The three officers watched Simms walk into her room, questions running through their minds. One question was how she got the black eye. They entered the office and closed the door behind them, shutting out the curious stares of their fellow officers.
“How’s Peter?” Mary Margaret asked, not seeing Frank’s jaw drop.
Simms looked up. “He’s better.” She saw their stares at her face. Gingerly touching the bruise around her eye, she explained, “I fell for a sucker punch from our friend.” Karen didn’t miss the look that crossed her second-in-command's face, “Sorry, Chief. Yes, I know where Peter and Kermit are. Right now, however, they are both in danger. I need to know what you two have found out.”
“Maria was found dead. Nickie pulled a print off the body; it belongs to Greg Larsen.”
A knock on the door interrupted TJ’s report.
“Captain Simms, I’m Agent Marley. This is Agent Bussy.” Marley showed his badge as he and his partner entered the now crowded office, not waiting for an invitation. “We understand two of your officers are investigating the murder of one Maria Thomas.”
Simms was operating on very little sleep and a lot of stress. She tried to control her anger and frustration, and applauded herself when she didn’t order the two agents out of her office. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I was having a private conference with my officers and would appreciate it if you would wait outside.”
The coolness of her tone and her flushed face caused Marley to reach for the door. “We’ll be waiting right outside. Can you first tell us where we can find Skalany and Kincaid?”
“I believe they’ll be at their desks soon,” Frank answered. The FBI and the 101st did not have a good working relationship. Previous cases had involved such incidents of the FBI accusing Simms of murder. Neither side was willing to let go of more information than was absolutely needed.
The agents left, Marley taking the empty chair at Peter’s desk and Bussy sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Let me guess, somehow the FBI knew about the fingerprints?” Simms asked.
“Yeah, some new machine allows the coroner’s office to scan the prints from the body and feed them into the database of the NCIC. They called before we left Nickie with the body. Now that we know Larsen is the killer, we can just pick him up,” Mary Margaret summarized.
“He’s under the witness protection program, and, if I may guess, those two men are with that same program. Lady and gentlemen, we have to find Larsen before he finds Peter and Kermit. After my meeting with the mayor at noon, I’m going back to where they are.” Simms stated. The meeting was to talk about the upcoming budget proposals.
“I know this may sound silly, but where the hell are they?” Strenlich asked brusquely tired of the secrecy.
Karen told all three officers what had been going on, including Kermit finding the footprints outside the cabin window. “We don’t know to whom they belong, only that they were freshly made. Kermit said Larsen more than likely paid someone to find the cabin and will attack tonight. I need you two --” she pointed to Mary Margaret and TJ, “-- to find this George person. According to Peter, he’s the one who approached him at his father's apartment under some pretension for an ailing mother.”
“Did Peter tell you what he looked like?” TJ asked.
Shaking her head, Karen answered, “No. He can remember bits and pieces, but most of the time it’s nightmares. Chief, he’ll be out for at least two weeks.”
“I’ll cover his cases. Have you told Annie or Caine?”
“Annie knows what is going on. Once we catch Larsen and Peter is over the worst of the effects, Peter’ll go to her house. Caine has gone to China; we can only hope that everything will be back to normal by the time he returns."
A sardonic smile crossed Frank's face. “And something is unusual about what’s going on now?”
None of the others could prevent smiling at that. No, there was nothing unusual about what had occurred, they all agreed privately.
“Send those two gentlemen in so I can take my anger out on them instead of the mayor.” Exhaustion had left her body. She now had a purpose and a plan.
***
Kermit removed the gloves from Peter’s hands, allowing them to get air. “You need a shower. Think you can help me get you to the bathroom?”
Peter watched in rapt attention as first the gloves and then the bandage came off. He felt himself start breathing faster, as images of candles coming closer to his skin assaulted him. The tremors in his hand wouldn’t stop, but Kermit continued to hold his hand and block the only exit from the room.
“It’s all right, Peter. Look at me. There is nothing here that is going to hurt you,” Kermit explained.
“It-it burns,” Peter’s childlike voice answered. His dark hazel eyes pleaded for relief from the pain.
