Chapter Three
Everything was happening in slow motion.
He noticed the movement, the person ducking out of view. It was just a gut feeling that something was wrong, he knew that it was nothing more than that, but he had to act on it. His hand went slowly down to his holster and opened the snap that kept the gun from falling out, before settling his hand around the metal object. He smoothly pulled it out of its holster and held it down beside his thigh, like he had been taught in the academy.
"Speed? What-" Horatio started to ask, but noticed his nod in the direction of the back room. Horatio had nodded back and removed his own firearm, coming to stand behind him and off to the side some. There was more movement in the back room, and then he heard something that confused him. Horatio Caine called his name again, making him wonder for a second as he lifted his gun in the direction of the glass encased back room. What was that for, he wondered, and he knew even as he brought his weapon up that it wasn't in the smooth motion that it should have been.
Was he worried that he hadn't cleaned his weapon again? Speedle had learned from his mistake. He had gotten the lecture from Calleigh, and the "gift" from Horatio. He knew what he was doing, he was careful-
And then he pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. What did he do wrong? The safety wasn't on, it should have fired. He looked down at his gun, as if he could find the problem, and something caught his eyes. He couldn't tell what it was, but all of a sudden, his head snapped back up, and he felt the heat in his shoulder. There was enough force in the bullet to force him onto his back, laying on the ground, as his mind tried to comprehend what had happened. No one had pushed him, no one had even gone near him. He turned his head, to see if there was something that he had missed, and the first thing he saw was his gun laying there. The second was the blood that was beginning to soak through his shirt, at the shoulder.
The pain hit them, but it was brief as it suddenly went numb, and he found that he couldn't even move his fingers. Was it supposed to feel like this, his mind wondered idily. Was it supposed to be this lack of sensation? He dimly heard Horatio calling in the shooting, an officer involved shooting, HIS shooting. The blood was coming too quickly. The bullet must of hit something important. And his mind went through all the arteries in the body as he laid there, before Horatio's face swam into view. Already, everything was going black.
"Speed? Speed?! Stay with me!"
Where was he going, he wanted to ask, but then he felt the blood that filled his mouth. His first instinct was to get rid of it. He swallowed some of it, but it only made him cough, and he was embarressed by the spray of blood that ended up on Horatio's shirt front. By then, Horatio had bent towards him, as if listening for a heartbeat. He wished that he could tell him that it was pounding like there was no tomorrow (maybe there wasn't, he thought), and that it was erratic as all hell, when he coughed again, bringing up more blood.
There was no doubt about it. He had sprung a leak. He swam in and out of conciousness, painfully aware of small details and nothing at all. Was Horatio still talking to him? Because he couldn't hear anymore. He couldn't-
He opened his eyes, feeling the sweat on the back of his neck and on his upper lip. He used his right hand to wipe it away, head pressed deep into the pillow at the same time. Was that how the whole...incident...had happened, or was it just the reoccuring dream that he had every night since he had come home. The only good thing about it was that he hadn't woken up screaming this time.
With a groan, he sat up, feeling the pain in his shoulder. It felt like it had when he had first woken up in the hospital, not noticing the fact that his mom had been sitting there, with her rosary in hand, tears in her eyes. All he had felt then was the pain, and the one fleeting thought...wish to God the bullet had done me in, because it can't be worse than the pain. But there was only one thing that he could do, and that was go to the bathroom, where he kept the painkillers. A grimace was on his face as he freed himself from the blankets and padded out of his room to the bathroom, not bothering as he picked up the bottle of prescription pills. He pressed it against his hip, making sure that it was going to stay there, before he used his thumb to flip the lid onto the countertop. He shook out a single pill onto the counter and replaced the cap, throwing the pill in his mouth. He turned on the faucet and cupped his hand underneath it, bringing the water up to his mouth and swallowing back the small yellow caplet.
He dried his hand and went back to the bedroom, laying down atop the sheets as he stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the pounding in his shoulder. Think about something else, he told himself. Think about...Calleigh.
An interesting enough topic, he thought, considering the interesting night. For the first time that he could remember, that uncomfortable feeling that he had whenever she was around had disappeared when they had sat down to dinner, talking as two normal people would. He found it strange that she still didn't expect something of him, some certain characteristic, persona, or trait. She asked as many questions as she answered, and before they had even gotten to dessert, which had been the plain vanilla ice cream she had found hidden in the back of his freezer, they were acting as if they had done the same thing every weekend of their life. And she had made him laugh. That, by itself, was something strange. He found a lot of things funny, but he rarely had the nerve to laugh in front of someone.
