Solace 4/14 (Without a Trace)
Solace
4/14
Chapter 7
Martin spent the rest of Thursday more asleep than awake. During the early morning, he floated in a sedative-induced slumber for a few hours, breaking the surface briefly, long enough for his nurse, Melanie, to explain his injuries and prognosis and ask him a few questions.
“How’s your breathing?”
“Okay,” he murmured, the oxygen mask muffling his words. His chest ached as he inhaled and exhaled, but the suffocating sensation he’d experienced when he flashed back to the shooting was gone. A few of those nightmarish images still flickered in his mind, but he pushed them aside, not yet ready to deal with the memories.
Melanie swapped out the oxygen mask for a nasal cannula before asking him how he was handling the pain. He considered telling her that it only hurt a little, but the dull ache had become sharp needles biting into his tender skin, impossible to ignore or downplay.
“Hurts,” he admitted hoarsely.
The nurse nodded sympathetically. “The anesthesia’s worn off. I’ll get you some Demerol.”
Usually, Martin resisted medications. Growing up, he’d watched his father shun all over-the-counter drugs, saying that Fitzgeralds didn’t need “that stuff.” And so, if he had a headache or a cold, he tried toughing it out. Sometimes it worked, and by the next day, he felt better. Other times, he’d give in and take a half dosage of medicine.
But now, as it became difficult to focus on anything other than the steady, pulsating pain, he gladly welcomed the Demerol and the dreamless sleep it brought. He drifted in and out for the rest of the day, and later would vaguely recall that his family was nearly always by his side, touching him, saying comforting things. He thought Sam and Jack might have been there, too, and he distinctly remembered seeing Danny, a bit pale and with two thin band-aids on his forehead, but mercifully in one piece.
He couldn’t summon the energy to do much more than offer his visitors a weak smile or briefly answer the nurses’ questions about his pain levels, but nobody seemed to mind, least of all him.
**
Danny returned to the hospital late Thursday morning, slightly refreshed after a quick nap, a light breakfast, a long, steaming shower and a change of clothes. Martin slept through most his visit. At one point, the wounded man opened glassy, unfocused eyes and stared stupidly at him for a few seconds, then smiled tiredly before fading away.
After his ten minutes were up, Danny, still worn out from his lingering headache and the stress of the last day, went home. After popping a couple of Advil, he turned on ESPN and stretched out on his black leather couch. He soon fell into a restless sleep that gave way to a vivid nightmare.
He was using the car for cover as he aimed at Dornvald, but a bullet struck his shoulder, and the gun flew out of his hand as he collapsed onto the street. Helpless, unable to move, he watched Dornvald stalk up to Martin’s side of the car and start firing. Martin screamed in agony --
And Danny jerked awake with a choked cry, sure he would puke up what little food he had in his stomach.
He raced into his tiny bathroom and yanked open the toilet lid. Kneeling down, he hung his head over the bowl, ready to retch, but nothing came up. After a few minutes passed, he ran a shaking arm over his sweaty forehead and stumbled back to the couch, fumbling for the glass of water he’d left on the coffee table. He took deep gulps, spilling some of it, then settled back against the cushions.
“I’m so not going back to sleep,” he whispered, but an hour later, he drifted off again, this time to a quiet, peaceful sleep that lasted until late afternoon.
When he woke, his stomach growled, the earlier queasiness gone. He reheated some albondigas soup and channel surfed while he ate, then called St. Andrew’s hospital to check on Viv. Marcus answered the phone and reported that she was doing well, sleeping mostly. She had yet to hear about the shooting. Marcus wanted to wait until she was a little stronger. A wise decision, Danny thought. Viv had enough on her plate with recovering from major heart surgery.
Checking the wall clock, Danny realized that if he wanted to visit Martin before his AA meeting, he should leave now. The hospital and the community center where the AA meetings were held were an hour away from each other.
He called St. Vincent’s to ask if his partner could have any visitors. A nurse informed him that a young blonde woman had just left, and it’d be three hours before anyone else would be allowed into the room. He hung up and sighed. Three hours from now, he’d be in his AA meeting, and by the time that ended, it’d be 8 p.m. He’d miss visiting hours altogether.
He briefly considered skipping AA, but now, more than ever, he needed to attend. He wasn’t dying for a drink, but if those damned nightmares didn’t let up soon, he just might start craving one.
