Post by hoosier on Nov 19, 2005 16:15:04 GMT -5
I posted this at ShadesofJustice in September. Enjoy 
suffered a severe trauma...possibility of...complications...minimal blood loss...consciousness...closely monitored...saying is...coma...
Christie slams the door in my face after yet another arguement. Damn it! I stand and stare at the door separating us. I can hear her crying but I can't bring myself to open that door and see the accusations written all over her face. I take my hand off the door handle, press my forehead against the glass and listen to her cry.
The room reeks of alcohol. I drop my books on the kitchen table and crack the door to see if I can see him before I run to my room to get my mitt. I can never bring anyone over in case HE's here. Coast is clear. I run down the hall towards my room when. all of a sudden, he staggers out of the bathroom. He smells of cheap beer, cigarettes and that strong spicy cologne he uses because he thinks it covers up the booze. I can't stop in time and run into him. "Damn f*cking kid, watch where in the hell you're goin'!" He backhands me into the wall and I fall to the floor, blood bursting from my nose and mouth.
I pull the collar of my jacket up against the rain. What a sh*tty night--not only freezing but now this! I shove my hands into my pockets, fingering the radio while watching the south end of the alley. Sonny let me in on a deal involving a couple of cases of automatic weapons that was going down tonight. Boss wasn't happy about the short notice and I had to scramble to set up survelliance and backup. A van pulls around the corner and I ease back into the shadows. It stops a few feet away from the panel truck that's been parked for twenty minutes. The van double flashes it headlights and a couple of guys exit the truck and walk down the alley. I pull the radio out and alert the team that the deal is going down. Looks like Sonny gets paid this week.
I roll over in bed. Christie wants to drag me to another one of her parties. How many have I missed this season--3,4? I'll have to come up with one helluva good excuse this time. Its not that the food is bad and the beer is definitely above average but these parties are boring with a capital B. Glitz, glamor and not much else. My ability at small talk is exhausted in less than an hour while Christie can go at it all night long. I put my hands behind my neck, stretching, then glance at the face on the pillow beside me. Blonde hair spills across Anne's face and I see tears running down her cheeks. Now, why is she crying?
I'm down on the street, trying to keep civilians behind the barricades. My uniform is soaked. Must be 100 degrees, easy. Another squad car pulls up. There is a guy up on the fire escape with a gun, threatening to blow his brains out. Henderson's trying to talk him out it but the guy is yelling and waving the gun around. ESU's been called. All of a sudden, there is a shot and when I look up, the guy's collapsing onto the iron grill of the fire escape. A woman goes hysterical, fighting with one of the other cops. Wife? Girlfriend? Henderson pokes his head out of the window, retrieves the weapon and waves an all-clear. Crazy bastard, why did he do it?
The smooth, liquid sound of the jazz band washes over me as I weave my way through the crowd carrying my beer and Christie's wine. I get to our table without spilling a drop and slide onto my chair and hand her her drink. She smiles and takes a sip. I had heard about this band from a guy at work and managed to convince Christie to come on a last minute date. I take her hand and give it a squeeze. She leans towards me and says something--I don't know. I shrug and point at my ear as in 'I can't hear you". Something snaps behind me. I turn, but see nothing. Must have been a lightbulb. As I turn back, I notice smoke. Not just cigarette haze, though there is plenty of that. I turn to Christie and there are tears in her blue eyes and my gut clenches.
What is that beeping? Christie must be warming something up. Man--I must have gone to bed with one helluva headache, my head's still pounding. Still dark, go back to sleep. Wonder why Christie is up so early?
The line of burnt out cars and trucks stretches for miles into the desert. The sky is an eye-searing blue and heat radiates in waves off of the sand. I'm grateful for the scarf tied over my nose and mouth as I try to pull yet another body from one of the cars. Metal and flesh have fused together. I give another yank and the body snaps in two and I end up in the middle of Hell's Highway with half of an Iraqi sitting on my chest. I shove it off and get to my feet. Norman cracks a joke at my expense and I flip him the bird. Its hot, it stinks and I'd rather be anywhere else but here! I grab one of the bodybags from the pile and begin to stuff the torso in when I stop and stare. Now, why would an Iraqi be wearing a ski mask in the middle of the desert?
