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Ten years ago:



“I can’t find Gayle’s shoes.”

“Look under her bed, Jeannie.”

“They weren’t there.”

“Dunno. I’m runnin’ late, darlin’.” Logan hit the stubborn spot below his chin with his Quattro blade, trying to avoid a wicked cut and getting shaving foam in it. So far, so good…not that it mattered worth diddly-squat. By five o’clock, it’d all grow back.

“Honey, it’d help me if you’d look!” Her voice took on that wheedling pitch that told him ‘Don’t even think of touching me tonight if you don’t drop everything to help me right now.’ A man didn’t argue with “The Voice.” Not if he wanted any peace… He sighed and chucked his razor in the sink. Gayle came running around the corner at a fast clip, nearly barreling into him. She shrieked at his appearance and ran back in the opposite direction, hiding behind her mother’s back. He completed the image of a rabid dog by curling his fingers into claws and snarling through bared teeth. Gayle’s green eyes crinkled at the corners and danced at him from her hiding place. Her mother sighed.

“Can’t do anything with you two. Gayle, we need your shoes NOW, honey! Mommy doesn’t have time for this.”

“Ya heard yer momma, Punkin’, go find ‘em.”

“I don’t know where they arrrre,” she whined back.

“Ya ain’t gonna find ‘em if ya don’t look,” Logan pointed out. Gayle went through her usual motions of opening her closet door and peering inside before looking in her toybox. Jean intervened by searching more aggressively under overturned and discarded clothes before opening the laundry hamper in her daughter’s room. Logan shook his head and headed downstairs, following his daughter’s invisible path through the house from the night before.

“Got ‘em,” he yelled up to Jean, brandishing a pair of hard leather loafers. She looked relieved as she met him halfway and caught them when he tossed them to her.

“When ya gonna be home, Jeannie?”

“Around four-thirty. I’m coming home early so I can start cooking and get a move on her homework.”

“Ain’t gonna see much of me today, either, Jeannie.”

“I know.” He was already laying out his jacket and pouring himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. “If you’re not too hungry before you get home, I’ll leave you the leftovers from the potluck, if I have any.”

“That’s what ya always say.” Jean’s offerings always disappeared as soon as she even set her baking dish down on the table at those things.

“Then I’ll make you something when I get back.”

“That ain’t what I had in mind,” he grumbled, his voice suddenly by the crest of her ear. She laughed and slapped at his hands as he embraced her from behind, right as she was bending to put on her pantyhose. “I’ll tell ya what I wanna eat when ya get back…better yet, what time is it? We got ten minutes, fifteen if ya skip yer makeup…”

“Nooooooo…stop that! We don’t have time for this!”

“Sure we do.”

“No we don’t…sheesh, leggo!” She wriggled loose and chastised him, “Go finish shaving.”

“Then will ya give me some?”

“Uh-uh.” Logan tsked with disgust before doing escaping back to the bathroom to finish his interrupted task. He peered out through the tiny bathroom window vent and scowled. “Better bundle Gayle up today, babe. Looks ugly outside already.”

“She won’t be outside for most of it. Her jacket has a hood.”

“Famous last words. By the time ya get to the school, yer both gonna be swimming outta the parking lot.” He shrugged at Jean’s choice of open-toed slingbacks that shod her narrow feet.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” she argued, even as she grabbed her taupe nylon trenchcoat out of the closet. Almost on cue, the first few drops of rain hit the bedroom window. Logan spied it as he wiped his face dry.

“Toldja.” Jean stuck out her tongue. “Mmmmm, hold that thought!” He yanked her against him and gave her a proper kiss, smothering any protests. Her palm cradled his freshly shaven cheek.

“You’re awful.”

“Ya love me.”

“I’m just insane.” She confirmed it further by giving into the impulse to kiss him more deeply, enjoying his faint groan and the feel of his smooth, stubble-free lips.

Another chaste peck for Gayle, a quick search for his keys and one last swallow of coffee and he was off.