**
Chapter 8
“And that about covers it,” Danny said, staring across the desk at Dr. Harris.
He’d arrived for his appointment at 9 a.m. sharp Friday morning, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, the psychiatrist had asked about the shooting. He’d launched into a brief account, one that apparently did not satisfy Dr. Harris, judging from the raised eyebrows and slight shake of her head.
“That was almost word-for-word what you wrote down in your official report.”
Danny tried not to fidget in his chair. “Well, that’s what happened.”
The psychiatrist tucked a section of her smooth, dark hair behind her ear. “What I’m more interested in is how you felt. How you’re feeling now.”
He snorted. “C’mon, doc, what’s there to say? It was bad. It sucked. But I’m fine.” He waited, resisting the urge to bounce his knee up and down. Maybe she’d let him off easy.
“In order for me to properly evaluate you, I need you to open up.”
Damn.
He rubbed his eyes. He’d had a crappy night, a variety of nightmares plaguing him, and he really didn’t want to get all touchy feely right now.
“Are you sleeping?” Dr. Harris asked gently.
“Some.”
“Rest is very important. It’s hard, though, when you’re having bad dreams.”
Danny winced. Dr. Harris was good. Or maybe he just looked that bad. “I just … I keep seeing it, over and over again. I keep wondering if there was something else I could have done.”
“Do you believe there was?”
“Probably not. It all happened so fast, there wasn’t really time to think. But, if there’s even the smallest chance that I could have done things differently, and kept Martin from getting shot … ”
“Have you thought about it from the other angle?”
Danny’s forehead creased in confusion. “What other angle?”
“Instead of focusing what you could have done, have you thought about what you did do?”
“I’m still not following you here, doc.”
Dr. Harris smiled patiently. “According to the police report, after the car crashed, you got out and returned fire with the assailants, killing one man and forcing the other to leave the scene. If you hadn’t done that, isn’t it possible that the gunmen would have finished what they started, and you’d both be dead now?”
He considered her words. He hadn’t thought about it like that. Still … it provided little comfort. He shook his head. “It doesn’t change the fact that maybe I could have kept Martin from getting hit in the first place. I gotta live with that.”
The psychiatrist leaned forward. “It’s perfectly natural to second-guess yourself in a situation like this. What’s important is that you don’t let your doubts control you.”
Danny smiled wryly. “Hindsight’s 20/20, right?”
“Something like that. Look, I’m not going to push you to talk today. Take the weekend to try and relax. Go to a movie. Get out for some fresh air. Do whatever it is that helps you take the edge off. Come back Monday morning, and we’ll start fresh.”
“All right,” he said, relieved that she was giving him a free pass, at least for a few days. “Umm, do you know when I can get back to work?”
*Because doc, that’s what will take the edge off. Let me do my freakin’ job. Let me focus on something other than my partner and me almost getting shot to death.*
Dr. Harris shuffled some papers on her desk before answering. “This is a process,” she said slowly. “It’s not an overnight fix. I need to know how you’re doing, how you’re really doing, and then I’ll make a recommendation.”
Danny shook his head in frustration. “That’s not much of an answer, doc.”
“It’s the best one I can give you. My first priority is making sure you’re okay, not getting you back in the field. And that should be your first priority, too.”
**
Following a long stretch of sleep, Martin woke just after sunrise Friday morning, sharp stabbing sensations wrenching him into alertness. He hissed between clenched teeth and released a groan as he looked around his room. It was empty, his parents and sister probably getting a decent night’s sleep at their nearby hotel. He closed his eyes and tried to wait out the pain. Maybe it would go away.
It didn’t.
He fumbled for the call button, and a few seconds later, a nurse he hadn’t seen before appeared. Tricia, according to her nametag. Late twenties, blue eyes, bleached-blonde hair and “stacked,” as Danny would say. A little too cover girl for Martin, but right up his partner’s alley.
“You rang?” she asked pleasantly.
“Hurts,” he ground out. He shifted his body to find a more comfortable position and a burst of fire raced along the left side of his chest and stomach. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he breathed harshly.
Tricia had apparently known he’d need more Demerol, because even as he blinked against threatening tears, she emptied a syringe into his IV. A few moments later, she gently pressed a wet washcloth to his forehead before gliding it down his face and neck. He relaxed into her soothing ministrations as the drug crept through his body and pulled him under.