"Mom, Hey Mom!" I yell as I unlock the kitchen door and toss my gym bag in the laundry room before pocketing my key. I can't help pumping my arm as I cross the kitchen. That was sooo sweet! Our first win of the season! I head to the fridge for a soda, when I see the note under the magnet on the freezer door--Mom telling me she'll be late and to find something to warm up for supper. I feel my neck and shoulders tighten up in anger and frustration. I know its not her fault but crap! I want to share this with her NOW not tomorrow. Dad'll just grunt or make some smart-ass remark about me wasting my time. Like he does anything with his! I open the fridge and stare at the plastic containers. 'You are a real winner, Jimmy Dunbar. Blaming your mom for not being here when she is the one who keeps food on the table and clothes on your back. Oh yeah, she'd be real proud of you!'. I hear the door knob twist and then a swift kick rattles the glass. I slam the fridge door shut while Dad is fumbling for his keys and run to my room. I lock the door behind me and throw myself down on my bed. I lay there, in the dark, and listen as he staggers down the hall to their room.
The stairwell smells of stale beer, cigarettes, pot and piss. I try breathing through my mouth just to get rid of the smell. How do people f*cking live like this? I pull my 9mil from its holster and thumb off the safety. I have a bad feeling about this. Sonny had called me earlier about a gun deal going down--tonight. He swears its legit but I can't help feeling he has screwed me over. I slowly go up a couple of steps and stop. Suddenly, there's a bang and then automatic gunfire. F*ck! My radio squaks as I run up the stairs. A door flies open and a giant of a man carrying an AK-47 steps out. Bullets tear into the wall in front of me as I dive for cover.
I have to meet with Terry this morning so we can go over the Dodson case before we meet with the ADA. Trial's coming up and we need to make sure everything is in order. I need to be sure. After the Berglass case, I'm not taking any chances. I'll be glad when this one's over. Maybe take a couple of days off and get out of the city. What is that beeping? Did we get a new alarm clock? Puleeze! It can't be time to get up yet, its still dark! Where is that damn clock? My mouth is so dry that my voice is little more than a croak when I try to get Christie's attention to kill the alarm. She whispers in my ear that everything is alright and her fingers stroke my cheek. I'm so tired that I can't keep my eyes open. Just a few more minutes...
remains comatose...signs stable...individual basis...as soon as...don't know...care of yourself, Mrs. Dunbar...
How did I get so lucky? I see the way all the guys are looking at her, watching her. She turns and gives me a little finger wave. I nod back--cool and in control. Yeah, right! She walks towards me, making small talk with just about everyone until she reaches my side. She doesn't say anything, just gives me that smile that lights up her entire face. She has the most amazing eyes. Whoever said that the eyes are the windows of the soul, must have had someone like Christie in mind. I could look into those eyes forever. A sharp, squeely, squeaky noise suddenly pierces my brain, adding to the headache I already have. I reach for my aching temple but Christie takes my hand and holds it.
The rifle hits the pavement.
"Hey, he's empty!"
Terry looks at me, eyes glazed, fingering his 9mil. I push our paperwork together and reach for my coffee. It does nothing to get rid of the dryness in my mouth. I shove it aside and, in the process, knock the manila envelope onto the floor. I lean over to pick it up, the throbbing in my head increasing. Sh*t! I feel like crap warmed over, I have no aspirin and Terry is acting like a certified ass-hole. The ADA will ream me a new one if we screw up this case. I take a deep breath. 'Quit overanalyzing this case, Dunbar. Everything is in order, its airtight and loop-hole free.' I retrieve the envelope and stuff the papers in. The waitress stops at the table next to ours and I consider asking her for an aspirin when the window behind me explodes. I duck as glass fragments fall all around me. I look to Terry but he is just sitting there, holding his gun and staring at the window. I turn my head. The waitress is still pouring coffee, the old man in the corner booth is still reading his paper, some guy is picking up the change he dropped. When I look back towards the window, people are walking by. I stand up, pushing my chair back and it takes it an eternity to hit the floor. I reach for my gun but my waistband is empty. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something moving outside the window. The radio on the table squaks. Terry turns his head and looks at me. I reach for my gun...
