.

"No way," she says flatly.  "No ride alongs.  Period."

"I'm going," I inform her and I swing myself inside and duck my way to the front of the rig and drop into a brown vinyl chair set facing the rear of the bus. 

"Tee," Jo says warningly and Sawyer scowls at me fiercely, hands on her hips.

"That's Sylvie Chandler's address," I tell her, enunciating each word carefully.  "I have to get there before Inspector Exstead.  I have to." 

My voice breaks at the end of it and she nods, once, businesslike then swings herself inside as well, unzipping the jump bag and checking the contents with systematic swiftness, all focus now on the call. 

"Tee," Jo says loudly, glaring at the both of us and Sawyer glances up at her, expressionlessly.

"Code 3, Jo.  You heard 'em.  Let's move it."

"She can't~~"

"Jo."  Sawyer's voice is slow and patient, the drawl more pronounced than usual and Jo stutters into silence immediately, waiting.

 "She has to go.  You're not the only one that has to always come back all the damn time, you know."

The voice is laconic and slow; I can't see the expression on her face because I'm behind her, but Jo blinks in silence before sighing and slamming the rig doors shut. 

END OF SEVENTY SIX