He yawned and shifted against his pillow. Sleep was beginning to claim him, but he had forced his mind to work, and now he regretted it. The painkillers made him lacksidaisical, settling him into a comfortable lull. Everything blended together as he sleepily blinked his eyes. The last thing on his mind had been the name Calleigh Duquense.
Her nimble fingers picked a package of sweetner out of the container and she shook it, the substance settling at the bottom before she ripped the top off of it, bending down tot hrow the small scrap of paper in the garbage. She looked down at her cell phone when it gave off its familiar beep, and she plucked it off her waist, looking at the message screen. It was a code that she didn't see all that often, but one that she recognized. An officer involved shooting. Her brow furrowed as she looked at the address underneath and suddenly clued in.
"Jesus," she whispered under her breath, dropping the sweetner back onto the counter, next to her mug of coffee. She barely noticed how to spilled across the surface as she turned on her heel and headed for the exit to the building. As soon as she was outside, her pace picked up, running to the employee parking lot, where she knew a vehicle was waiting. She started it up and yanked the seatbelt over her shoulder, snapping it into place the same time that she backed out of the parking space.
Why did she have to say that she was busy when Horatio asked if she wanted to go along to the jewelery store with him, she wondered, before an even worse thought entered her mind. It could have been you. She shook the thought away and flipped on the siren and the lights, speeding past the vehicles that pulled out of her way. Her hands were shaking on the steering wheel as she pulled up next to the jewelery store, shutting off the engine and jumping out. Was it Speedle or was it Horatio?
She had to bite back a cry of rage when she recognized the face of the person. There was blood on his shirt as she watched them load Speedle into the back of the ambulance. Her body swayed for a moment, before she leaned against the vehicle, watching with dull eyes as the paramedics rushed to get into the ambulance, shouting something to each other...what was that dull roar in her ears? She could barely hear them as they pulled away, heading for the nearest hospital. She reminded herself of the name of the hospital before she found the strength to step away and into the store.
It looked like a war zone. Her well trained eyes caught the glint of casings and spent bullets around her, before her blue eyes settled on the pool of blood. There was a footprint in it, probably one of the paramedics. And there, standing apart from everything and looking more dazed than she felt, was Horatio Caine, hair mussed, shirt covered with blood. Speedle's blood.
"Horatio?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence. "What...what happened?" She swallowed thickly when he turned to look at her.
He opened his mouth to say something to her, but nothing came out. She could see that he was struggling with himself, with his emotions, not knowing what to do or what to say. She could relate, she thought to herself.
"They shot him," was all that he could say.
She stretched her arms above her head, not even realizing that she had been daydreaming while waiting for coffee to brew. Yawning, she reached for her usual mug and filled it, before adding the proper amounts of cream and sugar, looking out of the window in her kitchen. Was that what really happened, she wondered, or was she adding details that she thought should be in there? Spending the evening with Speedle, watching him struggle with what had happened to him, had caused her to look at him in a new light.
He wasn't arrogant, which is what she had always thought. He was independant. How would she feel if, all of a sudden, people have to come over and cook for her, or clean for her. Now, she understood why he was so frustrated the last night. And she had been impressed when she saw how he managed to do so much one handed, how far he had come along since that first night in the hospital, when he had trouble remembering that he shouldn't be using his left arm.
But she had seen something else, too, and that was the frustration of NOT being able to use his left arm. There had been a moment, when they had gone out onto the patio for dessert, rather than stay in the house, when he had forgotten himself and reached for something with his left arm. His face had paled so quickly with the pain, and a sheen had broken out along his forehead as she bit back whatever cry had been forcing its way out. She had heard the grunt that masked it, and had sympathized immediately. He had waved it off, pretending that nothing was wrong, and that it had been just a twinge, but she had seen differently. She had seen the struggle in his dark brown eyes when he lied to her.
Nobody deserved what happened to him. He had done nothing wrong. She had checked his gun, and trying to be like any good criminalist, she had tried to forget about the time that he hadn't cleaned his gun. Regardless of trying, the words echoed through her mind, including the comment that Horatio had made when he had pulled himself together at the crime scene: he may have needed to look at his gun. After a detailed examination of his firearm, she could only conclude that it had been a malfunction. She had checked all the parts, and cleaned it herself afterwards for a test-fire, and when she pulled the trigger, nothing had happened, either.
What did that feel like, she wondered. That was the second time that he had pulled the trigger and nothing had happened. What was it like to face death down like that, saved once by a Kevlar vest, and the second time by...what, a few milimeters. It had only nicked the artery, it hadn't torn it. He was lucky, she told herself as she sipped her coffee. She had a new respect for him now, and for the first time, she saw him as an actual, warm person, not the sardonic man that she rarely bothered with.
And for the first time, Tim Speedle's name couldn't leave her mind.
Chapter Four
