21 Weeks: Weeks 15-21

21 Weeks

WEEK 15

…

R.A. LaShea

1 - No Idea Where - No Idea When

Beck couldn’t recall how she got there.

Or when.

At some point, she was just there, and the place seemed familiar somehow. Felt familiar. Like somewhere she had been to before. Though, crystal chandelier hanging overhead, marble flooring beneath each footstep as she moved from the arched hallway through the foyer, it was hardly the kind of place she would have spent any real time.

If she had ever actually been there at all.

She was almost certain that she had.

Low groan echoing off the walls around her, it sounded as if the house itself was in distress, but Beck knew no one else could hear the man’s pain as her hand tightened on the grip. Emanating out of the basement, the sounds were no more than a whisper at the ground floor.

The woman, though, if she screamed, the neighbors would hear. Which was why she was gagged, oily rag used to polish the grand piano she was strapped atop shoved into her mouth. Arms anchored outward, like some lackluster version of a crucifixion, long, delicate hands lay close to the instrument’s edges, blood dripping from stubs of fingers already missing.

Terrified eyes turning Beck’s way, they had hardly the strength to shift, and Beck recognized Veronica Worthing through the tears and fear upon the woman’s face as she raised the weapon in her hand. Expecting her Glock, certain she must be there to save these people, Beck saw the flash of a bloodied hunting knife cross her vision instead. Twelve inches of heavy steel reflecting in the darkness, she knew ultimate satisfaction as she thrust it into Veronica Worthing’s neck.

*****

Flailing upright, Beck’s chest squeezed like it was in a vise as she struggled to draw breath, tried to get her bearings in the unfamiliar surroundings of the room. Door in the wrong position, everything else shadowed, she knew only that she wasn’t at home, and it was a moment of sheer panic, heightened by the hand that slid through the moisture clinging to the bare skin of her abdomen.

God. You’re soaked.

Sorry. Panting at the familiar voice, Beck waited for her eyes to adjust to the room. At the moment, everything looked too dark and too bright at the same time.

Are you okay?

Beck didn’t know how to answer that question.

Sitting up beside her, Carmen pushed the wet hair from her face, and Beck flinched as warm fingers brushed her shoulder.

Don’t do that, Carmen scolded, and, glancing her way, Beck could just make out that it was really Carmen in the bed with her as a hand trailed down her drenched back. God, you are really shaking.

I’ve been sick. It was a reasonable enough excuse. Don’t worry. I’m not contagious.

I wasn’t worried, Carmen murmured. What is going on with you?

Nothing. I just had a nightmare. Reaching for the sheet gathered at her waist, Beck pulled it up to her chest, but it did nothing to dispel the pervasive chill on her wet skin.

Some nightmare.

Yes, it definitely was that. The kind that was only unreal because it was unreal. Not because it couldn’t be real, or was so far outside the scope of reality.

It’s over now, Beck said, but it was a long way from the truth. It wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be until Benjy decided to stop, or they stopped him. Beck wasn’t sure which of those things was least likely.

Are you sure you’re okay? Carmen asked.

Yes. I’m better. I’m sure you’re just thrilled I slept here now, though. Practically swimming in the sheets beneath her, Beck knew there was no way they could go back to sleep without changing them.

I am. Looking over, Beck could see the sincerity in the dark eyes regarding her even in the darkness, but she didn’t need to. She could hear it in Carmen’s voice. I’m glad you’re here.

Me too, Beck admitted. Not only because it felt better, and far more natural, not to have a rift between them, but because, if Beck wasn’t, she would be alone in her apartment, and she really wasn’t sure how she would handle that right now.

We should change the sheets, Carmen said. And then you should shower. And I should help you.

Trace of a smile dimpling Carmen’s cheek, Beck wasn’t sure that was really a solution for anything, but the offer was enticing enough, and it was certainly better than going back to sleep.

2 - Metro Homicide - Monday, 8:05 a.m.

Veronica Worthing was not tied crucifixion-style on top of the grand piano in the Worthing home. It was more damsel-in-distress style, hands and feet bound separately, heavy cords pulled so tightly across her they cut off the circulation in her torso.

