Robert Walker - Cutting edge

Maybe she'd best get to know Lucas Stonecoat, she thought, see if he could provide some assistance. After all, he'd once been a detective. His insights on the Mootry case might prove invaluable.

To this end, she'd stalked him from the precinct like a cub following a lumbering grizzly bear. This grizzly drove like a crazy man, a good deal more fleet of wheel than he was of foot, given the pronounced limp. He was already ducking out of sight ahead of her. Damn, he really was going into a bar this time of day, while on duty. What kind of a fool was he?

She hesitated now, debating with herself. Should she boldly go inside, confront him, or see him another time? Time was a luxury she could ill afford, especially now that Lawrence had taken off the gloves. At bedrock of all the rumors she'd heard about Lucas Stonecoat, there seemed a grudging admiration on the part of others that Lucas was a badger once he clamped down on a case, the kind of tenacious, tough detective who'd make for a useful ally, if only she could get him to listen to her.

She pulled up, passing his vehicle, U-turning and placing her own car right in behind his. Taking a deep breath, thinking of all that had brought her to this time and place-her father, her mother, her uncle Bill, all pushing her to be the best at whatever she chose to do in life-she got out of the car and marched in to find this supposedly crazy Indian cop to learn firsthand his story, tired of the secondhand crap she'd been handed. All this effort put forth, all this dangerous activity in which she risked so much, she thought. Perhaps she liked it, the intrigue; perhaps it was just what Lawrence had said it was, “A self-serving attempt to further your career.”

“No, no!” she'd fended off the allegation. “It's to build a bridge of connections between the Mootry case and case files I've found in the Cold Room dating back some ten years, possibly more.”

The old pain had come back like a rodent sniffing out prey: quietly at first, before pouncing. It was the pain that made his already pronounced limp, due to the stiffness in his hip, even more pronounced. He wondered how he'd ever hidden the true extent of his continuing physical ailments from the training officers all through his trainee period. It hadn't been easy, relying on painkillers and trying to remain alert at the same time. In the end, he'd made it, and despite the hellhole to which he'd been assigned, he was, at the very least, carrying a shield again. It wasn't a detective's shield, not even second-class; it was the silver of the uniformed street cop, but it was something.

Still, Lucas did have his first-class Dallas gold shield, along with the gold watch they'd foisted upon him… along with his damnable disability retirement. And although being reactivated to duty in Houston meant the loss of his retirement funds from Dallas, his forced departure and the endless days back home on the reservation had been driving him insane, so coming out of retirement was worth it at any price.

He opened his wallet and placed his two badges onto the bar side by side, the gold and the silver, weighing them out in his mind as he sipped at his bourbon.

He lifted and studied the Dallas gold shield, which looked liked most any gold shield in any city in America, save for the lettering. He superstitiously rubbed it between his large fingers for good luck before tossing it face up on the bar, where he stared into its gleaming, reflective light.

His silver HPD shield was better than no shield at all, he rationalized; it had gotten him in charge of the damn Cold Room, hadn't it? It gave him slightly more weight than status as a former Dallas Police Department cripple with three-quarter Texas Cherokee premium red pumping through his battered body. Hadn't it?

He couldn't let them see his pain, so he forced it back with a second shot of bourbon where he stood at the bar, not anxious to sit again for some time. He took the bourbon straight up and neat-best way for the pain, he kept telling himself. But also for the pain that claimed him and told him daily it'd be with him until his grave, Lucas knew to utilize that strict code of the ancient Zen-like masters of his tobacco-twisting, magic-making race.

He just had to control it.

Had to be smart.

Had to second-guess the department. Beat them at their so-called spot-testing program.

He could do it. If anyone could. He was smart.

When he lowered the shot glass and saw her in the mirror, standing in the middle of the bar behind him, he brought the tumbler down with the sound of a gunshot. He wheeled, and his anger shone as thunderbolts flitting maniacally across each dark iris.

“What're you, following me?”

“I had to,” she pleaded, her arms wide, palms up as she approached.

“Did that bastard, Lawrence, sic you on me?”

“Christ, Stonecoat, I'm not an attack dog! And no, quite the contrary; he warned me to steer clear of you.”

“Said that, did he?”

“That's right,” she lied, but it felt right.

“So you disobey him, like-”

“Disobey? I'm not a child, and I don't take orders from the likes of Phil Lawrence. Technically speaking, I'm a civilian and not part of his paramilitary organization.”

“Who do you report to, then?”

“Commander Andrew Bryce, or at least his office. That's where my reports go.”

“And Bryce is over the division?”

“You got it.” Good, she told herself, now you've got him interested.

“You followed me here from the station house? Last time we talked, you said you weren't interested in me. What's with you, Dr. Sanger?”

“What I said was, I don't need another wigged-out cop on my couch, if you'll recall.”

'Then what do you want from me?”

“Buy me a drink, and we'll talk,” she offered.

“Like to play the bad girl? Is that it? This your way of getting back at Lawrence for some slight?”

“Bad girl?”

“Madonna, all that.”

“Jesus, you're hard to talk to. You always so hard to approach, Stonecoat?”

“No, only when I'm expected to perform, and I've got a notion you're looking for a performance of some sort.”

“Please, Lucas… can I call you Lucas?”

When he failed to answer, she stared into his eyes, finding herself swimming in a deep brown warmth and hidden hurt for a moment before she barreled on. “I think we could help each other out.”

“I really don't recall asking for your help, Doctor!”

The bartender, without shouting, demanded, “Either take it to a booth or outside, but keep it down, will you? I run a quiet joint here.”

“So,” he said to her, indicating the second bourbon in his hand and leading her to a booth, “now you know my secret.”

One of them, perhaps, she thought, carefully considering her words. “One of them is painfully obvious, but listen here, Lucas, I see a lot of cops with hard-core problems every day, problems you don't come near, so…” She paused, picking her way over the minefield of his emotions. “Fact is, there's very little I haven't seen on this job. So what if you drink while on duty? Half or more of the force does. I'm not here as a police shrink or to pass-”

“Sit,” he ordered. She silenced herself and slid into the corner booth. “What'll you have?”

“A Coca-Cola's all.”

“Coke,” he shouted to the bartender. “Make it two. Wouldn't want you drinking alone in a bar.”

“I'm sorry if I startled you, but-”

“Startled me?” He half grinned, and this made his face more handsome, the scar more easily tolerated. He tried a flagrantly lazy laugh, repeating the word startled as if the sheer impossibility of his being startled by her was as remote as finding a winning lottery ticket in this place. He turned his eyes and his scar tissue away from view in a practiced, now habitual fashion.