1 comments/ 19237 views/ 5 favorites On The Shoulder By: Adrian Leverkuhn Officer Tim Henderson sat astride the Harley Davidson FXRP with his radar "gun" in his left hand, looking down the rolling tree-lined roadway toward the line of traffic headed his way. He was sitting on the shoulder of a busy two lane suburban road, in the shade, trying to stay cool in the mid-afternoon heat of a late July day. He had been there for perhaps five minutes, and like a fisherman, he would remain in this spot for only a few minutes more if he didn't spot a speeding motorist soon. Henderson was stoic man, regarded by some colleagues as snobby or stuck-up, but he walked around seething inside, often on the verge of boiling over. There were few minutes of the day that memories of Vietnam didn't intrude into his thoughts, pushing aside other concerns as casually as a hurricane pushes aside all that lies in it's path. Though the war had ended for Henderson almost fifteen years before, there were days when he felt like he was still over there, in the highlands, sweating and enduring the bites of insects quietly, not able to make a sound lest he give away the position of his squad. On hot, humid days he was at his most vulnerable to slipping off onto patrol outside Hue, chasing Charlie into ambush after ambush that would claim the lives of so many of his friends, and that would destroy his life forever. As his mind drifted off to the jungles of the Central Highlands, he saw the red warning light on his radar flash, then beep as he eyed a sleek black car headed his way at what he guessed was at least 65 mph. He triggered the radar and the digital readout indicated 68mph. He tossed the radar into the motorcycle's left saddlebag, and fingered the ignition. The Harley stuttered and rumbled to life, and as the black car flashed by he switched on lights and siren and pulled out onto the roadway, leaving a hail of dust and gravel in his wake. He was soon closing on the black car - he thought it was an '81 Camaro - and he could see long blond hair streaming out the open T-tops as he got closer. The girl driving had obviously gotten religion real fast, Henderson thought, as she was now meticulously signaling that she was pulling over onto the roadways right hand shoulder. As the Camaro slowed, he checked out on traffic with central dispatch. "241, traffic." "241, go ahead." "241, at 7700 Green Valley on hotel-oscar-tom (pause) charlie-hotel-ida-charlie" he said into the mic, giving out the alpha on the Camaro's licence plate, which was HOT CHIC. He put the mic into its holder as he came to a stop, and he angled the motorcycle toward the roadway to provide cover if the driver came out shooting. That was the ritual; every one was a hostile until proven otherwise, and that was often only a conditional proof, a brief truce in the us vs them mentality that governed Henderson's survival instincts. That was the lesson from Vietnam that had been driven with total finality into his heart and mind. Trust no one. Police Academy had only reinforced that view. Trust No One. The sidestand down, he dismounted the Harley and walked slowly toward the Camaro. His eyes first took in the trunk - shut and latched - then he looked at the driver's door mirror. Often, any motion that indicated hostile aggression was first noticed by looking there, but all he saw was red. Red t-shirt. Then cleavage. Red t-shit, very low cut, revealing the cleavage of monstrously huge breasts. It would have been hard for a rookie to notice anything else by that point, but not for Tim Henderson. Stoic survivor, emotionally dead Tim Henderson. As Henderson gained the open window of the car, he looked down to see a girl maybe twenty years old, and by anyone's standards seriously cute; she was looking up at him with amazing angelic eyes. Deep blue . . . like an ocean's blue. She looked up at Henderson with all of the contrition a seriously gorgeous twenty year old half way to rich American girl could muster on such short notice. God, he thought, she's even going to bat her eyelashes. "'Afternoon, Miss. I'm Officer Tim Henderson. You were observed traveling at 68 in a 30 miles per hour zone. I'll need to see your operators license, registration, and proof of financial responsibility." "Was I really going 68?" the girl said. "Yes Mam, like you were headed to a house fire." "Well, Tim," the girl cooed, "I am on fire . . ." She raised the hem of her skirt up, revealing garters holding up her white stockings, and the cleanly shaven, glistening lips of her outer vagina. "You think you're man enough to put out the fire?" "Just the license and registration and insurance, Mam." The girl went into a huff as she dug into her purse. She