"Terry, look at me!"
Sirens rip the air. Someone, somewhere is screaming. Bullets tear chucks of metal from the hood of the car I'm crouching behind, my empty gun in my hand. A cop lays on the sidewalk, blood pumping from a wound. I see Terry behind the corner of the building, his back to the wall, his gun at the ready. A second cop lays propped against the wheel of his squad car. I yell at Terry to take the shot. I jump up and run across the killing field towards him. I take his gun in my free hand as I drop my empty gun on the sidewalk at his feet. I touch him on the shoulder--I look him in the eye, but he doesn't see me, he doesn't move. My heart is pounding as I stand up and turn towards the gunman. I raise Terry's 9 mil and sight along its barrel as I move forward. The gunman raises his gun in his right hand while pulling off his ski mask with his left. The face that I see is Terry's. I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Terry's face is blank, his eyes unfocused as he pulls the trigger.
"He's empty, Terry, take the shot!"
I see myself on my grandparent's front porch swing, lazily pushing it back and forth, a glass of lemonade in my hand. The air is hot and hazy, heavy with humidity and the smell of corn. I'm seven, dressed in cut-offs and a tee-shirt. Its a far cry from my Red Hook neighborhood and its one of the last times I remember being really happy--before Dad's drinking got out of hand and Mom had to go to work. I hear the put-put of the tractor and there is Grandpa, heading for the shed. He waves his hat at me and I wave back and then run to the screen door to let Grandma know that he is back from the fields. I climb back onto the swing and rock back and forth. Tonight, we are going to the fair and Grandpa has promised me that I can have anything I want to eat. Monday, we head home to New York. I miss my friends but I'll miss the farm too. This time, Grandpa let me help steer the tractor while I sat on his lap. A police car tears down the road, lights flashing and siren wailing. Dust flies up and hangs in the air. I finish my lemonade. Two more police cars pull up and stop and policemen get out with their guns in their hands. Grandma calls for me, saying that I'd better come and get cleaned up. A man in black pushes his way out of the corn and raise his gun at the policemen.
"Take the shot, Terry!"
The air is full of screams and sirens. Red strobe lights bounce off of glass and chrome. Spent shell casings litter the pavement. I have used my last clip. I see one-two-three cops down besides the armored car guard. Two civilians huddle behind a planter. I look over the hood of my car and see the AK-47 hit the ground. I leave cover and run over to where Terry crouches behind the wall. I take his gun in my left hand while dropping my empty gun at his feet. I stand, transfering the gun to my right hand as I take three steps forward. I raise Terry's 9mil as the gunman pulls a gun from his waistband. Suddenly, everything is silent. I hear nothing, I see nothing but the man with the gun. I squeeze the trigger and feel the gun's recoil. My first shot hits him in the vest. I fire again. I see smoke coming from the barrel of his gun as he fires. I see him twist sideways as my bullet hits him in the neck. Pain--white,hot and heavy--slams my head to the side and then backwards. I don't remember hitting the ground...
I wake up. My heart is racing, the muscles in my arms and legs twitching in the aftershock of the dream. I try to remember what the dream was about but my mind just skitters off into a confusing mess of--nothing--just flashes of people and places, none of which make any sense. I take a deep breath and try to relax but my pounding headache demands attention NOW so I reach for the bedside lamp. My hand hits something metallic and I run my hand over a rail of some kind. Now, where did that come from? I turn my head but its so dark I can't see a thing. I reach for Christie and my hand hits another rail, making a hollow clunking sound.