“After the shower, I'll need to put some more cream on it. You OK?”
Swallowing hard, Peter nodded, but his eyes never left the scorched hand.
“I put a chair in the shower so you can sit down. Come on, let’s see if we can make it in there.” Kermit helped Peter move his feet off the bed and sit up. Letting Peter lean on him, Kermit walked his friend to the bathroom where a shower stall stood in one corner. A ladder-back chair from the dining room was placed at the back of the stall. “If Annie finds out I used one of her good chairs, she’s likely to kill me,” Kermit said as he assisted Peter into the chair.
Recognizing the name, Peter turned to look at Kermit.
“You rest for a minute and let me go change out of my clothes. I think we are both about to get wet.” Kermit stepped back and removed his clothes; modesty was something neither of them worried about. “OK, your turn. We need to get your boxers off.”
Kermit helped Peter to his feet. Holding onto one of Peter’s arms, he reached for the waistband of the boxers.
Peter tried to pull away, but Kermit’s grip held tight.
“Peter, we have to take a shower. No one is going to hurt you. Come on; let’s lose these so you can get clean. I got you some more clothes in the bedroom.”
Relaxing only enough to allow Kermit to remove what little
clothing he had left, Peter shed a tear as he remembered the woman
touching him over and over.
It didn’t take long and the shower had made both of them feel
better, though it left Peter weak. The walk back into the bedroom was
slower, with Peter’s breathing becoming quicker.
Lying on the other bed, he watched as Kermit applied the white
cream, flinching only briefly at the first touch, fearing the burning
sensation.
Kermit held Peter’s wrist with one hand, applying the cream with
the other, then removed the wet bandage to Peter's head, replacing it
with a dry bandage. He watched Peter’s eyes for any sign of a fight.
Not seeing any, he bandaged the hand. “Want some soup?”
“Not hungry.” The fight of the past few days drew Peter back into
sleep. His stomach had gone on vacation except to rebel against the
contents Kermit insisted Peter take in.
“Come on, you have to eat. Need to keep up your strength.”
Walking into the living room was another experience. The cuckoo
clock chimed at 11 a.m., startling Peter. He tried to bolt for the
door, but the weakness of his legs and the grip of Kermit’s hand on
Peter’s arm prevented the flight. By the time he made it to the
couch, his skin was slick with sweat.
"You rest here. I'll get us something to eat." The room was
chilly. Kermit pulled an afghan over Peter, then turned to light a
fire, forgetting what torture his friend had been through, thinking
only of getting the room warm.
“No, please, no fire,” Peter begged, as he watched the match in
Kermit’s fingers burn.
Kermit cursed himself for the mistake. ‘Great going. Scare him
more than he already is.’
“W-what’s for l-lunch?”
“I don’t know. Let me go see.” Kermit got up and walked to the
kitchen, grateful for the change in subject.
Listening to Kermit moving around in the kitchen made the young
man tense and alert for trespassers as pots and glasses crashed
together.
Glancing at the mantel laden with family photos, Peter saw and
clung to the steel blue eyes of his foster father and the petite
blonde standing next to him.
Flashes of memory besieged him. Memories of a lonely hall Peter
had walked down many times at the orphanage; of Paul Blaisdell and his
family offering love and a home to an angry young man; of Paul’s smile
when Peter graduated from the police academy; of Paul leaving to chase
his demons. “You left me.”
Kermit caught the sentence as he reentered the living room and
noticed Peter’s stare at the old photo. “He said he’d be back.”
Peter jumped at Kermit’s unbidden reply. His heart raced as
pleasant memories were replaced with those of another time, not long
ago.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Kermit took in Peter’s
dilated pupils, trembling hands, and short shallow breaths. Placing on
the coffee table, the two bowls of soup he carried, he continued, “You
know Paul didn’t leave to get rid of you.”
“I-I know. I did-didn’t see him out-outside the window. Did I?”
Kermit picked up one bowl and brought a spoonful of soup to his
friend’s lips. He sighed to himself. He knew that Peter was slowly
returning, but the drugs still circulated through the weakened body.