opened her wallet and pulled out the documents, then - almost - threw them at Henderson. "Mam, I'll be issuing you a citation. Please remain in your vehicle; I'll be right back." Henderson called in the girl's data to dispatch; as he wrote out the ticket dispatch returned his request. "241, 29 alpha." That was the code to make sure the suspect was not able to hear the radio. "241, go ahead." "241, subject Simms with that d.o.b. has to outstanding misdemeanor warrants for Signal 64a, and three for failure to appear." "241, confirm warrants." So, Henderson thought, two hits for soliciting prostitution, three for not paying traffic tickets. "241, warrants confirmed." "241, advise tow 126 and will need a unit for 95." Henderson thus asked for a wrecker to tow the car from the street to the impound yard and a squad car to transport the girl to the County Jail. He walked back up to the car. "Mam, would you please step out of the car." This wasn't a question. The girl seemed to know the game was up, but thought she'd give it one more try. "Officer, please don't write me ticket. I'll do anything you want, just please, my insurance rates will go crazy if you do." "Mam, please step on out . . ." "Look man, you want a blow job? You wanna go somewhere and fuck . . ." "No, thanks, Mam. I'm trying to quit. Please step out of the car now . . .." + After the young woman had been placed under arrest and transported, and her vehicle had been towed from the roadway, Henderson moved on to another high accident zone. He stopped in the shade of a huge leafy pecan tree and went through the calibration sequence for his radar, and turned to look down the roadway, and almost instantly saw a large beige sedan coming toward his shady spot at a high rate of speed. He was hot and sweat was running down his neck, collecting inwhat felt like warm pools in the small of his back, dammed from running lower by the constriction of his Sam Browne belt that held up his pistol, handcuffs, and hand radio. In a split second he had to decide whether to observe the speeding car on radar or cool off in the shade. He made a quick visual guesstimate of the vehicle's speed of 60 and accelerating, and as it was a 40 mph zone, he aimed the radar at the vehicle. Henderson watched as the beige cars speed dropped frantically when he activated the radar, and smiled as the driver slowed from 64 mph to 40 in a couple of hundred feet. As the beige car drew near, Henderson pointed at the driver and motioned him to pull over onto the roads shoulder. Henderson watched momentarily until he saw the white male driver pull over onto the side of the road, then he dismounted the Harley and approached the car. As Henderson approached the car, scanning for anything suspicious, he noticed the man was about 50 years old, balding, overweight, and he appeared impatient. He appeared to be reaching for his wallet in his back left pocket. "SIR, please keep your hands where I can see them!" The man looked annoyed until he saw Henderson's pistol half-way out of it's holster, then his attitude changed. "What the hell are you doing! I haven't done anything!" "Place your hands where I can see them, sir!" Henderson watched as the man placed his hands on the car's steering wheel, then he finished walking up to the driver's window. "Sir, my name is Officer Henderson; you were observed traveling at a speed of 64 in a . . ." "The hell I was! Now wait just a goddamn . . . " "Sir, I'll need to see your driver's license, vehicle registration, and proof of insurance." "This is bullshit! I wasn't speeding! I will not show you any goddamn thing!" The man was red-faced, sputtering little globs of spit out the window as he yelled at Henderson. "Very well, sir. In that case, I will be placing you under arrest and transporting you to the county jail. Would you please step out of the car." "This is crap. Alright, let me get my license out . . . what else did you want?" "Your vehicle's registration and proof of insurance, sir." The man fished out his wallet and handed Henderson his license, then reached for the car's glove box to look for the documents. Henderson's right hand remained firmly affixed to his pistol, and he leaned over to keep the man fully in view. The man rummaged through the compartment, and could not find either his registration or insurance papers, and finally gave up looking. "Look, Officer, I know I have 'em somewhere. Can you give me a break here?" Henderson looked down at the license in his hand. "Alright Mr Larkin, I'll be writing you citations for these three violations; you'll need to produce proof of registration and insurance to the court clerks office, and those charges may be dropped at that time. Please stay