"Jimmy? I'm here. You're going to be alright." Its Christie's voice but she sounds tired, exhausted. "I think he's awake."
Of course, I'm awake. Her hand touches my cheek, stroking it.
"You are awake, aren't you, Jimmy? Can you hear me?"
My mouth is dry and my tongue feels two sizes too big. I try licking my lips when something touches them. Ice? It tastes good. I swallow and then manage to say "What time?" My voice is little more than a whisper.
"What honey?" Christie askes me and slips her hand into mine but I barely have the strength to grip it. What's wrong with me?
I hear a door open. Who is in our house? I turn towards Christie, trying to see her in the dark room. "Chris--"
"I'm glad you're awake, Detective Dunbar." Something is laid on the bed near my feet. "I'm Dr. Carpenter, an associate of Dr. Michaels and the neurologist on call. You are in the hospital. You were involved in a shooting. Do you understand me?" He takes my wrist while he is speaking, then puts his hands on my head, turning me first to the right, then to the left.
Shooting? Neurologist? My left hand goes to my left temple where the headache radiates from and touches a bandage. My stomach lurches. My God--was I shot in the head? In the face? I raise my right hand to my head. The bandage seems to go around it. This is crazy! I'm meeting Terry at the diner to do paperwork. I distinctly remember grabbing the manila envelope off my deak before I headed out the door...
Hands remove my hands from their exploration of the bandages.
"Don't be alarmed, Detective. Its not unusual for you to be experiencing some mental confusion and physical weakness. After surgery, you were put into a chemically induced coma to lessen the stress on your body." He says as he folds the blanket back and checks the reflexes in both of my legs. He pulls the blanket back into place. "I'm going to elevate your head slightly."
My mind whirls. I feel like I can't catch my breath. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth. Coma? Shooting? What is he talking about? Why can't I remember? I'd remember being shot, wouldn't I?
"You suffered a severe head trauma as a result of the shooting and you also substained quite a blow to the back of your head when you struck the pavement after being wounded. Your surgery went well. There is some residual swelling which will go away with time, and you may experience some discomfort--headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, possibly some memory loss. Now that you are conscious, I would like to schedule a series of tests in the next few days so that we may ascertain whether or not there are any complications that could hinder your recovery or warrant physical therapy."
Right then, I think I shut down. His monotone voice became a buzz. Complications? Like paralysis? Tension made my neck and shoulders seize up. What does he expect me to say? All I can seem to focus on are 'trauma', 'complications', 'therapy'.
My left hand goes to my head. The bandage covers my forehead. I can feel my eyelids. I can feel them move. I can feel my eyelashes brush against my fingertips. Why is it so dark in here? Why don't they turn on a freakin' light? My stomach lurches and then clenches so hard that I think I'm going to be sick. Complications. Turn on the light...
I'll wake up. I'll wake up and it will be time to meet Terry and we will get this case wrapped up and I will absolutely take that weekend off. Get out of the city. Maybe drive up to Connecticut...
Someone takes my hand and holds it. Christie. I turn towards her. Why can't I see her? A hand touches my chin and turns my head to the right.
"I know that I have thrown a lot of information at you, Detective and you're going to need time to digest it all. There will be plenty of time for questions later. You need your rest but first I would like to check your pupil reaction and then I will leave you and your wife alone."
I hear a little clicking sound right in front of my face. I wait for the light.
"Look straight ahead, please."
The clicking happens again, then a third time. I keep waiting for the little light. The pounding in my head increases, keeping time with the pounding of my heart.
Complications.
"Doctor?" There's uncertainty in Christie's voice. A hint of fear.
"Can you tell me what you see, Detective? How many fingers am I holding up?"
If I say it, does it make it true?
I lay there, waiting to wake up. The fingers of my right hand twist into the blanket. I'm suddenly aware of that antiseptic smell I always associate with hospitals.
"Jimmy?"
I turns towards the one thing--the one person--that I feel that I can trust--that I have to trust even though I have betrayed that trust.
