DISCLAIMER: The film that inspired this story is “L.A. Confidential.” The characters were created by other people. I consider it a privilege to try and honor them and the actors who portrayed them.
"Forgiveness"
by K.C. (Karen's Crowe)
The third day of waiting.
She shivered in the cold hall, outside of the ICU while Dr. Conroy checked Bud again. He came out with the news she had expected. No change. She went back and resumed holding his one good hand, the only part of his body it seemed not blasted by bullets or hooked to machines.
Fourteen hours of surgery. They had almost lost him three times. He was on complete life support, hadn’t taken a breath on his own. One of the three bullets had taken a lung out, the second had nearly severed his arm. A third had hit him in the face-there was serious doubt he would talk again-even if he did live.
Ed Exley appeared beside her. His arm was in a sling, his ashen face mirroring fear. And anger.
“They’re after him, already,” he said, through gritted teeth. “All they care about is their fucking investigation, they don’t give a shit if he lives or dies.”
“Bud’s the one who got hurt,” Lynn said, angrily. “Why don’t they go after the real criminals?”
“Because he’s the easier scapegoat.” He shook his head. “I won’t let it happen.”
A nurse came after Ed. “Lieutenant,” she said, exasperated, “we have better things to do besides chase you down. You need to go back to bed.” She pointed to the wheelchair in front of her.
Ed fell into it, wincing with pain. “You let me know,” he whispered.
“I promise.”
He had been sinking into a darker and darker place. For a long time, it seemed ok, just to retreat into the oblivion, give himself up to it, avoid all the pain. But he began to hear a voice, a sweet, loved voice; he couldn’t give it a name. But he let it guide him back, despite the terror.
Nearly a week later, Bud White woke up.
It was sudden, unexpected. In fact, that morning, Conroy and the others, in their view being realistic, tried to prepare Lynn and Ed for the worst. They were sitting beside him waiting for him to die.
Ed had to finally step out of the room to keep his composure; he cursed himself, scoffed at his bandaged arm. Fucking flesh wound. The image of Bud falling like a tree in the Victory Hotel tormented him. Bud had taken the bullets for him: he should be strong for Lynn.
When she called him, he was sure Bud was dead. It was like another bullet hitting him; one not even Bud could protect him from.
Bud’s eyes were wide, staring at nothing. Lynn was crying, her warm tears dropping over his face, her long hair cascading over him. He blinked, tried to focus. Saw her. Saw Ed. They both saw the recognition before his eyes closed again. Ed rushed out, calling for the doctors.
Dr. Bill Conroy came out, placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
“I can’t tell you anything definite, yet. But the fact that he’s still alive frankly beats anything I’ve ever seen. But it’ll be a while before we know what the long-term effects might be.”
Ed locked eyes with Lynn’s. “He’s going to be fine.”
He drove her home, extracted what he was pretty sure a meaningless promise that she’d get several hours sleep.
“What about you,” she asked.
Ed’s eyes went steely. “I have business.”
The grogginess would begin to lift, but what would follow would be agony washing through his entire body. A pricking sensation, then darkness again.
But as the days went by, he was able to tolerate minute periods of consciousness before the medication was necessary. His vision began to clear, his memory began to return. And with that, came the real pain.
Lynn sat beside him, seeing to his every need, changing the still oozing bandages herself, wetting his dry lips with cold wet clothes, making sure his medication came when he needed it.
He let her be there, he let her touch him because any movement caused more torture; what strength he had he used to breathe. But she saw the look in his eyes, and knew it wasn’t over.
And also with him, almost as much as Lynn, Ed Exley. Looking okay. He was trying to tell him what had happened, but the words were a blur. Finally, Bud realized he couldn’t talk, something wrong with his face. A panicked expression took over. He heard the doctors trying to reassure him, but he didn’t get the words, just the worried tone in their voices.
A week later, they removed the tubes from his throat. Twenty-four hours later, Bud again astonished everyone by talking-albeit whispering-he was asking for Exley.
Ed was at the station, fending off the D.A., the Police Chief and everyone else, insisting that they would have to wait until Bud White was well enough to talk, and that day was still far off. Fuck their investigation, he said.
But his job was on the line, and he knew it. He could only stall them so long.
The pressure was intense, but when the call came, he hung up on his boss, and was at the hospital in ten minutes. It helped his spirits immediately to see Bud sitting up, slightly, the tubes gone, real recognition in his eyes. But what really elated him was the voice. Hoarse. Faint. But the best thing he had ever heard in his life.
“Hey Exley.”
Ed sat beside him. “Never thought I’d say it, but it’s good to hear your voice.”