Their other victim, however - the man recovered from the hidden room beneath Huntridge Circle Park - was crucified. Nailed to a handcrafted plywood cross, gash in his side, the man’s murder was a by-the-Good-Book rendition. With all the questions as to how he got there, and when exactly, the most pressing remained the same as with every other victim - How long did the unidentified victim hang down there? How long did he spend dying in his own crypt beneath the park while people barbecued meat and kids yelled and played overhead?

Beck knew both things - about Veronica Worthing and about their past vic - when she went to sleep Saturday night. It was just the unfortunate blender of her mind that mixed them up into one macabre dream.

Hey, Nash. How’s Williams?

Inquiry sincere, it was equally bothersome, reminding Beck just how close they had gotten and the level of failure they had met in the end. It would be nice if just one thing that day could be normal.

Already up and around. He starts physical therapy today, she told Cockburn. He thinks they’ll let him go home tomorrow.

Stopping in at the hospital on Saturday, and again Sunday morning, everything was amiable on the surface, Sandra making jokes about Williams teaching his own kids to look both ways before crossing the street, but being unable to follow his own advice. Underneath, though, there was tension in the room Beck couldn’t ignore. Tension that told her Sandra was angry. Or, at least, disappointed. She asked Beck to watch her husband’s back, and, within four months, he was already lying in a hospital bed, bones and promises broken all around.

Any idea how long he’s supposed to be out? Cockburn asked.

At least twelve weeks, Beck said. Though, it was a best case scenario. Twice that long was far more likely, and that was assuming everything went perfectly with the surgery and Williams’ upcoming therapy. 

Williams waited until Sandra and the kids went for lunch on Sunday to tell Beck the doctor told him seventy-five percent of people with femur fractures never got full functionality back. You’ll be in the twenty-five percent, Beck had responded, but she knew Williams was less worried about the months of rehabilitation ahead than what would happen if he couldn’t rehabilitate enough.

Man. Sucks, Cockburn uttered. It was as close as Beck suspected the man got to sympathy.

Morning, Nash.

Turning at the greeting, Beck looked into Lieutenant Martinez’s dark eyes, the lines at their edges shadowed by too much stress and not nearly enough sleep.

Come into my office. I need to talk to you.

Few good conversations that ever started that way, and reason to expect bad things, Beck took a loaded breath as she followed her lieutenant into the claustrophobic space, waiting as he shut the door behind them.

3 - Lieutenant Martinez’s Office - Monday, 8:10 a.m.

How are you doing? Holding out a hand for Beck to take a seat as he situated behind the desk, Martinez began with the necessary inquiry. The one that would tell him whether his detective was in need of desk-duty and therapy sessions.

Stellar, Beck uttered, and the response felt almost as ridiculous as the question.

What did Martinez want her to say? Things were great? Things were awful? Their victim’s throat was slit in front of them, her partner was severely injured, and the killer got away. Things were not okay. That didn’t mean she couldn’t still do her job.

Well, since you’re in such a good emotional place right now, let’s talk about what happened, Martinez said, and Beck realized she should have opted for talking about her feelings. Let’s discuss decisions made Friday night. Because you made a seriously bad one.

Gaze falling to Martinez’s desk, Beck could still hear the slight groan of the chair as Martinez leaned forward in it.

It was stupid, and it was reckless. In one instant, you could have not only killed an innocent person. You could have cost yourself a career that has the potential to go wherever you want it to go.

I knew it was him. Glancing up, Beck wasn’t sure if she was lying or not as she looked Martinez in the eye. But she needed to believe it. She needed to believe she wouldn’t have killed someone who had no fault in his own actions because she wanted so badly to save someone else.

Because you could see that it was him? Or because you could feel it? Martinez asked, but they both knew the answer to those questions. You cannot defend yourself with instinct, Nash. Not in the eyes of I.A., and not in the eyes of a judge. And, right now, CSU has a fencing helmet in their possession with two dents. One in the front where you hit the kid with the butt of your gun, and one from a bullet dead-center in the back. How in the hell can I explain that as anything other than a kill-shot?

It was a split-second decision. I had to do something. And I couldn’t shoot him anyplace else, because there was too much risk the bullet would pass through and hit Caitlin. Woman’s name painful on her lips, Beck wished she hadn’t said anything as she squirmed in her seat.