Complications.
"Christie, why is it so dark in here?"
suffered a severe trauma...possibility of...complications...minimal blood loss...consciousness...closely monitored...saying is...coma...
Christie slams the door in my face after yet another arguement. Damn it! I stand and stare at the door separating us. I can hear her crying but I can't bring myself to open that door and see the accusations written all over her face. I take my hand off the door handle, press my forehead against the glass and listen to her cry.
The room reeks of alcohol. I drop my books on the kitchen table and crack the door to see if I can see him before I run to my room to get my mitt. I can never bring anyone over in case HE's here. Coast is clear. I run down the hall towards my room when. all of a sudden, he staggers out of the bathroom. He smells of cheap beer, cigarettes and that strong spicy cologne he uses because he thinks it covers up the booze. I can't stop in time and run into him. "Damn f*cking kid, watch where in the hell you're goin'!" He backhands me into the wall and I fall to the floor, blood bursting from my nose and mouth.
I pull the collar of my jacket up against the rain. What a sh*tty night--not only freezing but now this! I shove my hands into my pockets, fingering the radio while watching the south end of the alley. Sonny let me in on a deal involving a couple of cases of automatic weapons that was going down tonight. Boss wasn't happy about the short notice and I had to scramble to set up survelliance and backup. A van pulls around the corner and I ease back into the shadows. It stops a few feet away from the panel truck that's been parked for twenty minutes. The van double flashes it headlights and a couple of guys exit the truck and walk down the alley. I pull the radio out and alert the team that the deal is going down. Looks like Sonny gets paid this week.
I roll over in bed. Christie wants to drag me to another one of her parties. How many have I missed this season--3,4? I'll have to come up with one helluva good excuse this time. Its not that the food is bad and the beer is definitely above average but these parties are boring with a capital B. Glitz, glamor and not much else. My ability at small talk is exhausted in less than an hour while Christie can go at it all night long. I put my hands behind my neck, stretching, then glance at the face on the pillow beside me. Blonde hair spills across Anne's face and I see tears running down her cheeks. Now, why is she crying?
I'm down on the street, trying to keep civilians behind the barricades. My uniform is soaked. Must be 100 degrees, easy. Another squad car pulls up. There is a guy up on the fire escape with a gun, threatening to blow his brains out. Henderson's trying to talk him out it but the guy is yelling and waving the gun around. ESU's been called. All of a sudden, there is a shot and when I look up, the guy's collapsing onto the iron grill of the fire escape. A woman goes hysterical, fighting with one of the other cops. Wife? Girlfriend? Henderson pokes his head out of the window, retrieves the weapon and waves an all-clear. Crazy bastard, why did he do it?
The smooth, liquid sound of the jazz band washes over me as I weave my way through the crowd carrying my beer and Christie's wine. I get to our table without spilling a drop and slide onto my chair and hand her her drink. She smiles and takes a sip. I had heard about this band from a guy at work and managed to convince Christie to come on a last minute date. I take her hand and give it a squeeze. She leans towards me and says something--I don't know. I shrug and point at my ear as in 'I can't hear you". Something snaps behind me. I turn, but see nothing. Must have been a lightbulb. As I turn back, I notice smoke. Not just cigarette haze, though there is plenty of that. I turn to Christie and there are tears in her blue eyes and my gut clenches.
What is that beeping? Christie must be warming something up. Man--I must have gone to bed with one helluva headache, my head's still pounding. Still dark, go back to sleep. Wonder why Christie is up so early?
The line of burnt out cars and trucks stretches for miles into the desert. The sky is an eye-searing blue and heat radiates in waves off of the sand. I'm grateful for the scarf tied over my nose and mouth as I try to pull yet another body from one of the cars. Metal and flesh have fused together. I give another yank and the body snaps in two and I end up in the middle of Hell's Highway with half of an Iraqi sitting on my chest. I shove it off and get to my feet. Norman cracks a joke at my expense and I flip him the bird. Its hot, it stinks and I'd rather be anywhere else but here! I grab one of the bodybags from the pile and begin to stuff the torso in when I stop and stare. Now, why would an Iraqi be wearing a ski mask in the middle of the desert?