He would have to pick his words carefully.
“Peter, you know Paul left. We might not agree with his reasons,
but it would come out the same. If he were here, I don’t think he
would have stayed outside. You were hallucinating a lot; you could
have just associated the cabin and Paul.”
Drinking the soup, listening to Kermit, Peter’s mind opened up,
dropping shields it had built up against the nightmare he was going
through. He immediately paled as Kermit’s thoughts slammed into
Peter’s mind -- images of David vomiting and beating against Kermit,
screaming obscenities and begging for more heroin or the gun Kermit
usually carried. Peter’s eyes opened wide as he saw his own features
superimposed over David’s, as he stood on a balcony, ready to jump.
Then saw himself lying in a coffin, his police uniform carefully
placed on his body, and his face slowly changed back to David’s.
“Peter, what’s wrong?” Kermit asked, his own heart racing with
fear. The seizures should have stopped by now unless something else
was wrong.
“David…you took…c-care of him,” Peter responded slowly, his mind
rebuilding the wall against Kermit’s mind.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Y-you blame yourself…for him dying.” Peter couldn’t look into
the unshielded eyes next to him. He realized he had caused Kermit to
relive the death of his younger brother.
Kermit continued to spoon-feed his friend -- his brother --
reflecting on Peter’s observation. “If I hadn’t left him when he was
in school, he never would have gotten hooked to begin with.”
“You…were there when…he needed you.”
Kermit set down the bowl and ignored his own lunch. Reflecting
on the past, his past, had not been what he wanted to do. Looking
over at Peter, he saw Peter’s eyelids fight a losing battle to stay
open. Standing, Kermit laid Peter’s head on a pillow, picked up the
stockinged feet and placed them on the couch, tucking the afghan
around his young friend.
“No, my friend. He needed me on the day he died.” Kermit
returned the bowls to the kitchen, hiding behind the door and shedding
the tears he’d been holding back for the past six years.
***
Karen turned off the highway onto the dirt road that led up the
mountain to Blaisdell’s cabin. The radio had lost the signal from her
regular station that played opera. She wasn’t in the mood for the
crying of country or the fast rhythm of rock so she turned the radio
off and let her thoughts roam to Kermit and Peter.
The meeting with the federal agents had gone well after she had
called in a favor from a friend - a friend who had helped her when she
had been accused of murder not long ago.
Glancing at the scenery around her, she noticed the vibrant red
and orange foliage that clung to tree limbs, while more danced
gracefully to the ground to cover it in a brilliant colored carpet.
Looking back at the road, she slammed on her brakes as a man
walked out into the roadway and stared at her.
He wore tattered clothing and his face hadn’t been washed in
ages. The only move he made was after her car had stopped. He reached
to his back and pulled out a .357 magnum.
Karen hadn't thought of the man as a possible threat when the car
came to a stop and the dust settled. She was only thankful she had
not hit him, thinking he had gotten lost in the woods. It wasn't
until she stepped out of the car that she noticed the gun pointing at
her and the evil sneer on his face.
“What do you want?” she asked, chastising herself for being
stupid enough to be caught in a trap. Karen pulled her arms in to her
body, feeling her small pistol in the holster on the waistband of her
slacks. If she could just pull her hand back, maybe she could get it
and surprise the man.
“I want a lot of things, babe. One of which would be a chance
with you.” He grinned, exposing the rotted teeth that hadn’t been
cleaned in as many days as he’d gone unshaven. “But I guess that’ll
have to wait. Mr. Huddlestone wants to see anyone that comes up this
road. Now, you pull that there gun out and throw it into the weeds
over yonder.”
Her first mistake had been to let her mind wonder while driving
down the road, seeing the man too late to go on the defensive. Her
second had been to assume that his less than clean looks and demeanor
meant his intelligence level was not as high as that of a dog. “Now
you know why they say never assume,” she berated herself.
“Get back into the car and drive up till I tell you to stop.
Don’t get any wild ideas. Just remember, Huddlestone can just as
easily kill those friends of yours with or without your cooperation.”
He watched as she got back into the car, then he entered it on the
other side.
