Normally, I don't come out into the field. Not that you can really say anything about me is normal. I'm here in this hospital corridor watching Peter do his outreach routine and all I want to do is be somewhere else. People aren't my strong suit. Savannah would argue with me on that point. She says I've missed people and that's why I'm doing this more and more. I counter that I'm not a hermit, just selective. She laughs this warm smiling sound and touches my face with a gentle mother's stroke as if to tell me I'm full of shit and she knows it. Maybe.

No, today I should have stayed in the office. This case is a mess. Simple MO but they just keep slipping away. Two men, early twenties, robbing small dress shops and salons. Places where the only resistance they encounter are unsuspecting women. Small hits rarely netting them a couple of thousand. I've got the feeling they're building a war chest for something to come later, maybe some large scale drug buy. At least that's the motivation for one of them.

Hospitals and me are a bad mix. I'm standing here beside Peter and the smell is making my stomach churn. Wait, let me clarify. It's the hospital smell making me want to hurl, not Peter. It waits here for me each time, bringing back too many memories. Bad things happen here. Sure, most people get patched up and shipped back to their lives after a visit to this sterile stink hole. Most people. Savannah came home. I've come home more times than I could count. Still don't like it though.

Peter doesn't like it much either. He's wearing his calm, helpful professional face but something in his shoulders is stiff. He'll bear it but he doesn't like it. We don't like it here and here doesn't like us. That's for sure. The emergency admitting nurse broke into a relieved Hallelujah Chorus when Peter told her neither of us was here for treatment. Smartass witch. Popped me four times to get an IV started last time. Think she has a pin cushion fetish. Hey, it's not my fault she got chewed when I split on my previous visit. Some people just hold a grudge. Suppose I should cut her some slack? I hold a grudge with both hands. Funny how those bad things seem to fit perfectly into your grasp and the good things are so elusive.

"I should have gone to the fuckin' store for her. She asked me. Dammit, she asked me. But it wasn't half-time. I pretended I didn't hear her."

Mr. Perkins. Thirty-fivish. Nice yuppie guy. Bet he has golf clubs in his trunk. His picture was in his wife's wallet. "Bud and Nancy, 1985" was scribbled on the back of the photo. Bud looks a little different after thirteen years. Less hair. More middle. I don't know what Nancy looks like now. I haven't seen her yet. I'm not sure I want to see her or talk to her. That's a ball for Jody to field. She's with her now inside Exam Room 3 taking down details, asking those upsetting questions that have to be asked. Jody went in and Bud shot out into the hall like a bullet. He's not holding up well.

"Mr. Perkins, there wasn't any way you could have known." Peter's doing his thing. Sitting there in that hard plastic chair soaking up someone else's pain. I'm not about to sit down and get tangled up in this conversation. I'm bringing to much of my own crap to the table on this one. Peter does a better job with this one-on-one crap. It's not that I don't care. I do. Maybe I care more than I want to and I hate it. I hate feeling a kinship with this guy. I hate remembering how he feels, how I felt, how I still feel. At this moment, I'd like to call my wife. But, something is holding me here while Peter talks to this man.

"What are they doing in there?" Bud just got up to pace. He doesn't really want to go back into the exam room where his wife is crying and Jody's questions are making her cry more. Still adjusting and can't handle the details. Better get it together fast, man.

Bud jams his fists into the pockets of his Dockers. Looks like he wants to drive them through a wall. I take a couple of steps back so that he can have his own angry space. Anger needs space. Bud's fury seems to exhaust him and he drops back into the chair beside Peter. Don't think he's accustomed to strong emotions. Well, maybe not the negative kind. His body is hard and tensed, almost to the point of explosion. Perched on the edge of his chair, Bud is just sitting there trying to find a direction. Resting his head in his hands, his voice starts to weaken. "You see, she wanted me to go to the store for some cat food. Loves that fur ball like her next breath and she can't stand the thought of her not having her dinner at six every night. Like the damn cat can tell time, huh?"

He looks up at me, then away. The green glasses aren't exactly welcoming. Peter is more receptive. Responding with just a nod, the kid lets him talk. He's really good at this human touch. Even his body language is offering Bud a chance to bleed. It's something to see. Peter Caine, former hothead, Shaolin-sorta, taking on someone else's suffering, searching for it, inviting it. Damn, how does he stand it? Doesn't he have enough of his own shit to drag around?

Don't get me wrong, I admire the willingness he has to offer up his back to someone else. That's part of what makes him a good cop, a good man. Problem is, he starts to bleed right along with the poor soul. He hasn't learned to save something for himself. We didn't even have to be here talking to this guy. He wasn't at the crime scene. I doubt many men have crossed the threshold of Betty Ann's Closet. We've been to the scene, talked to most of the witnesses. Jody is getting a statement from Nancy Perkins....now that the woman has calmed down enough to be lucid.