"Mom, Hey Mom!" I yell as I unlock the kitchen door and toss my gym bag in the laundry room before pocketing my key. I can't help pumping my arm as I cross the kitchen. That was sooo sweet! Our first win of the season! I head to the fridge for a soda, when I see the note under the magnet on the freezer door--Mom telling me she'll be late and to find something to warm up for supper. I feel my neck and shoulders tighten up in anger and frustration. I know its not her fault but crap! I want to share this with her NOW not tomorrow. Dad'll just grunt or make some smart-ass remark about me wasting my time. Like he does anything with his! I open the fridge and stare at the plastic containers. 'You are a real winner, Jimmy Dunbar. Blaming your mom for not being here when she is the one who keeps food on the table and clothes on your back. Oh yeah, she'd be real proud of you!'. I hear the door knob twist and then a swift kick rattles the glass. I slam the fridge door shut while Dad is fumbling for his keys and run to my room. I lock the door behind me and throw myself down on my bed. I lay there, in the dark, and listen as he staggers down the hall to their room.
The stairwell smells of stale beer, cigarettes, pot and piss. I try breathing through my mouth just to get rid of the smell. How do people f*cking live like this? I pull my 9mil from its holster and thumb off the safety. I have a bad feeling about this. Sonny had called me earlier about a gun deal going down--tonight. He swears its legit but I can't help feeling he has screwed me over. I slowly go up a couple of steps and stop. Suddenly, there's a bang and then automatic gunfire. F*ck! My radio squaks as I run up the stairs. A door flies open and a giant of a man carrying an AK-47 steps out. Bullets tear into the wall in front of me as I dive for cover.
I have to meet with Terry this morning so we can go over the Dodson case before we meet with the ADA. Trial's coming up and we need to make sure everything is in order. I need to be sure. After the Berglass case, I'm not taking any chances. I'll be glad when this one's over. Maybe take a couple of days off and get out of the city. What is that beeping? Did we get a new alarm clock? Puleeze! It can't be time to get up yet, its still dark! Where is that damn clock? My mouth is so dry that my voice is little more than a croak when I try to get Christie's attention to kill the alarm. She whispers in my ear that everything is alright and her fingers stroke my cheek. I'm so tired that I can't keep my eyes open. Just a few more minutes...
remains comatose...signs stable...individual basis...as soon as...don't know...care of yourself, Mrs. Dunbar...
How did I get so lucky? I see the way all the guys are looking at her, watching her. She turns and gives me a little finger wave. I nod back--cool and in control. Yeah, right! She walks towards me, making small talk with just about everyone until she reaches my side. She doesn't say anything, just gives me that smile that lights up her entire face. She has the most amazing eyes. Whoever said that the eyes are the windows of the soul, must have had someone like Christie in mind. I could look into those eyes forever. A sharp, squeely, squeaky noise suddenly pierces my brain, adding to the headache I already have. I reach for my aching temple but Christie takes my hand and holds it.
The rifle hits the pavement.
"Hey, he's empty!"
Terry looks at me, eyes glazed, fingering his 9mil. I push our paperwork together and reach for my coffee. It does nothing to get rid of the dryness in my mouth. I shove it aside and, in the process, knock the manila envelope onto the floor. I lean over to pick it up, the throbbing in my head increasing. Sh*t! I feel like crap warmed over, I have no aspirin and Terry is acting like a certified ass-hole. The ADA will ream me a new one if we screw up this case. I take a deep breath. 'Quit overanalyzing this case, Dunbar. Everything is in order, its airtight and loop-hole free.' I retrieve the envelope and stuff the papers in. The waitress stops at the table next to ours and I consider asking her for an aspirin when the window behind me explodes. I duck as glass fragments fall all around me. I look to Terry but he is just sitting there, holding his gun and staring at the window. I turn my head. The waitress is still pouring coffee, the old man in the corner booth is still reading his paper, some guy is picking up the change he dropped. When I look back towards the window, people are walking by. I stand up, pushing my chair back and it takes it an eternity to hit the floor. I reach for my gun but my waistband is empty. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something moving outside the window. The radio on the table squaks. Terry turns his head and looks at me. I reach for my gun...
