While There Is Hope Ch. 04

The next morning, I'd called my father. I didn't have the emotional energy the night before. Bill and I had fallen asleep entwined together. It felt like we were each other's only anchor in an increasingly tempestuous ocean. I tried not to think about what this meant. For now, we just needed each other, and I wasn't going to try to rationalize things too much.

Dad picked up immediately and said it was good to hear my voice. He was far from a demonstrative man, but the timbre of his speech told me everything about the anguish he had obviously been going through. Aside from checking on my health, mental and physical, he said he didn't want to speak in much detail on the phone. We arranged to meet later.

When I'd explained about Bill's two colleagues, the guilt had risen so quickly in me that it felt physical. I thought that I might pass out yet again. I told myself that I'd spent too long unconscious in the last three weeks; Dad had mentioned a date and I'd figured out a time line from that. He finished the call by saying he loved me, not a phrase that often passed his lips. I said the same.

Wiping away the beginnings of tears, I went to find Bill, he was sitting on the edge of the couch, head in hands, his phone on the floor in front of him. He raised his bloodshot eyes to me. "You get your father?"

I nodded. "Any update on Mancini?"

Bill took a deep breath and straightened up. "She was in the OR until 2am. She's still unconscious, but they are positive about her chances. A passer by called 911 and the paramedics got there quick. She took a headshot, but they are hopeful that any brain damage will be minor. Her husband is with her. They said I could visit around midday, but not to expect her to be awake."

Bill gulped, struggling to speak. "What the fuck do you think happened, Hope? Cops don't just get randomly shot, not round here. The last active shooter was the one Maria took out, and that was eight months ago."

I had my own ideas, but wasn't sure that I wanted to share them fully. However, I felt I owed Bill something. "I don't know. It could... it could be about... about me. I mean this shit I'm caught up in."

He looked at me, and I could tell he had questions, questions I didn't feel I could deal with now. I don't know if it was avoidance on my part, or my own needs, or empathy for his hurt, probably all three, but I went and held Bill. He buried his face in my shoulder, but I raised him up by the chin. "Don't cry, don't cry." I kissed him. I kissed him and my hurt receded just a little. It felt better, like a respite from pain.

Our intimacy from yesterday came rushing back, for him as much as me. But then, as I began to pull his T shirt off, Bill held me at arms length. "Hope, what the fuck is this? I mean... I mean it's wonderful, you're wonderful... but..."

"But what, Bill?"

His face creased in concern. "But lots, like Maria in the hospital, Raoul in the morgue, and... and..."

He clearly had something major on his mind, I had some idea what. "Just say it, Bill."

"The doctor, the doctor who checked you over. He said... oh fuck... he said there was maybe signs of... signs of..." He couldn't continue.

"I know. And we can talk about it. But later. I'm not crazy, I'm not catatonic. I know what I need. And... and I think you need it too." I finished with a look of both inquiry and pleading.

Seeing him falter, I thought actions spoke louder, and kissed him again. Kissed him fiercely, parting his lips with my tongue. And his restraint fell away, his need for human contact greater than anything else. I understood, we had a connection, a connection forged in shared damage. Damage that could be salved in only one way that I knew of.

We undressed each other urgently, focused on our passion. Craving it subduing other feelings, chasing them away. Wanting normality, wanting to forget. I pushed Bill back on the couch and he wordlessly accommodated me between his legs. I accommodated him too, reveling in the taste of him, the sensation of him against my tongue and cheeks, the sounds of his rising stimulation. To give pleasure and to expect reciprocation, it felt almost blessed, a purification, a benediction.

But my own emotions were also surging, and I knew what I needed. I knelt up and forward, kissing Bill. "Listen, just trust me. I need to be fucked. I need to be fucked really hard. On all fours. Don't ask questions, please. Just do it. Do it for me."

Consternation rippled across his features. "Please, Bill." I could see an internal battle between concern and desire play out in his troubled face. And, with gratitude, I could see the latter win.

"OK, Hope. But promise me we'll talk."

"Yes. But later. Now..."

I got onto the couch and buried my face in the leather, raising my ass up ready. I closed my eyes and told myself it was OK, I was OK. The couch moved as Bill got behind me. I felt his hands on me. Just one more nod to normalcy. "A condom... did you?" Of course he had, I felt shitty for asking.

But then, just as I wanted, my thoughts were occupied by other things. With the frisson of being entered, parted, slid into. My world became his hands on my waist, his body inside me, his thighs colliding with me. And it was enough. And with each inward thrust, I yelled for him to do it harder, to use me, to fuck me like he'd never fucked any woman before.

As he rammed himself into me again and again, my body did what it should, and I felt like crying. I could now also hear Bill sobbing as he pounded me. As he too sublimated his mental angst into the physical. As he poured his grief -- new and old -- into a receptacle he knew could take it, who needed it as much as he. "Harder! I want it harder! Oh God, yes!"

My first orgasm was quick, yet so powerful. Its waves thundered through me, crashing past my conscious thoughts, flooding my very being with warm, healing torrents. And before the first inundation had receded, the second tsunami was upon me. It hit me while I still yelled 'harder,' while he too let go, and as I felt his body become rigid and release his own flood, as his wordless roar filled my ears.