Jean peered up at the sky briefly as she loaded Gayle into the back of her CRV and buckled her in. Dark, brackish clouds rolled sonorously across the horizon, allowing mere white slivers of light to shine through. She felt a faint chill shiver down her neck despite her warm coat. She returned Gayle’s impish smile and dispelled the thought as quickly as it came. She tucked her silver Starbucks coffee mug into the holder and pulled out of the driveway, chuckling to herself that Logan’s suggestion would have cost her more time on the freeway in traffic, but that it was infinitely more fun.


~0~


Now:



From the moment Ororo parked her car and strolled into the ER entrance of West Salem Memorial, she knew a calm day was highly unlikely, if not laughable. Despite being early, she ended up in the last row of the “boonies” of the employee lot. A quick glance at the visitor lot told her it was packed, and she saw the beacons flickering on the ambulance pulling into the docking ramp. She took one long gulp of her latte, regretting that she wouldn’t get to finish it as she chucked it into the trash receptacle by the sliding entry doors.

Anna shot her a smile on her way into the locker room, where they almost collided at the door.

“Aintcha glad ya got here just in time for the fun, shoog?”

“Thrilled,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. She was shrugging out of her windbreaker before she even reached her locker door and fiddled with it, slamming it open and searching for her brush. Her long, thick mass of hair was skinned back and restrained in a chignon that would likely feel like it weighed a ton by the end of the day; she had no time for her usual braid.

“You’re backing up the desk for the first shift, Ororo,” Emma announced crisply as she scrubbed her hands at the sink.

“Works for me.”

“They’re also training the junior volunteers this afternoon. Cassandra tapped you and Anna to demonstrate all the good stuff at three.” Ororo opened her mouth to protest, but Emma stalked out before she could gather her wits.

“Great. Sure. Isn’t like I was gonna be that busy today, or anything.” On the one hand, she didn’t mind. The volunteers were usually eager and a nice distraction, but to Ororo’s way of thinking, they couldn’t have picked a worse time to break in the newest class.

She looped her ID badge around her neck by its beaded lanyard that Katie made in her after school program and turned it so that the picture of her tucked into the plastic sheath was visible before she clocked in.

“Before you log on, Ororo, take some vitals in room two.”

“I’m your girl.” Judging by the hiss of oxygen that greeted her when she reached the door, she surmised the patient had been there a while. His color was waxy, and he made a feeble attempt at a smile.

“My name’s Ororo, how are you feeling?” She already knew the answer to the question before she even retrieved the blood pressure cuff from its rack on the wall.

“Crappy,” he huffed as he fiddled with the tube of his cannula. Ororo gently covered his hand with hers, halting it.

“Don’t do that,” she suggested. “Let’s check your pressure.”

“This wasn’t how I planned to have a day off.”

“I don’t blame you. Tell your boss you had a good reason to play hooky.”

“You can vouch for me,” he suggested wryly. “Twenty years. That’s how long I’ve worked for that company and never once taken a sick day.” His voice wasn’t boastful.

“Sorry we broke your record,” she mused as she checked his pulse and made a note on the chart.

“Doesn’t help me if I die keeping it.” Sharp, clear silver eyes peered up at her as she adjusted his blanket. “Is that your little girl?” She reflexively clutched her badge and nodded.

“My pride and joy. She’s a pistol.”

“Enjoy her now before it’s too late.” His voice was rueful. “When the children are young, learn to take days off. I’ve worked hard all my life, and I never expected anyone to hand me anything. I supported my family and did what I had to do so we’d have a comfortable life. But when I look back, I didn’t have the time to spend with my son and my daughters because I didn’t make the time. Work’s important,” he pointed out, settling back against the pillow, “but it isn’t worth a thing without spending time with the family you’re working for.” He nodded at her badge again. “What’s her name?”

“Katherine. I call her Katie.”

“She’s a little knockout,” he pronounced.

“I won’t disagree, but I’m biased,” she chuckled. “Do you need anything, sir?”

“Erik. And some water would be nice.”