in your vehicle, sir, and I'll be right back." Henderson walked back to the motorcycle and called into dispatch, he requested they check Mr Larkin's driving record and look for outstanding warrants. He started writing the tickets a dispatch searched for the information. "Ah, 241?" "241, go ahead." "241, subject Larkin negative 29, but 27 shows multiple moving violations and two DUIs, and drivers license is currently under suspension for failing to provide proof of insurance and refusing to take a field sobriety test." "Ah, 10/4, confirm suspension and advise wrecker and transport." "241, I have an NCIC hit; subject Larkin has two felony warrants out of Kentucky, ah, wait one . . ." Henderson had his hand on his pistol at this point; felony warrants changed the circumstances of this stop immediately. Already at least two units were speeding to his location to provide back-up; this was automatic. When a unit had a felony stop in progress, the assumption was the officer would need immediate back-up until proven otherwise. The fact that Larkin had an NCIC, or National Criminal Information Center hit, slang for a warrant, indicated that Larkin might not be a small time "hook", or criminal in cop-talk. "O.K., 241, NCIC advises subject may be armed and dangerous . . ." Henderson wasn't really listening at that point . . . he had dropped his ticket book and drawn his holstered pistol. He stepped around until he had a clear field of fire, then simply stood there ready to react to any movement in the car until back-up units arrived on scene. Within about a minute he heard sirens in the distance, and moments later patrol cars appeared coming from both directions. The unit coming from behind pulled up behind Henderson, the unit ahead pulled over about 50 yards ahead and the officer in that car exited carrying his Remington 870 pump shotgun. "Mr Larkin," Henderson called out loudly, "place your hands on your head." When Henderson saw the man's hands, he continued, "alright, sir, lean forward and keep your hands where I can see them." When the man had complied, Henderson moved closer toward the car. The officer with him moved toward the passenger door of the beige car; both officer's handguns were aimed squarely at Larkin's head. "Alright, Mr Larkin, very slowly I want you to move both hands slowly outside the window, make sure I can see them both at all times, and I want you to hold your hands out where I can see them. Do not make any sudden moves." Henderson watched Larkin with all his concentration focused on the man's head and eyes, which he could see through the side view mirrors. Larkin looked trapped and panicked, a good sign. Too relaxed would mean Larkin was a cool customer who had a plan, and too panicked might indicate Larkin was about to flee. Henderson moved closer, then holstered his weapon when the officer on the passenger's door side was in position; he then handcuffed Larkin, and opened the car door. Larkin was then taken to one of the patrol cars and quickly transported from the scene. Henderson remained and filled out paperwork for the wrecker driver, and completed writing Mr Larkin's traffic tickets. Bad day for Mr Larkin, Henderson thought. Probably be an even worse night. + Tim Henderson finished his day's activities investigating a somewhat routine major accident, where a speeding teenaged girl had lost control of her car on a sharp curve and lost control. The girl's car had spun off the roadway and the drivers door had slammed into a large, thick-trunked tree. The girl was badly cut by flying glass and had sustained significant injuries when she had been flung into the cars steering wheel, but she would live. Henderson was on the scene gathering and photographing evidence for almost two hours, then he returned to the station to finish the accident report. He also filled in supplemental reports for the two arrests he had made that afternoon. After the reports had been approved by the shift sergeant, he changed and made his way to the little gray Ford Mustang he called his own, and drove off toward his favorite dive, the Lord Fukaduk. Many of Henderson's friends and fellow-officers gathered at the Fukaduk after work, even on their days off, and today was no exception. Henderson sat down at a table with what seemed like half the officers from his shift, and soon, without bothering or needing to ask, an ice-cold long-neck Budweiser was slapped down in front of him on the glossy-varnished initial-carved wooden table-top by a raucus middle-aged smokey-voiced blond named Thelma. He listened to conversations and joined in anecdotally when he felt like it, but the Fukaduk was his place to go to just let the steam boil-off. Henderson was almost