**
Part Five
4/14
Chapter 7
Martin spent the rest of Thursday more asleep than awake. During the early morning, he floated in a sedative-induced slumber for a few hours, breaking the surface briefly, long enough for his nurse, Melanie, to explain his injuries and prognosis and ask him a few questions.
“How’s your breathing?”
“Okay,” he murmured, the oxygen mask muffling his words. His chest ached as he inhaled and exhaled, but the suffocating sensation he’d experienced when he flashed back to the shooting was gone. A few of those nightmarish images still flickered in his mind, but he pushed them aside, not yet ready to deal with the memories.
Melanie swapped out the oxygen mask for a nasal cannula before asking him how he was handling the pain. He considered telling her that it only hurt a little, but the dull ache had become sharp needles biting into his tender skin, impossible to ignore or downplay.
“Hurts,” he admitted hoarsely.
The nurse nodded sympathetically. “The anesthesia’s worn off. I’ll get you some Demerol.”
Usually, Martin resisted medications. Growing up, he’d watched his father shun all over-the-counter drugs, saying that Fitzgeralds didn’t need “that stuff.” And so, if he had a headache or a cold, he tried toughing it out. Sometimes it worked, and by the next day, he felt better. Other times, he’d give in and take a half dosage of medicine.
But now, as it became difficult to focus on anything other than the steady, pulsating pain, he gladly welcomed the Demerol and the dreamless sleep it brought. He drifted in and out for the rest of the day, and later would vaguely recall that his family was nearly always by his side, touching him, saying comforting things. He thought Sam and Jack might have been there, too, and he distinctly remembered seeing Danny, a bit pale and with two thin band-aids on his forehead, but mercifully in one piece.
He couldn’t summon the energy to do much more than offer his visitors a weak smile or briefly answer the nurses’ questions about his pain levels, but nobody seemed to mind, least of all him.
**
Danny returned to the hospital late Thursday morning, slightly refreshed after a quick nap, a light breakfast, a long, steaming shower and a change of clothes. Martin slept through most his visit. At one point, the wounded man opened glassy, unfocused eyes and stared stupidly at him for a few seconds, then smiled tiredly before fading away.
After his ten minutes were up, Danny, still worn out from his lingering headache and the stress of the last day, went home. After popping a couple of Advil, he turned on ESPN and stretched out on his black leather couch. He soon fell into a restless sleep that gave way to a vivid nightmare.
He was using the car for cover as he aimed at Dornvald, but a bullet struck his shoulder, and the gun flew out of his hand as he collapsed onto the street. Helpless, unable to move, he watched Dornvald stalk up to Martin’s side of the car and start firing. Martin screamed in agony --
And Danny jerked awake with a choked cry, sure he would puke up what little food he had in his stomach.
He raced into his tiny bathroom and yanked open the toilet lid. Kneeling down, he hung his head over the bowl, ready to retch, but nothing came up. After a few minutes passed, he ran a shaking arm over his sweaty forehead and stumbled back to the couch, fumbling for the glass of water he’d left on the coffee table. He took deep gulps, spilling some of it, then settled back against the cushions.
“I’m so not going back to sleep,” he whispered, but an hour later, he drifted off again, this time to a quiet, peaceful sleep that lasted until late afternoon.
When he woke, his stomach growled, the earlier queasiness gone. He reheated some albondigas soup and channel surfed while he ate, then called St. Andrew’s hospital to check on Viv. Marcus answered the phone and reported that she was doing well, sleeping mostly. She had yet to hear about the shooting. Marcus wanted to wait until she was a little stronger. A wise decision, Danny thought. Viv had enough on her plate with recovering from major heart surgery.
Checking the wall clock, Danny realized that if he wanted to visit Martin before his AA meeting, he should leave now. The hospital and the community center where the AA meetings were held were an hour away from each other.
He called St. Vincent’s to ask if his partner could have any visitors. A nurse informed him that a young blonde woman had just left, and it’d be three hours before anyone else would be allowed into the room. He hung up and sighed. Three hours from now, he’d be in his AA meeting, and by the time that ended, it’d be 8 p.m. He’d miss visiting hours altogether.
He briefly considered skipping AA, but now, more than ever, he needed to attend. He wasn’t dying for a drink, but if those damned nightmares didn’t let up soon, he just might start craving one.