A flicker in the eyes? Humor? “You called?”
“Need-favor.”
“Anything, Bud.”
“Get me-out.”
“Out? Where? Out of the hospital? Replying to his expression, “well now that makes a lot of sense. You can’t move, you can barely talk-“
“Home,” Bud insisted. “Be-fine.”
“No fucking way, White.”
Bud tried to argue, but he tapped out. His eyes closed, but tension still showed in his face. Ed sat there, frustrated. He knew what the officer was asking was crazy, but it upset him to deny this man anything, at this point.
“Was I hearing things?” he heard Lynn breathe. “He can talk?”
Ed grunted, “Oh, he’s talking, alright. He wants out of here.”
She took his hand, led him into the hall.
“Ed, he hates me. It’s me he wants to be away, from.”
“You? Why?” Then he remembered: new guilt washed over him. “I’m the one he should be hating, Lynn. And he saved my life. “
She nodded. “That’s what Bud does. That’s what he’s about.”
Ed nodded: he’d been so damn wrong about this guy.
“But he loves you, Lynn.”
“Not anymore. I threw all of that away. I’m the one he wanted to love and protect the most, and now he has to face what he did. He hates me for that,” she repeated.
“I don’t believe it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She sighed, deeply. “His life is what matters now, and I can only hurt him, I can’t help him. Tell him I said goodbye.” She walked down the hall.
Ed went back in. Bud heard him: his eyes fluttered open.
“Lynn says you don’t want to see her right now. That right?”
“Can’t look at her,” he replied, eyes toward the ceiling in a torturous stare.
Ed nodded-he wasn’t about to argue with the man in his present condition.
“Well. She says she’ll stay away. Will that solve the problem for now?”
Bud’s head moved in a nod.
“Good. Go to sleep now.” He covered Bud’s hand with both of his and felt a slight squeeze. White’s eyes were now closed. Ed’s own were now watering.
“You’ll be ok, partner. I’ll see to it.”
But things were far from alright. Now that word was out that White was talking, the DA was insisting they would pay him a visit at the end of the week. And as Ed had feared, he had learned from several sources that the price for the death of the “brave Dudley Smith" would be Bud White’s job. Ed knew that, given the physical and emotional pain Bud was battling, this would be too much, even for him. He had to up the ante.
When the nurses assured him the patient would be asleep for quite a while, he headed back to the station. As he expected, the Police Chief and the District Attorney were waiting for him.
“You’re a hard man to keep track of,” said the Chief.
“Yes. Well, I’ve had my priorities.”
Lowe scoffed. “Funny how close you’ve become to Bud White.”
“Funny how wrong a man can be about someone. Ever have that experience, Mr. Lowe?”
“Many times. Are you ready to have a conversation, now, Lieutenant?”
“If you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not going to let you use White as your goddamn scapegoat.”
“Who said anything about a scapegoat?”
Ed leaned forward. “I don’t have any time to waste, so listen up. White is to be completely exonerated from the Victory shoot-out.”
“Well, we’ll base our findings on-“
“I said I don’t have any fucking time to waste,” Exley barked. He’s to be completely exonerated, and,” he looked at the Chief, “while we’re at it, the Medal of Valor would be a nice touch.”
The Chief’s expression didn’t change; Lowe almost choked on his water.
“Medal of Valor? You’ve got to be out of your mind.”
“He’s a goddamn hero.”
“White went on a wild tear over the Owl,” the Chief exclaimed. “He set you up-it’s a miracle you weren’t killed!”
“I’m telling you for the last time. He showed up at the Victory when he knew it was going to be an ambush and he took three bullets for me.”
The Chief sighed. “Look, Ed, I know you’re a little emotional about this. But keep your head straight. Why should the Department tarnish the reputation of a fine Police Captain over a thug like White? Hell, Smith was the only one who gave him a chance anyway, and look how he repaid him.”
Ed stared at him. “Did you hear anything I said that night?”
“Yes, yes, I heard what you said. But that was statement was strictly sealed because none of us believed you were thinking straight. This is what we believe: Bud trapped you at the Owl and planned to kill you because he hated your guts. Dudley heard about it and tried to stop it. Instead, you took a bullet, White killed Smith, and almost got himself killed in the process.”
“I shot Smith,” Ed exclaimed. He looked at both of their impassive faces. “And all those other guys who just happened to be there? They were also a part of White’s grand plan?”
There was silence for a moment, then Ed said, “If you do this, if you go ahead with this pack of lies, I will release the statement that I gave that night to the press. I will lay everything where it belongs: at the feet of fucking dead Dudley Smith. And I will tell the press and anyone else what you’re doing to the only real man to emerge from this whole shitty mess.”