“I can handle that. Back in a flash.” He closed his eyes and seemed to nod her out the door in silent dismissal.

Work’s important, she reasoned, mulling his words, especially when you were the only one putting bread and butter on the table.

She stopped to peer outside again, counting the droplets as they hit the pavement in the loading dock. The air tasted the same as it did that day. It had been forever since she thought about it, and now it came hurtling back.

She blamed it on the rain. She went back to her shift.

~0~



Ten years ago:


“Check in wit’ Summers after you sign in, homme,” Remy murmured as he pulled on his jacket, offering Logan a brief smile.

“The hood of my car ain’t even cooled off yet, and he’s already at it.” Logan slammed his locker door shut and went to clock in and log his entry on his way to the armory.

“He ain’t in the mood t’joke ‘round, mec. Still ain’t quite up ta snuff. Has his shades on.”

“Shoulda taken more time off,” Logan muttered.

“You tell him, den,” Remy chuckled. “Bein’ sick ain’t in his lexicon.”

“Lexicon ain’t in yer vocabulary.”

“Just sounded good,” he admitted. Despite his syrupy patois, accent, and gee-shucks demeanor, Remy was one of the best and brightest in the 7th Precinct. Jean kidded Logan that his partner had a way of making a girl forget herself and the ring on her finger. That earned her a snort of disgust and the threat that she’d be subjected to a “sniff test” at the front door for the Cajun’s aftershave.

“Meet ya out front.”

“Gonna grab a quick cup first.”

“Knock yerself out.” Remy whistled his way down the hall, mug in hand, winking at the chief’s admin as she came around the corner. She nearly turned her head off his shoulders and dropped her manila files while returning his wave. Logan snickered.

Scott was seated at his desk, everything laid out in front of him, neat as a pin. Like Remy mentioned earlier, he still wore a pair of polarized sunglasses protecting his eyes from glare following a surgery. The consensus was that he came back to work too early, but no one complained. Summers ran a tight ship, and no one envied his job as Watch Commander enough to want to fill his shoes.

He looked up from his log when he heard Logan approach his desk and handed him a folder. It was familiar; Logan spied his name on the tab.

“This is my report from yesterday.”

“It was mislabeled. Think of the logistical nightmare that would have fallen into our lap if Anna Marie hadn’t recognized your notes. She says you always use certain buzz words that stick out like a sore thumb. But not all of us are well versed in those details.” Logan sighed but took it in good grace.

“I understand.”

“Good. Since you’re being so understanding, you’re on to relieve Nate. He’s out sick with walking pneumonia.” Logan bit back an indignant grunt at the news. Two doubles in a row. He could see Jean’s annoyed look of resignation in his mind’s eye; he wasn’t looking forward to returning home to it.

“Where are ya stickin’ me and LeBeau?”

“Gifford and Main. Whole block’s been pretty active since that theft at Kappy’s. Perps boosted a few cases and cleaned out the registers.”

“Expectin’ anybody to stand there looking guilty?”

“No. But I doubt you two will get bored today.”

“Boredom ain’t in my lexicon,” Logan deadpanned, but Scott’s smile was watered down. Remy was right: Summers wasn’t in the mood.

“Be careful out there. That report goes in my hands as soon as it leaves your desk.”

“I’m on it.” He nodded a goodbye and headed for the armory. He signed out his .45 and holstered it securely, saying his customary silent prayer that this wasn’t the day he’d have to use it.

The day felt wrong. Despite Remy’s usual banter as he regaled him of the Bruins game he’d missed, Logan felt a prickle of unease that gripped him as soon as they had pulled out of the lot. The scent of ozone hung thickly in the cool air, and even its brisk bite against his cheeks give him any relief from the feeling of someone walking on his grave.

Anna’s voice piped up over the crackle of their radio, and Remy answered it with gusto.

“Officer LeBeau 10W-42, we received a domestic complaint on Dillingham Avenue. Two-story brownstone, neighbors reported a disturbance involving the couple and their two children inside. Apartment seven.”