A lengthy, trembling pause, then we twisted and turned and rearranged, our shaking, breathless bodies intertwined, mimicking the codependency of our traumatized psyches. Holding, stroking, needing each other, as our tears fell.

I felt good in Bill's embrace. I'd not felt like that since... the thought of Ashley came crashing in. I began to hyperventilate. Bill noticed and asked what the matter was. I spoke between gasping air. "It's OK, it will pass, just give me a few moments."

He slipped his arm out from behind me and levered himself up, heading for the kitchen. In two minutes he was back with a glass of water, from which I gratefully drank. Sitting next to me, he started to speak. "So, I've had some training in dealing with trauma victims. And, I guess we've both been through some shit. The last thing I'm doing is complaining. I've not... not been with anyone since... since Valentina. And you are... well, just amazing. But..."

I finished his sentence. "But what are we getting ourselves into?"

"Yeah. That."

"I don't know, Bill. I just know I need a friend right now. And I know I need physical closeness. I need that desperately. You? You've lost a wife, and now a colleague, and have a friend who's severely hurt. I think you need the physical too."

His laughter eased the mood a little. "So you noticed that?"

"Yeah." I smiled at him. "Look this is fucked up. As you say, I've been through hell. I can tell you about it, if you need that. But I suspect you know. And now? Now I want me back, I want to feel OK about me. It's kinda messed up that I look like your wife, but I don't care if you don't. I'm not your wife, I think you know that. But if it helps you, that's OK with me. I want help too. Can't we just leave it as that, for now anyway?"

Bill nodded, but seemed far from convinced. I tried again. "I'm not falling for you. I mean you're a nice guy. I like you, but... well my interests have been kinda different. More... more girl-centric. Is that OK? I guess I'm saying that I'm not gonna marry you. But the fucking is good, it helps. It seems like it helps you too. Can't we be...?"

It was his turn to finish my sentence. "Cops with benefits?"

I roared with laughter. "Yeah, that will do."

We shook hands on our agreement and sealed it with another kiss.

"But listen, Bill, there is stuff I do need to tell you. But not here." I checked my phone. "We have time, time before Maria. And I can come with you if you like. Anyway, I'll explain. But, can I do it in bed, with you holding me?"

He agreed and we ascended the stairs together, just two colleagues, just two friends.

As I lay in bed, Bill's warm body beside me, the comforter drawn close to me, I felt I was safe, that I could talk. Childish behavior for a grown woman, I know, but I think I got a pass.

So I told him about Ashley. The real story, not my father's fabrication. And I cried again when I spoke about Abebe. He cradled me, not speaking a word in judgement. More sobbing accompanied me losing Ashley, before we could find out what it was we had. I felt like I was letting the bottled tears of two years out in one go.

But my eyes dried up when I came to recent history. To a hood being put over my head, to a sharp jab in my arm and the world going black. They call it dissociation, convincing yourself that bad things happened to someone else. Well bad things did happen to me, and I remembered it all, but I was also numb about them. I had to be, the alternatives were suicide or insanity. Our brains do what they need to do to survive, even if that involves distorting reality. Protecting us with comforting lies.

Bill held me tighter, he said that I was right, and he didn't need to hear the details, that he could fill in the blanks. I was thankful. So I moved on to the why. On to Ashley again. Their questioning of me. I shuddered at the thought of how far they went before accepting my ignorance. And then it became about Dad. Me speaking into a video camera. Telling him what he needed to do. My resistance had long since died, along with my sense of self. I just read the script.

And then... the horror came back to me and I could hardly breathe. Then they showed him what they could do to his daughter. What they would keep on doing, until my body or mind gave up, or he complied with their demands. And their demands were her. They wanted Ashley.

I accompanied Bill to the hospital. On the way, we were both silent, lost in our respective thoughts. I stayed in the public waiting area, neither of us much felt like explaining who I was to Mancini's husband. I tried to distract myself with my phone, but the news sites didn't seem so compelling. Instead I thought.

One thing I couldn't figure out was why they had targeted Raoul and Maria. I got that maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. That they had thought Raoul was Bill. But that only raised new questions. What had Bill done to put him in their crosshairs?

After my confessions earlier, Bill had explained the circumstances in which we first met. But nothing in his story added up to a motive for cop killing. He'd saved me, of course, but that couldn't be it. I couldn't read their minds, but it seemed that killing me wasn't a central objective, more wanting to send a message to Dad. They wouldn't have cried over me getting flattened by a semi, but if they wanted me dead, they could have achieved it much more efficiently and certainly. So saving me surely wasn't enough to put a price on Bill's head. What was?

Another thing was bothering me. How had they got so quickly from some random person picking me up to murdering the officer taking his shift? How had they made the connection? That smelled of access to information, to knowledge. With a jolt, I realized it suggested inside knowledge.

"Hope?"

I had been so preoccupied that I hadn't noticed that Bill was back. "How is she?"