perpetually in need of boiling off something. After a couple of hours and more than a couple of beers, Henderson hoisted his frame from the table and walked out to his Ford and made his way home. He parked his car, then made his way to the stairs that led to his apartment. As he entered, he relished the air conditioning that washed over his body. He went to the fridge and popped the top off another Budweiser and tossed it down in one long pull. He struggled, as he did every night, taking the cumbersome over-the-calf riding boots off, then he cleaned and polished them until they shined. He tossed his soiled underclothes and uniform in a hamper and hopped in his apartment's little fake-tiled shower after be brushed his teeth. He stood under the hot water for a few minutes, felt the tension ease as the water ran down his neck, then he shut off the water, dried himself off, then shuffled over to his little double bed. He laid down on the sagging bed in the small bedroom, opened up a drawer in his knotty-pine bedside table, took out a couple of men's magazines and a jar of Vaseline. He smeared the grease over his water-logged penis while he looked at pictures of barely interesting girls; when he was hard enough he jacked off, then wiped off the mess after he had finished. He drifted in and out of Vietnamese landscapes as sleep hunted for him in the undergrowth of his dreams, then he turned out the single little amber glowing lamp by his bed and was soon sleep. + At 7:45 the next morning, Henderson was on the shoulder adjacent to Central High School, getting ready to work the morning school zone traffic. Central had the only active summer session in the school district, and as a result the reduced speed limit for school zones was still in effect. Most of the kids here were reckless, bad drivers, so he was often here in the morning. He sat astride the Harley, the heat off the twin cylinders causing his inner thighs to run with sweat. He calibrated his radar and watched traffic; it was unusually light this morning, with only a few cars passing in front of the old three-story high red-brick building. Off in the distance he saw a maroon Oldsmobile coupe headed toward his position; it was speeding and moving erratically from lane to lane. Henderson's first impression was that the vehicle was being operated by someone very drunk; he made a quick radar observation of 47 mph in the 20 mph school zone. He tossed the radar into the lefthand saddlebag and clasped the lid shut, and started the Harley. As the car passed he flipped on his lights and siren and pulled out onto the roadway. He quickly came up to the rear of the maroon car; he watched carefully as it signaled and pulled over onto the roadway's shoulder. Henderson checked out with dispatch on traffic, then walked up to the car.As he approached the car he heard a woman and a child crying. Nearing the driver's side window, he looked into the car and saw a young boy - maybe six years old - sitting on the floorboard in front of the passengers seat. The driver of the car was - maybe - thirty, and her pale red hair was an unkempt mess. As he looked in the car further, he saw the left side of her face was tear streaked, and appeared swollen and puffy. Then he saw the right side of her face. Her right eye was swollen shut, and was surrounded by an angry deep purple welt. A pathetic streak of dried blood had frozen under her right nostril, and her right cheek was brilliant crimson. The woman was crying almost hysterically, and Henderson immediately thought this was the aftermath of a family disturbance. "Mam, I'm Officer Henderson. Are you all right?" "No, not really!" the woman responded, trying to laugh through her tears and pain. Henderson looked at the young boy; his face was bruised, too. "Mam, can you tell me what's happened to you?" "My husband . . ." she began, but lost her way to the cresting pain that caught her unawares. "Can I see your driver's license please?" As the woman dug through her pocket book, Henderson got on his hand unit and started talking to dispatch. "241, signal 38, signal four involved, need an ambulance at my location. Standby for 20." "10/4 241 at 0755 hours." The woman handed Henderson her license. "Is this address correct, Mrs Taylor?" "Yes." "Is your husband still there?" "I think so; he was drunk, he threatened to kill us . . ." she said through deep, racking sobs. "Is he armed, Mam?" "Yes, he's out of his mind, he lost his job again . . ." "Pardon me, Mam . . . Ah, 241, victim is Taylor, Jennifer Ann, female, white, 8/18/54, address 2120 Quail Run Court. Advises her husband at that location assaulted her and her child, who is with me at my location, and that the husband is armed and intoxicated, despondent and out of control." "241 received at 0801 hours. 