Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

Tower held Crawford’s gaze, refusing to look away.

And my job is to stand here and watch. To have it rubbed in my face.

Crawford stared back until one of the crime scene photo-graphers approached a few moments later and asked him a question. He broke away and spoke with her. After that, he studiously ignored Tower.

“I had him,” Tower whispered. “I fucking had him, and I blew it.”

A dark green Lincoln pulled to a stop across the street. The Prosecuting Attorney, Patrick Hinote, exited along with Julie Avery. Both approached Tower. Hinote offered his hand. Tower shook it without much conviction.

Avery greeted him with a nod.

“Not how we’d have planned it, huh?” Hinote remarked, motioning toward the house.

Tower shook his head.

“What do you know?” the Prosecutor asked.

Tower took a sip of the brackish coffee. He eyed the lawyer for a moment, then said, “He attacked one of our officers. She shot him. They’re both up at the hospital.”

Hinote nodded, his expression calm and open. When Tower didn’t continue, he asked, “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, right?”

Tower motioned toward Crawford. “You can get it from him.”

Hinote gave Tower a confused look, but said nothing. Without another word, he turned and headed toward the lieutenant.

Tower watched him go. Then he peeled off the plastic lid on his cup and dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the black asphalt of the street. Turning, he headed toward the car.

“Wait.” Julie Avery’s voice stopped him as he opened the driver’s door.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”

Avery cleared her throat. “You said the officer was up at the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he all right?”

“She,” Tower corrected. “And I don’t know.”

“She? Who was it?”

“Katie MacLeod.”

Avery’s eyes widened slightly. “She was the decoy, right?”

Tower nodded.

“And he attacked her?”

“That’s what I said.”

Avery walked around the nose of his car and to the passenger side. She tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open it,” she instructed Tower.

“Why?”

“Because I need a ride to the hospital, that’s why.”

Tower regarded her for a moment, then nodded. He flipped the door lock switch. Avery opened the passenger door and got into the car without a word. Tower did the same. He started the car and drove away from the crime scene.

1442 hours

Beeps.

He heard beeps.

Not pleasant ones, either. No, these were insistent, shrill, accusatory beeps. He listened to the machine that made them, knowing in his rational mind that there was no emotion behind the monotonous sounds. But his rage wouldn’t listen.

He heard his mother.

You are the reason my entire life has been wasted.

His father.

You little whore’s son. You’ll never be shit.

Maybe they were both right.

Beep… Beep… Beep.

He pushed the medication button in time with the beeps.

He wanted to go away.

He stared at the machine. He thought of how close he’d come to…to becoming something. Would his father have ever been proud? Would he admit who the better man was? Oh, he wouldn’t show it, but if he found out his little Jeffie was the Rainy Day Killer, there’d have been a spark of pride that would’ve inevitably fired off in the old man’s chest.

If the old man was still alive, that is.

A weak smile touched his lips.

Of course, if he was in hell, looking up, he’d have been proud, too.

But now what was he? A failure. Just like his mother said, like his father said. Even the kids in school, all those years ago, had been right. He was a broken failure, destined for prison. Still only the Rainy Day Rapist, a ridiculous name.

Motion flashed in the doorway. The dark blue of a police uniform swaggered toward him. The creak of leather seemed to dance with the beeping of his machine, with his mother’s cruel tones, his father’s harsh voice.

A leathery face appeared next to his. A closely cropped mustache seemed to be almost burned into the man’s upper lip. The sour stench of coffee and cigarettes rolled off his tongue as he growled out his words.

“What the fuck are you smiling about, you piece of shit?”

Jeffrey forced his smile wider, a ball of spite beginning to grow in his belly.

The old cop smiled back, but his eyes were as cold as death. Jeffrey could see that even though the man was undoubtedly assigned to guard him, he’d much preferred to have throttled him. The hard eyes said it all.

“The doctor says one of MacLeod’s bullets hit your spine,” the cop whispered gruffly. “He says you might be a cripple.”

A cripple? Somehow, the karma didn’t surprise him. Why not? Everything else bad has happened to him. Why not that, too?

“I hope not,” the cop said to him. “You know why?”

Some confusion overcame him. The beeps were getting fuzzier. Colors seemed to blur. He turned his heavy eyes to the cop’s nametag.

M. Ridgeway, it read.

He looked back at M. Ridgeway’s face. He blinked a long blink.

“Wuh-eye?” he slurred.

“Because,” Ridgeway told him, “You’re going to prison for a long time. And I want you to be able to feel what rape is like while you’re there.”

He blinked at Ridgeway, still confused for a moment. Then it dawned on him through the fog of the medication.

Of course.

He was a cop. So he hated him.

He understood.

But it wasn’t his fault.

No. None of it was.

It was hers .

Katie’s.

Bitches ruin everything, he thought. Then a soft, blessed darkness took him.

1502 hours

Katie’s head rested on the hospital pillow. She wanted to reach back and fold it over for a little more support, but couldn’t work up the motivation to do so. Everything hurt. Her left forearm throbbed dully. Her left hand seemed to have more of a stinging pain. Her shoulder shared the general, aching soreness which had settled over her entire body.

She imagined the real pain lay lurking below the light pain medication they’d given her. She’d refused anything stronger. She had vague recollections about bouncing red balls and the secrets of the universe from her previous trip, and no desire to experience those bizarre images again.

The doctor entered, trailed by a pair of interns. He glanced wordlessly at her chart for a moment, the spoke without looking up.

“How are we feeling?” he asked in a preoccupied, distant tone.

“Like hell,” Katie answered truthfully.

“Mmmmmhhhhhhmmmm,” the doctor replied, his eyes skipping over the chart. “Well, all in all, things look well.” He handed the chart off to one of the interns, looking at Katie for the first time. He didn’t smile. “There’s really no reason to keep you any longer than overnight. Your cuts were deep, but clean. Luckily, no nerves were severed. The cuts stitched well, and scarring should be minimal. A couple of weeks of rest at home and you should be mostly recovered.”

“Why am I staying overnight if I’m all stitched up?” Katie asked.

“Holcomb?” the doctor asked.

One of the interns, a rail thin kid with small spectacles stepped forward. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bounced up and down his throat. “Uh, your medical history shows a recent concussion. You were struck in the head during this assault, so there is an increased potential for another concussion.”

“Excellent, Holcomb,” the doctor said. He gestured to the second intern, a beefier man with soft eyes. “Bullock?”

Bullock glanced at the doctor, then at Katie. After a moment, he said, “He’s right about the concussion. And your body’s been through a lot today.” He gave Katie a warm smile and touched her foot gently. “Anyway, keeping you overnight is just a precaution.”