No, this isn't police work, it's social work. Peter's talking to the guy, telling him things that the Victim's Services rep should be telling him. Where is Molly Strenlich anyway? She's supposed to handle this end of the operation. Pushy redhead is still trying to get Savannah to volunteer and I don't like it. Molly, I like. Savannah seeing cases like this, I don't. No, I don't like it. She's not ready. I'm not ready either. Savannah has been reluctant, but curious. My guess is she realizes that before she can deal with someone else's struggles she must first deal with her own. Much as I want to see her find a way to put the past in perspective, I worry about her hitting that pain head on. Doesn't seem to be any way around it. I really hate that, a lot.

"Mr. Perkins, we're going to do all we can to catch these guys. Blaming yourself won't help." Peter has a hand on Bud's shoulder. Rests it there for just a second. Not long enough to be pity but not short enough to be flip. One man offering support to another. Now, I see the patented Peter Caine giveaway. One hand running through his hair. Don't think he could suppress that gesture if he tried. This case is wearing on him as well as me. He's angry. So am I. If it were just robbery, it would be simple. But one of our charming white male early twenties perps likes to rape a woman at every stop. Big man. We'll see how big he is in the slammer. Young guy like that'll be grade A meat come shower time. Hope they fuck him nine ways to Sunday. We just have to send him there.

Standing around here in this hallway isn't getting us in that direction.

Bud just rocketed out of his chair like a man on fire. He's loud and getting louder. Don't blame him.

"You don't get it! I blew her off for a goddamn football game! She went to the shopping center because my lazy ass was glued to the sofa and Nancy can't go past that dress shop without going inside." Bud is stomping his way back and forth. Sweat is starting to soak through his shirt. His rant isn't really directed at us anymore. No, he's battering himself. Got to blame somebody, right Bud?

"She was there and that bastard raped her. She wouldn't have been there if I'd done what she asked. I'm gonna' kill that son-of-a-bitch! Gonna' rip his fuckin' heart out for what he did to her!" Bud storms past me and back again. His hands are out of his pockets, fingers flexing open then closing again. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his pain. The hurt is so consuming he doesn't even realize he just threatened to commit murder in front of two cops. At this point, I don't think he gives a damn. I sure didn't when I was in his shoes.

Peter's on his feet now. The pacing has stopped now that Peter put both hands on Bud's shoulders. You can see for yourself that Bud is seriously considering throwing a punch. But, as usual, Peter has turned on whatever magic shit he carries around and Bud seems to be cooling off. The kid's laying it on hard and heavy, while he has Bud's full attention. He's calm and quiet, telling him about justice and priorities. Telling him to focus on his wife and we'll catch the men who hurt her. Of course, he doesn't mention that there have been five more before Nancy and we haven't laid a finger on the bastards yet. Bud isn't interested in that anyway. Couldn't care less about anyone before Nancy or after her. He just wants to do something.

I should say something instead of standing here like some sullen asshole. I should tell him that I understand this club he's just joined. Sure, by the traditional definition, Savannah wasn't raped. Ericson wasn't fast enough with his zipper to actually get himself inside her. Peter pumped him full of death and stopped it. The legal definition would be sexual assault or sexual battery. Makes no difference. Technicalities don't matter to a woman who's been attacked. I should tell Bud that I know how it feels to see the woman you love suffer at the hands of some pig who wants the thrill of her screaming, of you watching her scream.

And about what's coming for both of them? Someone should warn him. Another husband should warn him. It's been years ago and the nightmares still come after her. She breaks out of her sleep, sweating and screaming with that sick bastard all over her. It hurts to know that in those first few seconds, while I'm trying to keep her from jolting off the bed and hurting herself, she thinks I'm him. I touch her and she feels him and it's not something we can repair. The nightmares come and go and I hold her while she cries and then the sun comes up.

Yeah, maybe I should talk to him about this. I wanted to kill Ericson myself. Once in a rare fit of rage, Savannah admitted wanting to dig him up and kill him again. Funny thing is, it hurts her to feel that way, to feel that lust for his blood. Hatred isn't natural to her. It's easier for me. I hate him freely, without reservation. Sometimes I wish Peter had just wounded him so that I could flex some of those old merc skills. A few firecrackers stuffed in just the right places might have evened things up a bit before I blew his dick off with nice wad of C4. Yeah, that picture makes me feel all warm and cozy. Just like a Hallmark card. I could have gotten away with it, no sweat. Not, Bud, though. Bud's no killer.

He's crying now. Damn. Bud's gritting his teeth to keep it quiet but the tears are running down his cheeks, large impotent helpless tears. Peter is ignoring them as he continues to talk to Bud in an easy soothing rhythm. I'm mad and getting madder. Why shouldn't he have some vengeance? Doesn't he deserve it? Doesn't she? But it never works that way. The bad guy gets his fun and the good people get time if they strike back. Eye for an eye gets you years, not relief.