“And you’ll be out of a job,” said the Chief.
“So will you. And you, Mr. District Attorney. I’ll also mention your little contribution to our investigation.” He smiled, said to the Chief, “he was quite a help actually. Remember that conversation, Lowe? Bud helped you see things from a...different perspective, didn’t he?”
Lowe flushed angrily. Ed stood up. “Now, if you still feel the need to pay my friend a visit, you come and bring him good news and good news only. In return, I will testify and say Dudley Smith was God’s policeman sent to earth. That he was shot in the line of duty by dastardly bastards who were about to kill White and myself. Anything you want. Is that clear?” He walked to the door. “Oh, and one more thing. If, by chance, you don’t see things my way, I won’t wait to be fired. I’ll quit. And there goes your fucking hero.” He left the office.
It had been his plan to grab his messages and head back to the hospital. But his private line was ringing and his secretary wasn’t around. Cursing, he picked it up.
“Exley?” Unfamiliar voice. Coming from outside.
“Who is this?”
“A friend of White. One of the few.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he has more enemies than friends. Remember that.” The line went dead.
Ed took his first real breath since he had raced back to the ICU when he saw Bud lying peacefully asleep. The look of relief was so startling, one of the nurses said, “He’s stable, Lieutenant, there’s been no change.”
“No one else has been here?” She nodded. “Good. I don’t want anyone near him except myself or Miss Bracken, is that clear? I’ll be right back; I have to make a call. Don’t leave him alone for a minute.”
She’d done nothing but sit in her bedroom and cry. Every time she tried to motivate herself to move, she’d see something else around the house that reminded her of Bud and another sobbing jag would hit. Finally she just gave in to the sorrow.
Lynn didn’t hear the doorbell: wouldn’t have answered it if she had-so she was startled when Ed sat down beside her.
“You didn’t answer the phone,” he said, without preamble.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Her voice was clogged and nasal from weeping. “Please go stay with him, he shouldn’t be alone-“
“Bud’s in terrible danger,” he said, urgently. “There’s an assassination plot in the works-“
Her eyes widened. “Oh my-“
“-we have to get him out of there,” Ed went on. “Tonight, if I can manage it-“
“-but you can’t move him, it would kill him-can’t you get guards?”
“Guards can be bribed. For all I know the killers would be the guards. We can’t trust anyone in that fucking department right now.” His mind racing, he said, “but I’m going to have to get his doctor to help me. And you’ll have to get him out of town.”
“But he can’t stand the sight of me, Ed.”
“He’ll get over it,” Ed said shortly. “Let’s get the hell back to the hospital, and you stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“You want to do what?” Conroy stared at the two of them, astonished.
“You heard me,” Exley replied.
“Let me explain something to you, Lieutenant,” said the exasperated doctor. “Your friend in there is just barely alive. He needs constant attention, monitoring-“
“I know that. Christ, you think I like this?”
“We could move him. To another part of the hospital-“
“They’ll find him,” Ed said flatly. “We have to get him out of the state.”
“Bisbee,” said Lynn. “I grew up there, I know lots of people at the hospital. They’ll help us. They’ll take good care of him.”
“They’ll be taking care of a corpse,” Conroy spat.
“Not if you help us,” Ed pleaded. “Get him ready, do whatever you have to do, give him enough medication to sleep for-“ He looked at Lynn, “at least six hours, right?”
She was startled. “You’re not coming?”
He shook his head. “I have to find out who the fuck is behind this.” He turned back to the doctor, who was contemplating his sleeping patient. “Well?”
Conroy sighed. Fourteen hours of surgery and four days of his life, shot to shit. But, if the officer was right, he had to take that risk, give this incredible guy a chance. He said, “He can’t have all that medication at once. He needs it every three hours, I’ll show you how to give an injection.” Lynn nodded. “And I’ll clear the ambulance exit. We’ll load him there.”
Ed sighed with relief and gratitude. “Thanks. There’s one more favor I need from you.”
“What’s that?”
“Meet your new patient.”
Bud’s bleary eyes saw Exley. “can’t-get rid of you-can I?”
“Bud, I want you to listen to me. This place isn’t safe for you anymore. Dudley’s friends.” Bud’d know what he meant.
White’s eyes betrayed nothing. Was he afraid, not afraid?
“So we have to get you out of here. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Bud White answered, and the rapid feedback pleased Ed.
“I’ve got a plan. Conroy’s helping us, and it involves Lynn.”
