Interception

Gordon smacked his cane against the gurney, rattling it.

“Look at me when I'm talking to you,” he said, coldly. “Hoffman needs muzzling and you know it.”

John closed the file he'd been perusing; Gordon caught sight of several black and white photographs and a number of shaky pencil sketches of what he presumed to be traps, but could discern no real detail in them. Finally, John returned his attention, head rolling to one side, and as he did so, Gordon's brow drew into a troubled frown.

“John, how long has it been this bad? John?” he said, and snapped his fingers in front of the man's face, producing no reaction. Gordon pulled his penlight from his pocket and shone it into each of John's eyes in turn, noting that his right pupil remained wide open. Not a good sign.

“Since it seems I'm the only one around here prepared to be totally honest with you,” he said, moving over to the medicine cabinet to search for anything that might be of use, “I might as well say it: you're dying. The time for abstract terms and hedged bets is over, John. If you have more than a week left I'll be surprised.” He pulled out a bottle, shook his head grimly as he read the label and put it back. “I gave you Lynn for her sake, not yours, because she's no more capable of miracles than I am.”

He gave up on the paltry stock of stolen drugs with a pained sigh and turned back to his patient. John seemed to be recovering from the seizure and his eyes were coming back into some semblance of focus – although it was anyone's guess what silent damage the stroke had been inflicting in the meantime. He moved back to John's bedside and held up a hand, fingers extended.

“Three,” said John, his voice rough but strong enough. Gordon nodded, and picked up one thin white wrist to search for a pulse, which he located only on the second attempt; John's blood pressure was sinking fast and his arteries were correspondingly hard to trace. Without the benefit of an MRI, there was no telling just how badly the tumour was screwing up his circulatory system.

“You know, it's not too late to stop this,” said Gordon quietly, as he timed John's weak, bounding pulse. “You could still die with a little peace. Is this really where you want to spend your last days?”

“Peace isn't what I hope to achieve,” John breathed, and then coughed weakly.

“Look – just give me the word and I'll deal with Hoffman,” said Gordon, desperately. “Damn it, do I have to walk in here with Jill's blood all over my hands before you'll understand just how dangerous he is?”

“I have plans for Detective Hoffman,” said John. “I've left nothing to chance, believe me. When all of this is concluded you'll see the bigger picture, I promise you.”

Gordon stiffened and fixed him with a piercing stare.

“I found your protégé half insensible and covered in blood,” he said, displaying nothing but the barest glimpse of what was now a hot blade of fury. “Was that part of your bigger picture, too? You know, it seems to me sometimes that it's not much safer to be on your side than in your way.”

“You don't understand.”

“Clearly,” said Gordon, acidly, turning aside. “It's time I left. If you really believe you have everything around you under control, then there's no need for me to stay, is there?”

Gordon left without waiting for an answer, shoulders hunched in disgust, stalking down the claustrophobic corridors in search of fresher air. As he slipped out of the rear door, however, some movement across the yard caught his eye and he ducked into the well behind the fire escape, holding his breath. He saw that his caution had been called for as he watched Hoffman approach through the darkness, carrying some kind of stuffed animal beneath his arm.

As the detective mounted the steps to the loading dock, Gordon drew back even further into the shadows, his fists tightening in helpless rage.

--------------

Jill came to her senses wrapped in someone's arms, and struggled fitfully for two seconds before she realised who held her. She coughed to clear her clotted throat and turned over onto her side, gazing up into Amanda's wide, worried eyes.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should have warned you...” Amanda said, her voice ending in a pathetic croak as she seemed to run out of both air and apologies at one and the same time. Jill ignored this for the moment and sat up, realising as she did so that she was still lying on the floor. She pulled the ripped edges of her blouse together, making a vague, distracted attempt to fasten it. It eventually penetrated her fuzzy consciousness that every single button had been torn off, and she gave up with a small sob. She shifted position again and tried to draw her legs up beneath her, but this caused a violent stab of pain in her lower belly and she folded up once more with a breathless cry.

“You're bleeding,” said Amanda, her voice agonised. “I should get you cleaned up. Can you stand?”

After a few stumbles, and with Amanda's arm wrapped around her waist, Jill managed to get to her feet. Her head felt a little clearer now, but this clarity came with its own price, and she screwed up her eyes for a second as random memories clawed at her. She blinked, and turned her head as Amanda urged her towards the curtained alcove with the cot.

“Is he still here?” she asked, quietly, hoping that he wasn't.

“No,” said Amanda, tightening her grasp with an unhappy frown as Jill missed a step and swayed slightly. “He left a while ago. Said he had to go fetch something for the kid. Here,” she added, sitting her down on the narrow bed. “Don't move, I'll be right back.”