"Terry, look at me!"
Sirens rip the air. Someone, somewhere is screaming. Bullets tear chucks of metal from the hood of the car I'm crouching behind, my empty gun in my hand. A cop lays on the sidewalk, blood pumping from a wound. I see Terry behind the corner of the building, his back to the wall, his gun at the ready. A second cop lays propped against the wheel of his squad car. I yell at Terry to take the shot. I jump up and run across the killing field towards him. I take his gun in my free hand as I drop my empty gun on the sidewalk at his feet. I touch him on the shoulder--I look him in the eye, but he doesn't see me, he doesn't move. My heart is pounding as I stand up and turn towards the gunman. I raise Terry's 9 mil and sight along its barrel as I move forward. The gunman raises his gun in his right hand while pulling off his ski mask with his left. The face that I see is Terry's. I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Terry's face is blank, his eyes unfocused as he pulls the trigger.
"He's empty, Terry, take the shot!"
I see myself on my grandparent's front porch swing, lazily pushing it back and forth, a glass of lemonade in my hand. The air is hot and hazy, heavy with humidity and the smell of corn. I'm seven, dressed in cut-offs and a tee-shirt. Its a far cry from my Red Hook neighborhood and its one of the last times I remember being really happy--before Dad's drinking got out of hand and Mom had to go to work. I hear the put-put of the tractor and there is Grandpa, heading for the shed. He waves his hat at me and I wave back and then run to the screen door to let Grandma know that he is back from the fields. I climb back onto the swing and rock back and forth. Tonight, we are going to the fair and Grandpa has promised me that I can have anything I want to eat. Monday, we head home to New York. I miss my friends but I'll miss the farm too. This time, Grandpa let me help steer the tractor while I sat on his lap. A police car tears down the road, lights flashing and siren wailing. Dust flies up and hangs in the air. I finish my lemonade. Two more police cars pull up and stop and policemen get out with their guns in their hands. Grandma calls for me, saying that I'd better come and get cleaned up. A man in black pushes his way out of the corn and raise his gun at the policemen.
"Take the shot, Terry!"
The air is full of screams and sirens. Red strobe lights bounce off of glass and chrome. Spent shell casings litter the pavement. I have used my last clip. I see one-two-three cops down besides the armored car guard. Two civilians huddle behind a planter. I look over the hood of my car and see the AK-47 hit the ground. I leave cover and run over to where Terry crouches behind the wall. I take his gun in my left hand while dropping my empty gun at his feet. I stand, transfering the gun to my right hand as I take three steps forward. I raise Terry's 9mil as the gunman pulls a gun from his waistband. Suddenly, everything is silent. I hear nothing, I see nothing but the man with the gun. I squeeze the trigger and feel the gun's recoil. My first shot hits him in the vest. I fire again. I see smoke coming from the barrel of his gun as he fires. I see him twist sideways as my bullet hits him in the neck. Pain--white,hot and heavy--slams my head to the side and then backwards. I don't remember hitting the ground...
I wake up. My heart is racing, the muscles in my arms and legs twitching in the aftershock of the dream. I try to remember what the dream was about but my mind just skitters off into a confusing mess of--nothing--just flashes of people and places, none of which make any sense. I take a deep breath and try to relax but my pounding headache demands attention NOW so I reach for the bedside lamp. My hand hits something metallic and I run my hand over a rail of some kind. Now, where did that come from? I turn my head but its so dark I can't see a thing. I reach for Christie and my hand hits another rail, making a hollow clunking sound.
"Jimmy? I'm here. You're going to be alright." Its Christie's voice but she sounds tired, exhausted. "I think he's awake."