3114, respond to 38a at 2120 Quail Run Court." "3114 code 5." "3116 code 5" "3110 code 5" "Units enroute at 0801 hours. Henderson went to the passenger door and opened it, helped the young boy out. He had trouble standing on his own; Henderson took off his wind-breaker and rolled it up, then helped the boy lay down with his head on his jacket. He went to help the woman out of the car, and had her sit by her son and comfort him. He talked to Mrs Taylor about what had happened, and got as much information as he could about her husband and the layout of the house. Soon the ambulance was on scene, and the paramedics went to work on the woman and her son. One of the paramedics came to him after a moment and asked what had happened, and Henderson filled him in. "Well shit, Tim," the medic said, "the kids got a depressed skull fracture . . . musta been hit with a board. Woman's probably got a fractured mandible and orbit, couple of loose teeth. We're gonna transport 'em both." On The Shoulder "Ah, 241, need wrecker my location." 241, 10/4 at 0811 hours." "3110 to 241, go to Tac Three." Henderson switched radio frequencies. "241 go ahead." "What can you tell me, Tim?" "Subject Dennis Taylor, white male 41 years old, lost his job, armed with one revolver, possibly a 44 magnum, stainless, and multiple rifles, has assaulted wife and child. Six year old male child has a depressed skull fracture, wife multiple facial fractures. Wife states subject is out of his mind and despondent. He had the revolver on him, rifles are in bedroom closet." "10/4, Tim, if you can clear get on over here." "10/4" Henderson got basic information for his report, and asked one of the firemen to help out with the wrecker, then cleared the scene and headed for Quail Run Court. + There were five patrol cars surrounding the house on Quail Run Court when Henderson pulled in behind some squad cars. Henderson located the shift Sergeant's unit - 3110 - and motored over to it. He went to the Sergeant, Mike Huffines, who was sitting in the black and white Ford Crown Victoria; Henderson squatted in the street next to the car. "What's the situation?" Henderson asked. "Fucked up, as usual. Gary knocked on the door and was told to get off the property, not that politely, I guess, from what I can gather. Then the guy said anyone coming in would be shot." "You gonna call out the tac team?" "They're on a bank robbery right now, hostage deal. This one's all ours." "O.K., what's the plan?" Henderson, as a ranked traffic officer, would assume command if the Sergeant went down, and so had to be in the loop. They went over plans, then radioed the men around the house what the plan was, and Henderson made for the house's front door. Henderson had decided to go in through the front door with Gary White, 3114, the first respondent on the scene. It was, Henderson reasoned, really his call, so it was really his duty to lead off into harm's way. He pulled out his Sig-Sauer P220 45 cal. auto and double-checked that there was a bullet in the chamber. Round one was a Glazer safety slug, followed by Winchester Silver-tip hollow points. He and White made their way to the front door of the house; the door stood open about three inches, and they could hear rock music coming from inside - very loud and very nearby. Henderson motioned to White that he would lead off; White nodded his understanding. Henderson pushed the door open with his hand and the music turned off. Henderson brought his Sig-Sauer up to firing position, and followed it into the house. "So, you're gonna join my little party, huh, cop?" With bright morning sunshine flooding into the house, Henderson saw a middle aged white male across the room; about one-third of his body was visible, the rest was behind a wall. Henderson could see a large stainless steel revolver in Taylor's right hand, and it was coming up. "DROP IT!" Henderson yelled out. "NOW!" The man brought the gun up, and Henderson fired one round. It caught Taylor just under the his right collar bone, but not before Taylor fired his Smith & Wesson Model 29 one time. Henderson's bullet tore into Dennis Taylor's sub-clavian artery, killing him almost instantly. Taylor's bullet hit Henderson right in the center of his chest, right in the middle of his bullet-proof vest. Like most such vests, this model was not really adequate when matched up against a 44 magnum, and the bullet bore through the layers of Henderson's vest easily, through his uniform and t-shirt, and on through the skin over his sternum. Henderson was aware of an almost unendurable burning sensation coming from his chest, then pressure, pressure like