**
Chapter 8
“And that about covers it,” Danny said, staring across the desk at Dr. Harris.
He’d arrived for his appointment at 9 a.m. sharp Friday morning, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, the psychiatrist had asked about the shooting. He’d launched into a brief account, one that apparently did not satisfy Dr. Harris, judging from the raised eyebrows and slight shake of her head.
“That was almost word-for-word what you wrote down in your official report.”
Danny tried not to fidget in his chair. “Well, that’s what happened.”
The psychiatrist tucked a section of her smooth, dark hair behind her ear. “What I’m more interested in is how you felt. How you’re feeling now.”
He snorted. “C’mon, doc, what’s there to say? It was bad. It sucked. But I’m fine.” He waited, resisting the urge to bounce his knee up and down. Maybe she’d let him off easy.
“In order for me to properly evaluate you, I need you to open up.”
Damn.
He rubbed his eyes. He’d had a crappy night, a variety of nightmares plaguing him, and he really didn’t want to get all touchy feely right now.
“Are you sleeping?” Dr. Harris asked gently.
“Some.”
“Rest is very important. It’s hard, though, when you’re having bad dreams.”
Danny winced. Dr. Harris was good. Or maybe he just looked that bad. “I just … I keep seeing it, over and over again. I keep wondering if there was something else I could have done.”
“Do you believe there was?”
“Probably not. It all happened so fast, there wasn’t really time to think. But, if there’s even the smallest chance that I could have done things differently, and kept Martin from getting shot … ”
“Have you thought about it from the other angle?”
Danny’s forehead creased in confusion. “What other angle?”
“Instead of focusing what you could have done, have you thought about what you did do?”
“I’m still not following you here, doc.”
Dr. Harris smiled patiently. “According to the police report, after the car crashed, you got out and returned fire with the assailants, killing one man and forcing the other to leave the scene. If you hadn’t done that, isn’t it possible that the gunmen would have finished what they started, and you’d both be dead now?”
He considered her words. He hadn’t thought about it like that. Still … it provided little comfort. He shook his head. “It doesn’t change the fact that maybe I could have kept Martin from getting hit in the first place. I gotta live with that.”
The psychiatrist leaned forward. “It’s perfectly natural to second-guess yourself in a situation like this. What’s important is that you don’t let your doubts control you.”
Danny smiled wryly. “Hindsight’s 20/20, right?”
“Something like that. Look, I’m not going to push you to talk today. Take the weekend to try and relax. Go to a movie. Get out for some fresh air. Do whatever it is that helps you take the edge off. Come back Monday morning, and we’ll start fresh.”
“All right,” he said, relieved that she was giving him a free pass, at least for a few days. “Umm, do you know when I can get back to work?”
*Because doc, that’s what will take the edge off. Let me do my freakin’ job. Let me focus on something other than my partner and me almost getting shot to death.*
Dr. Harris shuffled some papers on her desk before answering. “This is a process,” she said slowly. “It’s not an overnight fix. I need to know how you’re doing, how you’re really doing, and then I’ll make a recommendation.”
Danny shook his head in frustration. “That’s not much of an answer, doc.”
“It’s the best one I can give you. My first priority is making sure you’re okay, not getting you back in the field. And that should be your first priority, too.”
**
Following a long stretch of sleep, Martin woke just after sunrise Friday morning, sharp stabbing sensations wrenching him into alertness. He hissed between clenched teeth and released a groan as he looked around his room. It was empty, his parents and sister probably getting a decent night’s sleep at their nearby hotel. He closed his eyes and tried to wait out the pain. Maybe it would go away.
It didn’t.
He fumbled for the call button, and a few seconds later, a nurse he hadn’t seen before appeared. Tricia, according to her nametag. Late twenties, blue eyes, bleached-blonde hair and “stacked,” as Danny would say. A little too cover girl for Martin, but right up his partner’s alley.
“You rang?” she asked pleasantly.
“Hurts,” he ground out. He shifted his body to find a more comfortable position and a burst of fire raced along the left side of his chest and stomach. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he breathed harshly.
Tricia had apparently known he’d need more Demerol, because even as he blinked against threatening tears, she emptied a syringe into his IV. A few moments later, she gently pressed a wet washcloth to his forehead before gliding it down his face and neck. He relaxed into her soothing ministrations as the drug crept through his body and pulled him under.
**
Part Five