"Stable. She's not in danger anymore. They won't know about anything else until she wakes, and that could take some time."

Bill was not exactly joyful, but he seemed less agitated. I got that he and Mancini were close. And I knew just what it was like to lose a partner. I gave him a hug, and we headed back to the car.

The plan was now my father. He'd asked to meet the man who had rescued me and Bill had no objections. En route, I shared some of my questions with my friend / lover / partner, whatever we were. We agreed that the had to be a link between me and what had happened to Raoul and Maria, but neither of us could see what it was.

We were meeting Dad at home. Bill spoke into the familiar entry phone and we were admitted, the gravel drive crunching under our tires, bringing back memories. And there he was, standing in the doorway to greet us. And I felt his arms round me, telling me that it was all OK now.

I'm a practical girl, and my first step was to go up to my old room and find some clothes. My own apartment was some distance away, and -- though they had found my car -- my suitcase had been impounded as evidence. I still had some stuff at Mom and Dad's and it was better than what I had borrowed from Bill's daughter.

As I changed, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I felt decades older than when I had last looked in it. I ran my fingers over the ugly scar on my thigh, and traced the newer bruises and abrasions. I wondered whether the younger woman who had used this room even existed anymore. I pushed such unhelpful thoughts to one side and went downstairs to join the others.

I got the distinct impression that Bill and Dad had been having the same sort of awkward conversation as when a concerned father vetted his daughter's prom date. The thought brought a much needed smile to my face.

As I reached them, Mom also appeared and I got my second hug. But she was a Service wife and knew not to ask too many questions beyond how was I? I had no idea how much Dad had told her. She ushered Bill into the kitchen, with the promise of a coffee, but clearly to allow me and Dad to talk privately. Bill turned and caught my eye as he departed, I had a sudden urge to beg him to stay. What the fuck was going on with me? PTSD I assumed.

When Dad was sure the other two were out of earshot, he began. He spoke in a way I had never heard him speak before, huskier, less certain. "I saw... I saw what they did to you. I can't unsee it. No father should see his daughter like that." He paused, trying to master his emotions. "But that was just seeing. For you? I can't imagine a worse nightmare. It made me... it made me question you being in The Service. It made me question whether I can do this anymore."

He bowed his head and I stopped being a Deputy and became just his daughter. I went and knelt next to him, my hand on his shoulder. "It's OK, Dad. They didn't break me. You raised me right. I gave in, of course, I did what they wanted. I don't see how anyone could fail to do that. But I'm still me. They didn't destroy me. I didn't let them."

He raised his eyes to me, and for the first time since Grandma had died, I saw tears in them. "But no woman should suffer like that."

"We both know countless ones do, Dad, millions. I'm not special. Not many get a chance to do something about it. That's what I want. To see these fuckers -- sorry Sir -- in jail, or in the ground."

He'd never let an expletive go unchallenged before, but now he only smiled grimly, "that's my girl." A trite phrase, but I knew where it came from, I could see the emotional turmoil in him, and the compassion, sadness, revulsion, and anger he felt about what I had been through.

"But, Dad. Ashley? I can think of only one reason that they let me go. You told them, didn't you?"

Now he stood, and it seemed like the emotion fell away from him like an abandoned cloak. When he spoke, he sounded more like himself. "I did, but don't worry yet. I at least bought us some time."

I stared at him confused, and he continued. "I had to give them something. I knew they'd check. She'd been resettled. I pulled her out of her new life, and had her taken to a secure Service compound. There's a small garrison and you'd need and army, and probably explosives, to get in there. I told them what I'd done and gave them a time when they could visually confirm her presence. I made sure that she was always shielded before you ask."

"So what the fuck does that do, except destroy her life and scare the shit out of her?"

"Well it got you released. That's something." That was an echo of the man I knew, prickly, quick to anger, but quicker to apologize. "I'm sorry, Hope. That's was uncalled for. Let me try to explain."

He gathered his thoughts and continued. "The deal was that I'd get her moved again. Leaving her vulnerable in transit. I'd tell them the time and route."

"And they went for it?"

"Well you're here, aren't you? I told them that I was already compromised. Revealing the compound location was a felony. As was me moving her with no court order. I basically told them they could put me in prison with a call. And... I'm sorry Hope... I said that I knew they could get to you again any time they wanted."

"So what the fuck have you achieved? You either give Ashley up -- and no way am I letting you do that -- or what? You try to fool them? And then what?"

"I've achieved two things, you standing here, and some time to figure out a plan. There are some things I can't tell you. Things it's not safe to tell you. But I know what I'm doing and no harm will come to Ashley, I promise."

"You'll forgive me if I don't fully believe you, Dad. I've had enough of this conversation and your games. You're playing with people's lives. Mine included."

I turned on my heel, but his voice had a note of command as he called after me. It softened when I halted. "I get it, Hope, I'm sorry. I'll tell you more when I can. But, in the meantime, you might need this."

He moved to a desk and opened a drawer. From it he took a Service handgun and holster. "Welcome back, Deputy."

I took the firearm and nodded.

To be continued...