This time, facial muscles tensed; Exley said, instantly, “We need her, Bud, you need her. I got her an unmarked car. She’s taking you to Arizona. Tonight. She’ll check you into the hospital there under an alias, and she’s going to stay with you and take care of you until I can get down there.”
“How long?”
“As long as necessary: if my plan works, not too long. Are you going to fight me on this?”
Bud closed his eyes with exhausted resignation. Ed figured that was the best he was going to get.
Lynn left with Bud at midnight: there was no way he’d survive that desert heat. She drove fast, desperately hoping he wasn’t being jostled, too much, but, with each succeeding hour that she checked him, she could tell the constant movement was taking it’s toll on him. By the end of two hours, he was moaning in his sleep. A half an hour later, she couldn’t take it anymore and gave him a shot.
She didn’t hear a sound from him after that, but she heard his breathing growing more and more labored. By the time she reached the hospital-having made it in five hours, not six-she saw that his face was completely ashen, almost lifeless. She jumped out of the car, crying for help.
Los Angeles.
“Bud White,” a.k.a. Edmond Exley, lay in a bed in a private room, one deliberately located at the end of the corridor. Some distance from the nurse’s station. Some distance from observation.
“Bud White” held a privileged status in the hospital: he was a police officer, injured in the line of duty, as far as the hospital staff was concerned. He had requested no visitors, and only certain staff members were allowed to tend to him, namely, Dr. Bill Conroy and his surgical nurse of seventeen years, Ginny.
Ed waited. And squirmed. It had been at least three days: surely, they would make their move, soon, when they saw the seclusion he was in. But it was torture, being cut off from the world. Sooner or later, important people would put two and two together.
Bisbee.
He was dehydrated, feverish, his pulse and heartbeat slow and irregular, partly due to the heavy medication. Worse, some of the stitches from the chest wound had ruptured: despite his condition, they had to rush him into emergency surgery to repair the damage and stop the bleeding.
But, miraculously, or maybe not miraculously, he came through the surgery and rallied. His condition was upgraded to serious.
For three days, the hospital staff let him simply rest and recover. But, four days later, they eased up on the medication and tried to get him moving.
Lynn stood at the edge of the door, watching as they encouraged him to sit up, swing his legs over the bed.
White tried, he tried mightily, he wanted nothing more than to be out of this fucking place: he lasted less than thirty seconds, had to be eased back into the pillows. The effort brought a sheen of perspiration to his face.
“I’ll have that Molotov cocktail now,” he muttered faintly.
It was actually the longest sentence he had uttered so far. The nurse patted his good shoulder.
“Doctor wants to cut back on the medication, a little, “ she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Shit,” he said to himself, through clenched teeth; Lynn stood by the bed. Her eyes flashed, seeing him suffering so.
“I’m going after them-“
“-no.” He wasn’t meeting her eyes, but at least he was speaking to her. “-want to know-Exley?”
Ed was never far from her mind, either.
“I don’t know, Bud. But he’ll call soon, don’t worry.” She took a risk, put her hand over his. When he didn’t resist, she let it stay there.
“Thank you for letting me be here,” she said softly. “I know you can never forgive me, but-this helps a little.”
This time he did look at her; what she saw was shock. “Forgive-you-you’ll-never understand-“ His voice trailed off; he seemed to be asleep.
The nurse finally came in, gave him another injection. She watched as he sank into a drugged doze. Then she leaned down and kissed the warm, salty tears on his cheeks.
Los Angeles - 11:30 p.m.
He had told Conroy to “check on him” less often, giving the appearance that “Bud White” was being left alone, more and more, making him seem more vulnerable. Conroy had been fantastic in keeping up the façade. Ed planned on naming his first son after him.
2:00 a.m.
Footsteps approached. He gripped the gun under the sheet.
A shaft of white light as the door opened. A single figure. A syringe.
Ed laid still, eyes closed, felt the light blanket being folded back. The needle poised by his bare upper arm.
A split second later, the hand that had been holding the syringe was blasted into the air and landed by the foot of the bed. The syringe flew in the opposite direction. The holder of the syringe, now minus his right hand, screamed and writhed on the floor as Ed jumped from the bed and smashed the gun into his cheek.
“You want that hand back, cocksucker,” he snarled. “Or do you want to bleed to death, right here, on this floor? I can tell you, service around here is very slow so you better fucking ‘fess up, right now.”
“Yes,” said Bill Conroy, emerging in the doorway. “And I’m a clumsy son of a bitch-I never did get that surgical procedure right.”
