He stared at the machine. He thought of how close he’d come to…to becoming something. Would his father have ever been proud? Would he admit who the better man was? Oh, he wouldn’t show it, but if he found out his little Jeffie was the Rainy Day Killer, there’d have been a spark of pride that would’ve inevitably fired off in the old man’s chest.
If the old man was still alive, that is.
A weak smile touched his lips.
Of course, if he was in hell, looking up, he’d have been proud, too.
But now what was he? A failure. Just like his mother said, like his father said. Even the kids in school, all those years ago, had been right. He was a broken failure, destined for prison. Still only the Rainy Day Rapist, a ridiculous name.
Motion flashed in the doorway. The dark blue of a police uniform swaggered toward him. The creak of leather seemed to dance with the beeping of his machine, with his mother’s cruel tones, his father’s harsh voice.
A leathery face appeared next to his. A closely cropped mustache seemed to be almost burned into the man’s upper lip. The sour stench of coffee and cigarettes rolled off his tongue as he growled out his words.
“What the fuck are you smiling about, you piece of shit?”
Jeffrey forced his smile wider, a ball of spite beginning to grow in his belly.
The old cop smiled back, but his eyes were as cold as death. Jeffrey could see that even though the man was undoubtedly assigned to guard him, he’d much preferred to have throttled him. The hard eyes said it all.
“The doctor says one of MacLeod’s bullets hit your spine,” the cop whispered gruffly. “He says you might be a cripple.”
A cripple? Somehow, the karma didn’t surprise him. Why not? Everything else bad has happened to him. Why not that, too?
“I hope not,” the cop said to him. “You know why?”
Some confusion overcame him. The beeps were getting fuzzier. Colors seemed to blur. He turned his heavy eyes to the cop’s nametag.
M. Ridgeway, it read.
He looked back at M. Ridgeway’s face. He blinked a long blink.
“Wuh-eye?” he slurred.
“Because,” Ridgeway told him, “You’re going to prison for a long time. And I want you to be able to feel what rape is like while you’re there.”
He blinked at Ridgeway, still confused for a moment. Then it dawned on him through the fog of the medication.
Of course.
He was a cop. So he hated him.
He understood.
But it wasn’t his fault.
No. None of it was.
It was hers.
Katie’s.
Bitches ruin everything, he thought. Then a soft, blessed darkness took him.
1502 hours
Katie’s head rested on the hospital pillow. She wanted to reach back and fold it over for a little more support, but couldn’t work up the motivation to do so. Everything hurt. Her left forearm throbbed dully. Her left hand seemed to have more of a stinging pain. Her shoulder shared the general, aching soreness which had settled over her entire body.
She imagined the real pain lay lurking below the light pain medication they’d given her. She’d refused anything stronger. She had vague recollections about bouncing red balls and the secrets of the universe from her previous trip, and no desire to experience those bizarre images again.
The doctor entered, trailed by a pair of interns. He glanced wordlessly at her chart for a moment, the spoke without looking up.
“How are we feeling?” he asked in a preoccupied, distant tone.
“Like hell,” Katie answered truthfully.
“Mmmmmhhhhhhmmmm,” the doctor replied, his eyes skipping over the chart. “Well, all in all, things look well.” He handed the chart off to one of the interns, looking at Katie for the first time. He didn’t smile. “There’s really no reason to keep you any longer than overnight. Your cuts were deep, but clean. Luckily, no nerves were severed. The cuts stitched well, and scarring should be minimal. A couple of weeks of rest at home and you should be mostly recovered.”
“Why am I staying overnight if I’m all stitched up?” Katie asked.
“Holcomb?” the doctor asked.
One of the interns, a rail thin kid with small spectacles stepped forward. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bounced up and down his throat. “Uh, your medical history shows a recent concussion. You were struck in the head during this assault, so there is an increased potential for another concussion.”
“Excellent, Holcomb,” the doctor said. He gestured to the second intern, a beefier man with soft eyes. “Bullock?”
Bullock glanced at the doctor, then at Katie. After a moment, he said, “He’s right about the concussion. And your body’s been through a lot today.” He gave Katie a warm smile and touched her foot gently. “Anyway, keeping you overnight is just a precaution.”
Katie nodded her understanding.
“Is there anything else you need?” the doctor asked her.
“No-uh, wait. Yeah. Can someone fold my pillow in half so that it’s a little thicker?”
“I’ll send in the nurse,” the doctor said. Without further hesitation, he turned and strode out of the room, Holcomb in tow.
Bullock paused, then stepped up to the side of her bed. “Lean forward,” he instructed.
With an effort, Katie did so. He folded over her pillow and replaced it. She sank backward onto it.
“Better?” he asked.
“A little.”
“They’re not much of a cushion, are they?” Bullock smiled.
“No.”
“I’ll ask the nurse to bring in another one,” he told her.
“Thanks.”
“Hope you feel better,” he said with another smile, then turned and left.
Katie watched him go. As he exited the room, another head leaned in around the closing door. She recognized Tower immediately. He raised his eyebrows at her questioningly.
“Okay to come in?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Tower swung the door open a little more and walked in. A redheaded woman in jeans and a green blouse trailed behind him. Tower saw Katie notice her and made an introduction.
“This is Julie Avery,” he explained. “She works with the Prosecutor’s Office as a victim advocate.”
Katie gave her a guarded nod. Julie replied with a warm smile.
Tower stopped at the side of her bed. He seemed to be taking in all of the bandages and Katie’s bruised and battered face.
“I look a mess, don’t I?” Katie asked.
“No,” Tower lied. “Just a little banged up, is all.”
“The marks from that time on Mona Street are barely gone,” Katie said, not sure if she was trying to joke or if she were feeling sorry for herself. “I’ve got bruises on my bruises.”
Tower nodded, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “Once word gets out that you can have visitors, you know there’s going to be a parade of cops coming up here.”
Katie shook her head. “Can you tell Radio that they want me to sleep or something? I don’t want to see a bunch of people right now.”
And I don’t want to be seen looking like this. Like a victim.
“Sure,” Tower said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
“Finch and Elias are going to want to talk to you, though.”
“I know.”
“But, uh, that can probably wait a few days.”
“Good.”
The two officers fell silent. Avery stood quietly next to Tower, saying nothing. Katie glanced at the woman, taking in her open expression and warm features. Empathy seemed to radiate from her. Katie imagined that made her very good at her job.
Avery caught her looking and smiled.
Katie cleared her throat and turned her gaze to Tower. “Can you tell me something?”
“Sure.” He leaned forward expectantly.
“Did he die? Did I kill him?”
Tower looked at her for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “No,” he said in a low voice. “He’s at a different hospital. Sacred Heart, I think.”
Katie nodded. She felt tears sting her eyes. Ashamed, she looked away.