It isn’t that you did it, Martinez surprised her by saying. You say your gut told you it was him, and I trust that. I hired you because you have that. It’s that you did it, knowing there were three dozen people who could hear everything that was said, including six academy recruits who have zero loyalty to this department. Martinez thrust a hand in the direction of the window to the bullpen for emphasis. You are just goddamn lucky you were right. You are goddamn lucky. Because, as far as I’m concerned, you knew in that last instant. For sure. No question. It was not a hunch. You had a clear visual, and you just didn’t have time to say anything.

Okay. Realizing she was not just being given an out, but the script for exactly what she would say when she talked to Internal Affairs, it occurred to Beck just how many careers she’d put on the line with that one shot. Not just hers and Bishop’s, but Martinez’s now too. The only good play he had was to fire her on the spot. It was the only way he could save his own ass.

You and Bishop are gonna give me a fuckin’ aneurysm. His own ass apparently not Martinez’s main area of concern at the moment, he dropped back in his seat with a sigh.

It’s very much not my intention, Sir. Beck felt as if she needed to say something, and it was the truth. She had nothing but respect for Martinez. Any decisions she did or didn’t make in the field didn’t change the fact. There were a lot of lieutenants who filled out their forces with Williams, Williams, and more Williams, so they never had to worry about being an actual voice of reason. That Martinez sought out the Bishops and Nashes of the force might have given him every gray hair in his goatee, but it took chutzpah. Martinez was loaded with chutzpah.

I know your intentions, Martinez uttered. "I know things didn’t go the way you wanted them to out there.

That was putting it extremely mildly. 

That was rough, he said. Everything happened fast. But none of what happened was your fault. The rest of the decisions you made were the right ones. You were every place you needed to be. This guy, he is just this fuckin’ good. We had more than forty law enforcement officers in a two-block radius, and he got away from all of us.

I should have gone after Williams, Beck said.

So you could both be in the hospital right now? Martinez asked. Nash, you know you made the right choice, staying with that girl. Williams made his. Things happen.

No. Not when people made all the right decisions, they didn’t. Not like this. Beck shook her head.

Do you know how long it was, between the shot and you clocking that kid in the parking lot? Martinez asked.

No.

Four minutes, he said, and, gaze narrowing, Beck was certain he was screwing with her. Because that sounded impossible. It felt like it took an eternity for Caitlin Bell to die alone.

That’s hard to believe.

Well, believe it, because that’s how long it was. I know you think you could have done something better, differently, but you couldn’t. I know it feels as if we made mistakes, but we didn’t. It was what it was. But that was the closest anyone has ever gotten to him. Closer than Bishop. He knows it. No one was expecting you to get this close.

That’s very encouraging, Sir, Beck said.

You know what I mean, Martinez uttered. What you’ve done here, in this short amount of time, it hasn’t gone unnoticed. Homeland Security is looking to start a mixed task force of current Las Vegas police officers and National Guard. It’ll be a division of SWAT. They want recruits from every department. Since you were SWAT before, and you certainly have the skills they’re looking for, I’m recommending you. Training will be in D.C. starting next week.

What? Beck returned.

Sorry about the short notice. I wasn’t going to offer you, because of the case. But, with Williams out, this is a good opportunity for you to explore other options within the force.

You’re kicking me off the case? Beck knew damn well what those pretty words were actually saying. You’re kicking me out of the department? Is this because I took that shot?

She knew there would be repercussions. There should be. If Bishop had been wrong, if she’d been wrong, Beck could have killed an innocent man trying to save an innocent woman. Just like Martinez said.

You’re not out of the department, Martinez calmly stated. You’ll be on loan for a short period. Then, you’ll be on call. Just like with SWAT. This is not a full-time gig.

But now?

When Martinez’s gaze caught on something outside the window, Beck turned around, rage rushing to the surface the instant she laid eyes upon Bishop. Out of her seat before she could think twice about it, Beck slammed the door of Martinez’s office open.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bishop responded. But I’m almost certain I’m not.

You know exactly what I am fucking talking about. You picked me, Bishop. You dragged me into this. You do not get to just kick me out when the mood strikes.

It’s not like that, Bishop said.

Goddammit, I just had a woman bleed to death in my hands. You are not taking this away from me!