The man screamed again, pledging cooperation. Exley and Conroy shot looks at each other and grinned.
Bisbee
The phone call came from the nurse’s station. She grabbed it.
“Ed?”
“Lynn, are you okay? How is he?”
“The first few days were rough,” she admitted, “but he’s better now. He’s been asking for you.”
“Tell him not to worry. Everything’s been taken care of.”
“You did it?”
“I sure as hell did.” He sounded proud. “With a little help from a certain doctor. Look, I can’t talk long, just so you know. He’s safe. So’s his job.”
Lynn nodded into the phone, for a moment, overcome.
“Lynn, are you there?”
“Yes. You’re going to get the greatest hug of your life when I see you.”
“I might just take you up on that. Look, I’m working on one more thing and I’ll be down by the weekend.”
“What thing?”
“Let’s just say, if it works out, it’ll be a nice surprise for Bud. He’s due, don’t you think?”
“We all are, Ed, we all are.”
She did take a break, after that: found the little motel that she remembered, and crashed on the bed. She meant only to sleep for a few hours: when she woke up, it was the next morning.
They had taken him to the sunroof where he’d get some fresh air before it got too hot. The bed was in sitting position; he was covered with a light blanket up to his waist. The sunlight was white on the bandages that covered most of his chest, shoulder and left cheek. His eyes were half-closed: as she hurried to him, he looked at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breathlessly, “I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”
“Got some rest?”
“Yes. Bud, the only reason I knew I could was because Ed called.”
“He ok?” Bud asked, instantly.
“Yes, he’s great. He took care of everything.”
Bud nodded, slightly. “Good,” he whispered, “that’s good.”
Encouraged, she offered, “He didn’t give me the details. But he’ll be down soon.”
“-so, you’ll be on your way, then.”
It was a statement of fact, not a question. She felt a hammer blow to her stomach.
“Honey,” she managed, “can’t we get past this? Can’t you get past it?”
It was the endearment that did it. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks again.
“Hit you. Jesus Christ. I-hit you.” The words choked out of him.
“I know.” She tried to touch his face; he pulled away, the sudden action making his whole body scream.
“But it was Dudley,” he heard her say. “Ed told me all about it: he used you, Bud, he used all of us-“
“-no excuse. No-fucking-excuse.” He closed his eyes, totally tormented, physically and emotionally. His mind simply retreated. After a moment, she leaned down, said in his ear,
“I love you Bud. And I always will.” She kissed him, full on the lips.
“No offense,” said Ed Exley, “but you look like hell.”
“That’s not a surprise,” said Lynn, “I’ve been in hell.”
They were sitting in the hospital coffee shop, waiting for Bud to finish his walk with the physical therapist. Ed had driven all night, hadn’t seen him yet.
“It’s been rough, I know,” he said.
“I asked God to let him live, just let him live,” she said slowly. “I promised I wouldn’t ask for anything else. I couldn’t keep that promise.” She couldn’t cry: she had no more tears. “I love him so much, Ed. But he can’t, won’t forgive himself for what happened.”
“A lot of shit happened,” Ed replied. “Lots of blame to be passed around. But it’s over. Just give him time.”
Lynn opted to remain in the coffee shop while Ed went back upstairs. He saw Bud, being supported by the therapist, walking at a torturous pace, to his room. Bud saw him, stopped. Ed walked up to him. He said to the therapist, “I’ve got him now.” He took the arm the young woman had been holding, and she left them.
“Someone said you were at death’s door.”
Bud grinned faintly. “You know-goddamn station. Full of rumors.”
Ed embraced his partner. Since his good arm was taken, Bud couldn’t respond, but he pressed his head into Ed’s shoulder.
“Glad you’re here,” came the muffled voice.
Ed finally let him go and led him to his room. He waited until Bud was settled again and told him the story.
He told it in such a way that he got his new friend laughing a couple of times, albeit painfully. When he relayed Conroy’s remark, Bud grinned.
“No fucking way.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Amazing.”
“So,” Ed went on, since this little shit was still emotionally-if not physically-attached to his hand, we had very little problem getting some crucial information from him. It was all I needed to blow the thing sky high. This, of course, put the department in the position of having almost railroading a man who was not only innocent but who now turns out to be a hero, a fact that I would have been more than willing to have shared with the press. So,” he said, with a sly look on his face, it made my first request in my new job a breeze.”
At the word “hero,” Bud’s face had darkened, but his curiosity was piqued.
“New job?”
Ed pulled something shiny out of his pocket. It was his new badge.
“Meet your new Police Captain.”
“Goddamn,” White breathed, “they finally did something right.”