“Ten-four.” Remy steered their patrol car up the busy street that was devoid of children; it was late enough in the morning for all of them to be in school.

“My favorite kinda call,” Logan lied casually.

“Walk in de park.”

They followed the sounds of commotion up the stairs, and an elderly woman stumbled out through her apartment door, nearly barreling them over in her haste.

“Hello, officer, I’m the one who placed the call.” She was trying to stifle her voice despite the din, which made understanding her nearly impossible. “They started up about twenty minutes ago. This isn’t the first time they’ve just gone at it like this!” Her statement was punctuated by the sound of crashing plates, and Logan thanked her before Remy knocked on the door.

The face that greeted them was young, male and belligerent until his eyes rested on Remy’s badge. He peered at them over the chain of his dead bolt, and Logan could have sworn he saw him begin to sweat.

“We received a complaint,” Remy informed him. “We’d like a few minutes of yer time, sir,” he added, dispatching with his usual vernacular.

“Who complained?” he demanded, peering out into the hallway, but his neighbor had already disappeared back inside her apartment.

“That’s irrelevant,” Logan replied. “We’d like to talk to you for a moment.” His gaze brooked no delay. The young man fumbled with the dead bolt and jerked the door open. At first glance, it was a pleasantly appointed living room with framed photos scattered across every surface and a few children’s toys littering the floor and coffee table. The scent of breakfast foods still lingered in the air, and Logan heard hushed voices coming from the kitchen. Not too many signs of a scuffle, except for a book that was knocked to the floor and an overturned lamp. Their host promptly righted it as he walked past them toward the couch.

“Your neighbors were concerned about a scuffle that sounded like it was coming from your unit. They mentioned it wuzn’t de first time, either.”

“I ain’t got a problem. We were just…havin’ a misunderstanding,” he offered, standing up stiff as a poker. His gaze shifted nervously toward Logan, who was peering at the photo on the settee. Three kids, two boys and a girl.

“Doesn’t sound like a great way to start the day. Your place has thin walls, so people might occasionally hear things you don’t want them to. May we speak to your wife, or girlfriend?”

“She-she’s in the bathroom,” he stammered. Logan heard a small whimper from the direction of the kitchen again.

“Yer kids here?”

“Sick. They’re home sick,” he explained. Before he could elaborate, a tiny child of about four scampered free and appeared in the living room, having abandoned her perch in the kitchen. A female voice called her back inside, and she darted back. She didn’t look sick. Logan merely followed her back and turned the corner, peering inside and seeing all he needed to know.

All three children were huddled around their mother, who was bleeding from a wound in her forehead. Bits of white ceramic crockery were clinging to her hair, and the shards of a plate were lying on the floor. The rest of the breakfast dishes were still steaming from the rack beside the sink.

Without any further preamble, she exclaimed “He hit me! In front of the kids! I was on my way to work, and he didn’t b-believe me!”

“Shut up…shut the fuck up!” he roared, banging his fist down on the Formica counter, and his face was thunderous until Remy turned on him with a stern glance.

“You’d want t’lower voice, sir,” he warned him. “Settle down. Right now this doesn’t look too good. Your wife’s bleeding. Your children are here after when they’re supposed to be in school. You’re looking at a charge of domestic assault, as well as keeping your children truant.”

“I didn’t touch her! She…the plate fell out of the cabinet and hit her on the head! I swear!”

“That wasn’t the way it sounded when we came to your door,” Remy argued calmly.

“It’s none of your damned business,” he snapped. “She’s my wife, and it’s nobody’s business what we do up in here. I didn’t touch her. A plate fell on her fucking head!” The younger of the two boys burrowed his head into his mother’s shirt sleeve as she shook her head in denial. “A man can argue with his fucking wife!” Logan suppressed a sigh and gave it to him straight.

“Your wife’s bleeding, your kids are scared, there’s damage of property in your residence, and you’re not convincing us that you did more than argue.” Logan watched him bristling as he leaned back against the counter.