"I know you're feeling--" Peter's comfort is cut off with all the fury Bud can spit back at him.

"How the hell would you know what I'm feeling??!! Anybody every rape your wife?!"

Peter looks over at me. He thinks I should jump right in and start spilling my guts. Pete, you should know better. In a second, Peter looks away from me. I don't know if he's disappointed at my lack of response.

Peter is telling him that he has to put away his anger before he sees Nancy again. I should tell him about keeping that anger hidden, about how it upsets Savannah when we talk about that day if I let my voice rise even slightly. She soaked up enough rage that day when Ericson threw her to the floor and tore at her body.

She's done remarkably well for someone who refused to go to therapy. The shooting last year didn't seem to impact her psychologically as much as what Ericson did to her. When she was shot in front of the precinct, it only lasted seconds and she really didn't have much time to react. During the attack at Caine's apartment, she was in such turmoil from her memory returning....well, Blood Lao fell second to that trauma. In my heart, I know she should talk to a professional. Sure, I've read all I could about helping rape victims recover, but I can't stand the thought that I might hurt her with my ignorance. I can't push her to go. The slightest pressure in that direction sends her into a tailspin. It stays between the two of us and I'm her only release. Not that I mind. She needs me. She's been through enough because of me and how can I admit to feeling inadequate to handling her emotional trauma?

I want to be there for her when I see that sad look in her eyes. It comes out of nowhere. A sound or a touch or some stupid thing on television can give birth to that look. She won't say a word but she doesn't have to tell me. I can see her scanning the room, jerking to catch some fleeting ghost dancing in her peripheral vision. My hands can feel her tense slightly if I touch her. Move too quickly and she'll jump out of her skin. I've seen her rub her neck at the spot where Ericson choked her until it's raw, until I stop her because she has no idea she's doing it. She'll walk around with one hand holding the buttons on her blouse together for no reason -- except her own. It's post traumatic stress. Plain as day. Who should know better than an ex-POW, huh? Been there, done that, only we didn't have a name for it when we came home. That's not exactly true. Crazy, they called it.

All the literature I've read has a laundry list of symptoms for PTSD and rape survivors. Savannah has most of them. God help me, but sometimes I don't want to see it. I don't want watch her hurt knowing I can never undo what's been done to her. Helplessness is a hellish thing.

Bud is feeling helpless. He's finally stopped crying and Peter has him seated and drinking coffee. Way to go, Pete. Pump more caffeine into the guy. At least it's giving him something to do with his hands besides make a fist. Peter is telling him about our investigation and the new leads we've uncovered. Nothing too detailed, just enough to let him know there is work being done. Little by little, Peter is changing. No doubt he's a good cop, one of the best, but this is where is true talent lies. He knows what to say and how to say it, even with me.

Me, I have no idea what to say. I've joined the two of them in these inhospitable hospital chairs. Where is Molly? She has boxes full of pamphlets to hand out to people at times like these. The one she gave me was decent. Sneaky little redhead left it on my desk. Savannah has one, too. It was peeking out of her purse the other day. Suppose that's a good sign. Maybe Nancy will go sooner. Sooner has to be better than later, for Bud and for Nancy.

I should say something to him, to Bud Perkins. He's not going to be ready for what he'll feel the first time he's intimate with Nancy. He certainly won't be ready for what she feels. The shame Savannah feels overwhelms me. More than a few times she's told me that she is ashamed I saw her that way. Peter and Mary Margaret saw her, too. That weight presses down on her. Knowing that people saw her, nearly naked and battered by that lunatic, hurts as deeply as the attack. Over and over, she asks me if I ever think of it when we make love. The desperation in her voice tells me what to say. I say, "No, baby. I don't." It's a lie. I do think about it.

How could I not think about it? I was there, tied up on the floor while that psycho used her body to get back at me. How's that for some guilt, Bud? I'm making love to her and I look down and I see what she looked like on that day. I love her more than anything and I'm not repulsed or disgusted because of what happened to her. That's what she would think, no matter what I said to refute her panic if I confessed. I think of that day and the sadness chokes me. Sadness for the emotional scars she suffered. Sadness for myself that this animal has imbedded himself in our lives. In the present, she's moaning and telling me what she wants and for just a second, I see blood and bruises and I hear her screaming. That's the worst part. You know, there were some parts of what we so delicately call "the incident" that I couldn't see clearly. Never thought I'd consider blood running into my eyes a blessing. I didn't see exactly what happened when his hand went under what was left of her skirt and she refuses to go into details -- even to relieve some of this burden. But....I heard her screaming, this horrified guttural sound. Screaming my name. "Kermit, please help me!" She knew I couldn't, but who else was she going to scream for? I was the only other human being there to share this with her, just like I am now.