The Captain shrugged. “With Dudley’s image in shreds, they needed to do something more dramatic. I convinced them, two heroes are better than one.” He pulled out another badge.
“Congratulations, Detective Lieutenant White.”
Lynn’s face lit up when Ed told her.
“It’s a dream he always had, Ed. He hated the muscle work Smith made him do. It humiliated him, convinced him he wasn’t smart enough for anything else. But he was.”
Captain Exley nodded. “I know. When he made that connection with Meeks, I was as flabbergasted as everyone else. We all underestimated Bud. But not anymore. He’s going to be my second in command. It’ll be fantastic.” He beamed, like a little boy.
She smiled. “You two will make great partners.”
“So will the two of you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’ll happen,” he said firmly. “He just needs some time to heal-physically-absorb it all. You’ll see.” He clucked her under the chin. “Now: here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take him back to L.A. - he’ll bet get top-notch care there.”
Lynn winced. “Not another desert trek-“
“No. A small plane. Courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
She took both his hands. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Easy. I’ll take that hug now.”
They embraced warmly, like the friends they had become.
“I’m staying here for a while,” she whispered in his ear. “I know he’s in good hands.
Ed nodded, understanding. He and Bud flew home the next day.
Six months had gone by.
Bud had spent the next two weeks, back in the hospital while Bill Conroy tended to him and arranged for the best of care to help him put his shattered body back together. After that, Ed took him to his place, gave him his extra bedroom. He’d arranged some time off to help Bud adjust to his new surroundings and a new regime of therapy and treatment. And Ed needed some rest, himself.
Bud had accepted Ed’s offer with a new-found sense of gratitude: he knew he couldn’t manage on his own just yet and Ed was the only person he could stand around him just now. Neither he nor Ed had spoken of or questioned the bond that had been forged the night of the Victory Hotel Shoot-out. Both had been wrong about the other. Both had saved each other. Neither one of them had ever had a true friend. Now they did. It was as simple as that.
At first he pushed himself to the max in his physical therapy. He was sick of being sick, sick of being helpless; he just wanted his body and his life to himself again. After the sessions, he’s fall into exhausted sleep, too tired to function. Too tired to think.
He had very little appetite and lost weight which alarmed Exley and Conroy. Together they finally convinced him that if he wanted to heal, he was going to have to take it easy, give his body a break. Bud forced himself to slow down, his appetite returned, and even a little of his spirit.
As he grew stronger, Ed began to bring him cases to research at home; Bud took to the work greedily. He meant to do justice to the promotion, which had meant more to him than he would ever admit, even to Ed. And it meant maybe he was settling into some kind of a life, again. It helped.
During the day.
At night, Ed would hear him thrashing around in his sleep. The first few times, he’d looked in on him, made sure he was taking his painkillers, but stopped when he saw how Bud resented it. He knew the inner battle his friend was waging. And he knew he couldn’t help him.
Now, six months later he was able, finally to move freely around the house, take the car for short trips, without too much pain. His arm had healed and he was able to take care of himself and do simple chores around the house.
He had made up his mind, that day, that he would go back to work at the precinct the next Monday. He was also thinking about moving back to his own place, give Ed his privacy again. He was getting ready to broach both subjects, over dinner, but Ed spoke first.
“Lynn called today,” he said, carefully.
They hadn’t heard from her since Arizona. And she was not a topic that they brought up between them. As close as they were now, Lynn was and probably always would be a broken-glass subject.
“She’s in town,” he said, “packing her house up and moving back to Bisbee.” Bud didn’t respond.
“Thought you’d like to know.”
“Now I know,” Bud said shortly, but after a moment, he couldn’t help but ask,
“How is she?”
“Miserable.” Ed spat the word out; it laid there. “Thought you’d like to know that, too.”
Bud shot him a look. “Jesus, Bud. I know you’re staying away from her because you think it’s best, but believe me, that’s hurting her more than anything else you’ve ever done.” He took a deep breath. There. He had said it, wanted to say it for six months. Hell with it. Bud hadn’t killed him, yet.“I know you miss her.”
“Every fucking minute,” Bud said, surprisingly. “But she’s got to give up on me, I don’t deserve her.”
“Bud,” he said gently, “it’s been six months. She hasn’t given up on you yet.”
The phone rang-they both thought the same thing-Bud shook his head.
Cursing to himself, Ed grabbed the phone.
But it wasn’t her. It was Bill Conroy.
“Ed, I need a favor.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got a couple, in the ER, husband and wife. Husband slugged her, then brought her here. She doesn’t want to press charges, just wants to go home.”