“I didn’t do anything.” He pointed at his wife. “There’s no way you’re pinning this on me!”

“You’ll have the chance to fill us in at the station.” Logan loomed large and imposing in his dress blues, giving the kid the stare that was legend back at the station house. “You have the right to remain silent…” He struggled briefly as Remy cuffed him, and his shoulders slumped in resignation when he realized that they wouldn’t back down. His wife said nothing in his defense, despite his oldest son’s querulous tones as he asked where Daddy was going. He exited his apartment on a tide of profanity, ignoring his Miranda rights with abandon.

A man can argue with his wife… Logan had never once laid a hand on Jeannie; the urge to tell the kid he was full of shit if he thought they just had an argument nagged at him for the rest of the ride back. He felt a surge of relief and protectiveness toward his wife, but his stomach still twisted with the same unease, even though they’d just ensured the safety of another wife and children. It never ended.



~0~

Jean flicked the switch to her windshield wipers, increasing their tempo to keep up with the rain spattering down in a steady rhythm. She hated conferences with a passion, and she made sure the laptop was tucked securely on the floor of the passenger side, safe in its carrying case. With any luck, the Q&A would be short, and she wouldn’t have to take minutes. She must have done something heinous in a previous life…

Wind buffeted the CRV, making it hard to correct herself on the two-lane road. She thought back to their last trip to the Vineyard by ferry and longed to do it again soon; the sky was almost clear enough to see Woods Hole from the beach. The wipers’ swish almost sent her into a lulling reverie.

She cursed as she was cut off by a pickup truck switching into the fast lane too slow, and she impatiently honked her horn.

“Mommy, you honked the horn,” Gayle announced dryly from the backseat. Jean grumbled her assent, frustrated at her progress so far. They’d had to drive right back to the house when Gayle piped up that she forgot her book report that Jean slaved over with her two nights before. She was already running a half an hour behind, and this wasn’t the day to make up for lost time. Jean hated driving in the rain.

“Mommy’s trying to drive, sweetie,” she chided through her teeth. She hit the “play” button on the CD changer, and her daughter’s favorite Cheetah Girls tunes tumbled out from the speakers. Jean adjusted the balance to the backseat so she wouldn’t have to hear the worst of it. Gayle settled quietly back into her seat, entertained for the moment and peering at her book report. Hand-drawn pictures and magazine photographs were pasted onto each page, and she was proud of her work.

Jean planned her day methodically from behind the wheel. Conference. Memos. Email. A second team meeting. Leave early for Scouts and get Gayle read for the PTA dinn-

“Oh, my God! Are you CRAZY?!” she accused the second car that edged into her lane before changing his mind. She restrained the urge to honk at him, and he waved at her in apology with his cellular phone. She was a mile from the off-ramp and making appalling time.

He hadn’t learned his lesson yet. This time his victim was a bright red Windstar van with New Hampshire plates and an honor student bumper sticker.

He clipped it, and its harried driver, more than likely a woman in Jean’s slingback shoes, overcorrected to avoid crashing into the guardrail. The van spun out, its squealing tires scarring the asphalt. Jean’s voice was stolen from her throat as her hands jerked the steering wheel to the left. Her brakes locked.

She felt the impact of the guardrail first, gouging her door and buffeting her so hard her teeth clacked. She felt the wrenching of her neck as she skidded to a brief stop before the white Suburban hogging her blind spot completely filled her rearview. The deafening crunch of metal echoed in her ears, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Gayle’s shriek cut through the din, and her book report flew past Jean’s ear, smacking the windshield.

GodhelpmeGodhelpmeohGodGAYLE! Her heart seemed to explode. She saw stars. Her world upended itself, rolling…rolling…rolling…

Everything stopped.

Outside, traffic came to a complete halt. The man with the cell phone looked dazed, sitting on the opposite side of the road. He dialed 911 with shaking hands.

Inside, everything was silent. Jean never heard the strains of Gayle’s dreadful music die down to nothing.





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