It doesn't matter to Bud that his only sin was wanting to watch the Packers until half-time. He feels guilty, probably always will. I feel guilty, probably always will. Savannah feels humiliated and ashamed for something that she had no control over. Nancy, more than likely, will too. All irrational. But who ever said your heart was rational? Yeah, I have a heart and it sinks its teeth into things my head reasons though. What I want to tell Bud is not to let that guilt build a wall between him and his wife. Don't run to keep from seeing her pain. Savannah's episodes don't come as often as they used to but sometimes, when they do come, I have to plant myself to keep from running. It's an urge I think most men would have. He's got to fight it. I know. You fight for the person you love. If she can take having it done, if she can survive, I can damn sure take the shock waves.

Bud just crumpled his empty cup and threw it across the room. He's heating up again, rambling about hunting down the scum who hurt his wife. Peter's not reacting the way he used to in situations like this. He's just sitting quietly. Sure, he'd move if Bud headed out the door but he's just watching, waiting for Bud to burn himself out. Peter understands that for all Bud's rage, leaving his wife to hunt down a rapist isn't a likelihood. Just in case, I think I'll get up and stand between Bud and the door. There, that's better.

I could tell Bud all about vengeance. Helped myself to a few bites of that dish over the years. Sure, my motivations were just, but it doesn't feel like you think it would. The satisfaction wears off quickly, if you feel any at all. Yeah, I extracted a little payback in my time. Always tried to make the punishment fit the crime, but it just didn't do what I thought it would. No enjoyment. Even my firecracker fantasies with Ericson.....well, that wouldn't unrape my wife. Bud can't unrape Nancy. Suppose that's the logic behind all that "vengeance is mine" philosophy. Don't tell Savannah I said that -- she'll take it as an opening to drag me to church again.

There's Jody. She must be finished, looks tired. Bud Perkins is all over her. "What did she say? Is she all right?"

"She gave us a good description, Mr. Perkins." She's patting his arm and trying to be professional. "We have all we need. Someone from Victims Services will be here soon. You can go in and be with her."

Jody and Peter are moving down the hall to talk and go over her notes. Peter's phone is ringing so he turns his back to us while we stand there in the hall.

Bud isn't moving, just standing there at the door that's hiding his wife. Damn. I should go over to him and remind him that this isn't about him, it's about her. Sure, he's hurting but he'd better get his shit together and swallow it. Someone who has been through this should tell him that if he wants his marriage to survive this, he has to take a deep breath and forget all that poor me crap and be ready to do whatever she wants, be whatever she wants. And those wants will change from minute to minute. Right now, Bud Perkins is standing in this clean, bright hallway feeling like the only man in the world to have some rapist pull out his guts vicariously.

He's not.

I should sit him down and tell him the story. If it were only my own personal business, I might consider it.

"Mr. Perkins?"

Bud is trying to be a man by raking the tears off his face in one sharp motion. "Yes, detective?" He's still in one place, staring at that door and wondering if he's got the strength to go inside.

"Go take care of your wife. It's all you can do. It's enough."

Bud is looking at me with his bloodshot eyes. Searching. I wonder if he can see some common ground. Quickly, Bud straightens himself, tucks his shirt into his pants and goes inside. God help you, Bud. You, too, Nancy.

"Kermit?"

Peter is always sneaking up on me, dammit. I'm not sure if I jumped. God, I hate it when he startles me. "Yeah?"

"Looks like the case is closed. Two perps matching our description came up against a hairdresser with a handgun." Peter lets a slight smile cross his lips. It moves quickly. "One dead, the other close to it. Still have to verify it, but it's pretty sure these are our guys."

"Only your hairdresser knows for sure." I'm flippantly trying to hide how uncomfortable I am. Peter knows it and he laughs to save me.

"I'll do the legwork if you'll do the report." Peter gives me an out. Thanks, kid.

Finally, I'm on my way out of this disinfected prison. It's nicer outside. Strange how even when the world crashes in on people, it keeps right on turning. Birds sing. Cars go by. The sun comes up and goes down. Crimes are committed. Cases are closed.

I'm already writing the report in my head as I walk toward the car. She's on my mind, though.

The phone is ringing. One, two, three....

Hello.

"Hi, Scarlett. What's up?" She sounds good, so good.

*Hey, sugar! Kat and I are making cookies.* I can hear Kat giggling in the background. She must be making quite a mess to sound that happy. *Well, I suppose you could call 'em cookies. Asymmetrical desserts is probably a more PC term for them.*

"Huge mess?"

*You got it.* I can hear her smile through the phone. How does she do that? *Are you coming home soon?*

"Couple of hours. I just wanted to hear your voice."

I love you.

"I love you, too. See you later."

The End

Next Story: Pretty Poison