Mark Del Franco - Skin Deep

“Crawford,” Foyle barked.

She looked over her shoulder at the open door to his office. Foyle sat at his desk reading, not looking at her. She went to the door. “Reporting for duty, boss.”

He continued reading a file. “Sit.”

She sat. And sat. So much anger surrounded Foyle, she didn’t need her empathic ability to feel it. He went through four more pages, then pulled another file to the center of his desk. It was her report, delivered that morning as promised. He stared at her. “There’s nothing in here I don’t already know.” She didn’t answer. “Why does that bother me?”

“It bothers me, too, sir. I’m told my memory will return.”

He leaned back and put his hands behind his head, staring again. The casual pose tightened Foyle’s shirt, showing off his biceps and chest. The regulation short haircut, sharp uniform, and piercing blue eyes were all meant to intimidate. Posturing was an old game, and Laura knew it. She played it herself, even now as she made a point of sitting upright and attentive.

“You didn’t see who shot Sanchez, and you don’t remember who shot you.”

She shook her head. That was her role. Submit. Acquiesce. Demonstrate that she would take crap from a superior officer but no one else.

“Convenient,” he said.

He was trying to provoke her, but she let it slide over her and didn’t respond. She could play the silence game, too.

“Sanchez’s headset was damaged, and we lost contact. Did he say anything?” he asked.

Another memory flash. Laura looked down at her hand. Sanchez had held it and pressed his finger into it. Why would he do that? Had he given her something that she’d lost and still couldn’t remember? “He couldn’t talk, I think. I seem to remember he couldn’t talk because of the wound.”

“After Sanchez asked for help, there was a six-minute gap in which you did not speak. When you did, it was to call for a medic,” said Foyle.

“That was when I was trapped under the table.”

“And you didn’t radio for help?”

She concentrated on the moment. Even though she remembered being trapped, the memory was not clear. “Sanchez was under fire. We called for backup, but it didn’t come. Help would have come from behind whoever was shooting at Sanchez. I thought I was on my own.”

Foyle leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You can hear on the tape when Sanchez received his wound. At least that’s what it sounds like to me. You must have heard it, yet you didn’t react or say anything.”

“I did. I…” She paused, remembering.

“What?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “I used a sending instead of the headset. It was instinctive.”

“And against protocol. Do you still say he didn’t speak?” Foyle said.

She shifted in her seat. Foyle was right. Mission protocol dictated that the fey vocalize in order for there to be an audio record. Sendings were frowned upon unless they were explicitly part of a mission plan. “I’m not comfortable where this is going, sir.”

Foyle swiveled his chair and looked out the window. “He was dying, Crawford. He was a smart guy. He had to know. Last words are important. Whatever he said would have been important. I don’t want to tell his family his last words were to ask for help and no one answered.”

That part was true. On that point, he was sincere. The waves of essence Laura sensed confirmed how troubled he was. “As soon as I remember anything, you will be the first to know,” she said. It was a lie, of course. It would depend on what she remembered.

“How long have you been with InterSec? Two years?” he asked.

“Nineteen months.” She didn’t add that she’d created Janice only after Foyle requested someone from InterSec with druidic and SWAT training. That first mission for him had been a low-key surveillance. Dull. He needed a female druid because the female target often went to the gym.

“Shit rolls downhill, Crawford. For an old swamp, D.C. has a lot of hills. Think about where you stand. Go find a desk. Dismissed.”

She stood, feeling awkward. While it would have been a stretch to describe her relationship with Foyle as that of friends, they had been collegial with each other. His sudden aloofness again made her think she was being set up for something. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. In the past, she had put in more time than nineteen months to set someone up for a fall. At least when she did it, she knew she was taking down a bad guy. If Foyle was setting her up for something, she couldn’t fathom what it was. Either he was genuine in his anger over Sanchez, or Janice Crawford wasn’t supposed to walk out of that apartment building, and he didn’t know what to do with her now.

Gianni was on the phone on the desk opposite Sinclair. He gave Laura a cursory nod when she returned to the vacant desk but continued his conversation. Sinclair shifted sideways and leaned back against the wall. “How’s your head?”

“Concussion. Nothing serious.” She pulled out the PDA. Hornbeck had called personally, and Saffin was worried his next step would be an unannounced visit. She didn’t want to send any response in front of Sinclair, so she slipped the PDA back in her pocket.

He stretched his long legs toward her and crossed them at the ankles. “I was scared shitless when I saw you and Sanchez. I thought you were both dead.”

His vocal inflections indicated honesty. She did a quick check on him, but his strong body essence didn’t reveal subterfuge. She decided to go with a bit of vulnerability and truth. “You know, I wasn’t scared the entire time until I saw Sanchez. Not when we were getting shot at, not when I had to deal with the Inverni or when the crates came down on me. But seeing all that blood and Sanchez sitting there with his hands around his neck made everything real in a way I’d never thought about. I’ve never had anyone die on me before.”

Janice was supposed to be young, with little experience. The part about the fear was true. Being in the line of fire was always scary. Even the most battle-hardened felt fear, although they didn’t like to admit it. Laura had seen plenty of friends and colleagues die in the line of duty. It never got easier, and it was always horrifying. She made a mental note that Gabrio Sanchez was the first cop Janice Crawford saw die. It was part of her history now.

“It wasn’t my first.” The tone in Sinclair’s voice indicated a point of information, not an invitation for more conversation about it. And it wouldn’t be the last death, she completed in her head. They both knew it. If you made a career on a SWAT team in D.C., the odds were you would become a statistic. Sinclair jutted his chin toward some files on her desk. “I thought you might want to look at those.”

“Thanks.” She flipped open the folder. Team reports from the raid. She glanced at Sinclair. She wondered if he was being nice or if he was the squad’s designated good cop to soften her up. Foyle’s report was on top. She read it as Gianni rambled on the phone-to a woman by the annoying cutesy tone in his voice.

To quote Foyle, his report had nothing she didn’t already know or surmise. After she and Sanchez had charged the rear hallway, Foyle remained behind. He sent Sinclair and Gianni ahead as backup for Laura and Sanchez. As Foyle waited for his own backup, he became pinned in the cross fire. When his backup arrived, he entered the rear hall alone and met Gianni and Sinclair returning from the computer lab. They searched the workroom, looking for Laura and Sanchez when they couldn’t raise them on radio. Sinclair reached them first. He checked Laura’s vitals.

She closed her eyes. She remembered Sinclair standing over her in the sweatshop. He looked concerned and professional in the memory, no panic at the sight of two people possibly dead. His face was just a brief flash with no emotional resonance attached to it so she couldn’t determine if he had been concerned or putting on an act for whoever else was in the room. Her memory clouded.