“How bad?”
“A bad bruise on her cheek, a cut eye. Needs a couple of stitches.”
“What does the husband say?”
Bud was listening to this, intently.
“Actually, he’s probably in worse shape than she is. Feels pretty bad about the whole thing. I just want to be sure it’s safe for her to go back with him.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Ed, ask Bud to handle it.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Bill.” Christ, it was the last thing Bud needed right now.
“Hand him the phone.”
Reluctantly, Ed did so. Bud listened, said “yeah,” and hung up. He glowered at Exley.
“Stop trying to fucking protect me. It’s getting old.”
Stung, Ed said, “Sorry.”
The new Lieutenant started to get his jacket, and then turned back.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not alright.” He shook his head. “I’m an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch among my other wonderful qualities. Don’t know what I’d of done without you, these past few months. I should of said it before, but, thank you.”
Ed stepped closer to him. “Bud, I never had a friend in my entire life. I’m the one who should be grateful.”
They clenched arms in a warm embrace that quickly turned into a long bear hug, and then Bud headed out the door.
Bill Conroy had spent a lot of time with his patient during the two weeks that Bud was hospitalized. Perhaps because Bud had admired the shit out of him, and perhaps because he was a stranger, he’d been able to confide some of the hell he was in. Conroy had mostly listened, on one occasion had offered, “You know, Bud. I’ve seen this over and over: kids who get beaten up tend to grow up and do the same thing.”
“Well, at least I fit the pattern.”
“At least you put your anger to good use.”
“Oh? Is that what’d you’d call it?”
“I’d call you the bravest officer I ever fucking met.” Bud squirmed. The doctor continued, “And you made a mistake. I’m not making any excuses, it was a shitty thing that you did. But do you think anyone could punish themselves more than you already have?” Bud didn’t respond. Conroy tried again. I don’t think it’s going to happen again, is it?”
Bud gave him an anguished look. “How do I know that? How can I trust myself again?”
“Look. Did you ever talk with anybody about this, ever, in your life?”
“Not really. Maybe a little, with-with her.”
“So you coped with this, by yourself, your whole life. That’s a hell of a load, my friend, a hell of a load.”
Bud knew what Ed was still worried about, but he had no intention of using his fists. Of that, he was now positive-Bill Conroy had helped him to see that. But he did plan to use his tongue to put the fear of God in the little shit.
But when Conroy pointed him out, in the waiting area, even that desire left him.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty. He was sitting with his hands over his face, still shaking. Bud approached him, stood over him, but had to use real effort to keep his voice rough.
“Pull yourself together, shit-bird,” he growled.
At the ominous voice, the boy looked up, saw the badge.
“Are you arresting me?”
“No, unfortunately not. What’s your name?”
“Andy Carlisle.”
“Okay, Carlisle, why’d you do it?”
The boy started to cry. Bud understood his suffering, but Bill was right: he had to be sure this would never happen again. He said,
“Stand up. Answer me.”
Andy Carlisle heaved to his feet. “We just got into a fight, that’s all. I lost it.”
Without knowing it, something inside Bud had finally started to shift.
“Has this ever happened before?”
The boy was shaking badly. “Christ, no.”
“And will it happen again?”
“I’d cut my hand off, first.”
Bud nodded, satisfied. “That’d be a good start. I’ll make sure your arm follows next, if it does. We understand each other?”
Andy nodded. Bud reached into his pocket, handed him his card.
“You’ve got a temper, son. Believe me, I understand that. You ever need to talk, you call me-“
Carlisle looked at the name, looked at the Lieutenant.
“I know you, you’re that Victory Hotel guy-“
“Get the fuck out of here,” White said. “And spend the rest of your life making this up to her.”
As the boy walked away, Bill Conroy walked up to him.
“You gave that kid a break, Bud.” He touched Bud’s heart. “Now, do yourself a favor. Do the same for yourself.”
When the doorbell rang, she’d expected it to be Ed. She had no real hope of anything else. When she saw him, complete astonishment flooded her huge, blue eyes.
He was standing there, wearing a short-sleeved shirt like he’d worn that first night; one arm rested on the doorjamb. He’d lost some weight, but she could see that his thick upper arms mirrored the long hours of therapy and exercise. He was standing, whole, right in front of her.
“I can’t promise anything,” he said, his eyes still dark, haunted. “But if you really can forgive me-maybe I can start.”
She pulled him inside, with both hands. He kicked the door shut; they stood there like that for a long moment. She touched his face: smooth and clear, no bandages. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed it.
“You’re sure,” he asked, softly. “Sure you’re not afraid?”