Of course, I'm awake. Her hand touches my cheek, stroking it.
"You are awake, aren't you, Jimmy? Can you hear me?"
My mouth is dry and my tongue feels two sizes too big. I try licking my lips when something touches them. Ice? It tastes good. I swallow and then manage to say "What time?" My voice is little more than a whisper.
"What honey?" Christie askes me and slips her hand into mine but I barely have the strength to grip it. What's wrong with me?
I hear a door open. Who is in our house? I turn towards Christie, trying to see her in the dark room. "Chris--"
"I'm glad you're awake, Detective Dunbar." Something is laid on the bed near my feet. "I'm Dr. Carpenter, an associate of Dr. Michaels and the neurologist on call. You are in the hospital. You were involved in a shooting. Do you understand me?" He takes my wrist while he is speaking, then puts his hands on my head, turning me first to the right, then to the left.
Shooting? Neurologist? My left hand goes to my left temple where the headache radiates from and touches a bandage. My stomach lurches. My God--was I shot in the head? In the face? I raise my right hand to my head. The bandage seems to go around it. This is crazy! I'm meeting Terry at the diner to do paperwork. I distinctly remember grabbing the manila envelope off my deak before I headed out the door...
Hands remove my hands from their exploration of the bandages.
"Don't be alarmed, Detective. Its not unusual for you to be experiencing some mental confusion and physical weakness. After surgery, you were put into a chemically induced coma to lessen the stress on your body." He says as he folds the blanket back and checks the reflexes in both of my legs. He pulls the blanket back into place. "I'm going to elevate your head slightly."
My mind whirls. I feel like I can't catch my breath. My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth. Coma? Shooting? What is he talking about? Why can't I remember? I'd remember being shot, wouldn't I?
"You suffered a severe head trauma as a result of the shooting and you also substained quite a blow to the back of your head when you struck the pavement after being wounded. Your surgery went well. There is some residual swelling which will go away with time, and you may experience some discomfort--headaches, dizziness, blurred vision, possibly some memory loss. Now that you are conscious, I would like to schedule a series of tests in the next few days so that we may ascertain whether or not there are any complications that could hinder your recovery or warrant physical therapy."
Right then, I think I shut down. His monotone voice became a buzz. Complications? Like paralysis? Tension made my neck and shoulders seize up. What does he expect me to say? All I can seem to focus on are 'trauma', 'complications', 'therapy'.
My left hand goes to my head. The bandage covers my forehead. I can feel my eyelids. I can feel them move. I can feel my eyelashes brush against my fingertips. Why is it so dark in here? Why don't they turn on a freakin' light? My stomach lurches and then clenches so hard that I think I'm going to be sick. Complications. Turn on the light...
I'll wake up. I'll wake up and it will be time to meet Terry and we will get this case wrapped up and I will absolutely take that weekend off. Get out of the city. Maybe drive up to Connecticut...
Someone takes my hand and holds it. Christie. I turn towards her. Why can't I see her? A hand touches my chin and turns my head to the right.
"I know that I have thrown a lot of information at you, Detective and you're going to need time to digest it all. There will be plenty of time for questions later. You need your rest but first I would like to check your pupil reaction and then I will leave you and your wife alone."
I hear a little clicking sound right in front of my face. I wait for the light.
"Look straight ahead, please."
The clicking happens again, then a third time. I keep waiting for the little light. The pounding in my head increases, keeping time with the pounding of my heart.
Complications.
"Doctor?" There's uncertainty in Christie's voice. A hint of fear.
"Can you tell me what you see, Detective? How many fingers am I holding up?"
If I say it, does it make it true?
I lay there, waiting to wake up. The fingers of my right hand twist into the blanket. I'm suddenly aware of that antiseptic smell I always associate with hospitals.
"Jimmy?"
I turns towards the one thing--the one person--that I feel that I can trust--that I have to trust even though I have betrayed that trust.
Complications.
"Christie, why is it so dark in here?"