Jill waited until Amanda had hurried away through the workshop before she allowed herself to crumple. Her head lolled and rolled unto her shoulder, her vision blurred and she slumped sideways, head sinking into the meagre pillow. In the relative privacy behind her eyelids she tried to put her smashed and scattered thoughts in order, but as she did so, she realised that something else was clamouring for her attention. Something important. Something Amanda had said...

Soft footsteps roused her again, and she rolled over as Amanda returned bearing a bowl of hot water and a cloth and set these down by the bed.

“You should have warned me?” said Jill.

Amanda's eyes darted away like frightened mice, and her knuckles were, all at once, shading to white. She gnawed her lip and sat down by the bed, but still seemed unable to look Jill in the eye.

“Did he hurt you, too?” asked Jill. This seemed to push the young woman even further away, and Jill struggled up and reached out, laying a hand on her arm. “Amanda? I have to know.”

For long moments, Jill wasn't sure whether she could reach her. Finally, haltingly, Amanda moved to sit on the bed itself and stared down at her hands with eyes dark and glazed, like those of a dead bird. Her fingers were restless, nails scratching obsessively at her wrists, which Jill now saw were painfully red and scarred. She raised her head, swallowed and began to speak.

Jill, for her part, merely listened in grim silence as she retrieved the cloth and began to swab the smears of congealing blood from her thighs; as she rinsed the rag again and again, the water in the bowl gradually darkened until it resembled cranberry juice.

She knew she should have been traumatised, bowed and broken, and it therefore came as something of a shock to Jill to find that, for the most part, she wasn't. She was too preoccupied with discomfort, indignation, humiliation and a crushing weight of anger to deal with the deeper ramifications of the assault. Perhaps, she understood, there would be time for that emotional confrontation later – but as she listened to Amanda's story, which she recited in a small, fragile monotone, the one overwhelming feeling that plagued Jill was a savage desire for restitution.

“Amanda, look at me,” she said, when the tale wound down into stuttering silence. “No,” she insisted, placing cool fingers on Amanda's cheek and turning her head around gently but firmly, “look at me. This is not your fault.”

“I didn't know what he was capable of,” she said, brokenly.

“Neither of us did,” agreed Jill, her eyes still searching Amanda's expression with infinite care, “but it's not a crime to trust someone. He fooled us once, and we both paid dearly for that, but twice? No.” She shook her head savagely. “I should have taken better care of you, I should have been here for you, and for that I am at fault, but this...”

Amanda's face was running with hot tears, which at last betrayed the creeping cracks in her iron façade. Jill sighed wearily and folded her arms around the younger woman as she curled up and started to shiver.

“I'll tell you a little story,” she said quietly, pressing her cheek against the top of Amanda's head for a second. “When I first met you, I could see I had a fight on my hands. I wasn't sure if anything I could say or do would persuade you that you deserved better than a short life spent sticking dirty needles in your arm, and every time, honey, every single time I saw you at the clinic I expected it to be the last.”

“John saved me,” said Amanda, her voice cracked and slightly muffled against Jill's shoulder.

“That's my point,” Jill corrected her, gently. “He didn't. You saved yourself, and you proved me badly wrong along the way. If nothing else, you certainly need to give yourself credit for making a woman readjust the focus of her life's work. Yes?” She drew back, looking Amanda over now.

“What are we going to do about Hoffman?” asked Amanda, swiping at her wet face with the back of her hand. “Should we tell John?”

“You leave him to me,” said Jill, evenly. “As for John...no. There's nothing he can do in his condition and I don't want him upset when he's so sick. This is my problem and I'll deal with it.”

“How?”

That's a good question, thought Jill. How indeed? She had no avenue of recourse that occurred to her, and without knowing what evidence he'd accrued against her, she was aware that the detective could pose just as much of a threat to her dead as he did in life. She closed her eyes and hung her head in frustration for a second, but when she opened them again, a soft gleam caught her eye from the floor of the workshop.

She tilted her head curiously, then bent to pick up the object at her feet. It was the key John had given her, which had evidently been ripped from her neck during the struggle. She turned it over and over in her fingers, her thoughts ticking over quietly, and then slipped it into her pocket.

“Can I talk to you, Jill?”

She swung around, staring over her shoulder. Hoffman was framed in the doorway, clutching a stuffed frog. She would probably have laughed at the odd picture if the circumstances had been different. As it was, she turned back for a moment and gripped Amanda's shoulders to restrain her; the young woman was suddenly ramrod stiff and vibrating with barely checked hostility.

“Stay there,” Jill whispered as quietly as she could, and then collected her frail dignity and crossed the workshop floor.