For an answer, she kissed his eyes, her lips traveling to his. Soft warm tongues caressed, like long lost lovers tentatively, gently at first, then their mutual longing and pent-up needs took hold, pretty fast. Lynn got his shirt off: they sort of fell to the floor, still kissing, hands wanting to be everywhere, he shucked off everything else. She reached her arms over her head, he unbuttoned her blouse and had her breasts in his hands in a second, her nipples were hard in his mouth as he suckled, luxuriously, first one, than the other. Lynn moaned: already, white-hot streaks of fire were streaking through her body; she covered his face, head with kisses. His tongue, becoming more ravenous by what it fed on, traveled slowly down her body, to her core: when he entered her, it was like a wild thing inside her: she rippled and shivered with an ecstasy she had never experienced, even with Bud, had never expected to come close to feeling, ever again.
She came to him, soaking his face, again and again: he swallowed, greedily, it seemed his throat had been dry, for a very long time.
He stayed there, quite a while, pleasuring her, thinking only of her. Finally, he raised himself up, stared at her luminous face, his heart hammering so; he could hardly breath, his own physical aching, finally out of control.
When his penis penetrated her depths, she held his wet smooth body tight against her as he rocked her wildly, like a tiny ship in an all consuming ocean; his voice like the sea wind washing over her, again and again, with words of love.
They came together rapidly, neither of them could withhold their frantic desire anymore, and it was a crescendo they both felt, their mutual cries, a storm of adoration.
In the morning, Lynn found herself in bed. He was lying next to her, head propped up on one elbow, watching her: she’d dozed, he hadn’t. When she started to speak, he put a finger over her lips, bent and covered her mouth in his. He wasn’t ready to talk of what had happened, wasn’t ready to talk about anything.
But as he started to move to her a jolt of pain hit his bad shoulder; when they had fallen on the floor, that arm had absorbed the impact; he hadn’t felt it then, there had been other things on his mind. But the still sensitive muscles had stiffened during the night-he could barely move his upper arm.
“Shit,” he whispered, “shit.”
Lynn saw the problem immediately, said, quickly, “Just lie back, relax.”
Before he could stop her, she was out of bed, on the way to the bathroom. He wanted to call out to her, to tell her that he could love her with one arm, maybe both, tied behind his back, and that was what he wanted to do: to have her out of his physical grasp, right now was an agony.
But she returned, quickly, with some kind of oil, sat on the bed, beside him. Poured the stuff in her hands, started massaging his shoulder. At first, it was even more sharp and painful, but, gradually, as the muscles began to loosen, he began to feel better, tried to embrace her. She stopped him with her long, graceful fingers.
“Ssh,” she whispered, “let it rest.” Her eyes finally took in his bullet-scarred body, her stomach contracted, seeing the impact of the one less than an inch from his heart. She bent and kissed it.
“This almost took you away from me.”
“No,” he answered, swallowing. “I did that. I was wrong.”
“Yes,” she said, “very wrong.” Again, he tried to stir; again, she restrained him. Her mouth made a rapid descent. When she took him, he was rock hard, and the semen that gushed in her mouth was like the wild honey from the bees that had lived in the trees in her yard, when she was a girl. Her long arms rested on his immediately soaked chest, she heard his wild cries buzzing through her. She rose up now, straddled him, lifted him to her, pressed his buttocks wildly, willing his cock deeper and deeper inside her as they moved together in frenzied rhythm, unable to tell where the one stopped, and the other began.
They finally fell back together, arms still tightly locked, her face pressed against his heaving body, as they each struggled for breath. Seconds later, she was licking, nipping at his hot, salty chest. She flicked her tongue in his bellybutton: that had driven him wild before. Nothing had changed.
He rolled back on top of her, and expressed his appreciation.
They made love all day. Lynn brought finger food to bed, but they were more for strength than for any appetite for food. During the very brief moments when their insatiable need for each other would abate, he would hold her in his soaking, trembling arms, telling her, over and over that he planned for her to be happy like this for the rest of her life. She believed him.
Lynn and Bud finally emerged from the house, three days later. They stood on the porch in the skimpiest of clothes, wrapped in a blanket, not far from the scene that had almost torn them apart, forever.
They still hadn’t talked much. But they had time for that, now. Plenty of time.
“We’re okay,” Bud whispered in her ear, “we’re gonna be okay.”
Lynn nodded, leaned against him, she nuzzled his cheek, loving the feel of the three-day stubble on her soft skin. She felt his embrace tighten around her.
And they watched the sun rise on the young city of Los Angeles.
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