he's never felt before. It felt - for the brief seconds of consciousness left to Tim Henderson - like a burning elephant was standing on his chest. Mercifully, that sensation was not long lasting. One could not say the same about the unconsciousness that followed, however. + Henderson regained consciousness in the ambulance for a moment, then was gone again just as quickly. All he saw in that moment was white light and people crawling all around his body. + He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was, or what day it was, yet somehow these questions barely alarmed him. Indeed, he felt only a brief surge of panic. He looked down at his wrist; it burned. He saw an I.V. needle inserted on the top of his wrist, and knew he was in a hospital. As events started to come back, he just as quickly drifted back down into sleep . . . + He opened his eyes. A nurse was taking his pulse. He tried to speak, was sure he had made a sound, but his eyes closed, and he drifted off . . . + He opened his eyes. Rather, someone opened his right eye. Henderson felt the finger on his eyelid. He saw a woman looking into his eye behind an intensely bright light. "That doesn't feel too good, Mam." "Ah-ha, he speaks!" the woman said. 'Bout time! How are you feeling, Mr Henderson?" "I think a gorilla took a shit in my mouth, but other than that, right fine." "Is your throat still sore?" "That's, ah, yeah, it does." "Can you see alright?" "I guess so. You're female, cute as hell, little bit older than I am, and cuter than hell." The woman smiled. "Think you could drink something cool?" "You married?" She smiled again. "As a matter of fact, I am." "Well, now I'm depressed," he croaked through his smile. "Yeah, something ice cold in a long neck would probably go down real good about now." "Well, maybe tomorrow. You remember anything about what brought you here?" "Oh, yeah. No problem there. Did he make it?" "No." "How 'bout the guys wife? How is she?" "She and her son are still here. They've both had surgery, but they're going to be fine." "Is she pissed at me?" "I haven't heard anything about that; I'll find out if you'd like." "Nah, that's alright." "Well, I think you can handle some Kool-Aid and Jello." "Oh, joy, oh rapture!" The woman started to walk out. "Say, you gotta name?" "Yeah. Doctor." "Well, O.K., Doc. Nice meetin' you . . ." + A few days later and Henderson had graduated to chicken noodle soup. His chest hurt more and more as the docs cut back on the pain medications, but they allowed visitors that day, and soon a steady stream of cops came running into and out of his room. Watch Commanders and rookies dropped by to say 'hi' and 'get well soon', flowers materialized on counter-tops and more than one copy of Penthouse appeared out of thin air on his bedside table. The widow of a slain officer dropped by and held his hand for a long, and ultimately very uncomfortable time; it was apparent she had been communing with her departed husband as she had talked with Tim, and he had found the event very depressing and disconcerting. Toward the end of the evening a woman in hospital gown had come into his room, and Henderson recognized Jennifer Taylor instantly despite the metal band around her face that secured pins and straps over the right side of her face. As she entered she made eye contact with Tim, and he returned her puzzled gaze with the stoicism that was his public persona. After a moment she came over to him, took his hand in hers and brought it to her mouth and kissed it. She was evidently in more than just a little pain. "They told me you were concerned, that I might be angry at you. You have no idea what that bastard put my son and I through, and though I can't say I'm happy he's dead, please believe me, I'm not mad at you . . . I don't blame you." She talked through clenched teeth; her jaw had apparently been wired closed. Henderson nodded, looked at her with as much compassion as he could muster. "How's your boy?" he asked. "He doesn't really know, yet. At least I don't think he understands what it all means. His surgery was a lot tougher than mine, and he's been out of it . . . really, really out of it." "I'm sorry this all had to happen, Mrs Taylor, I really am . . ." "Please, call me Jennifer, or Jennie, just not Mrs Taylor, O.K.?" Tim understood. The woman faced a new life, a radically altered emotional landscape. "Yeah, alright Jennifer. You want some Jello?" "I'd love some, but the only thing I'm getting has to come through a straw." "Would you like to sit down?" "Maybe tomorrow. You're looking kinda tired, and I know I could use some sleep." "Tomorrow, then," Henderson said. "And thanks." Jennifer came to him again and kissed his forehead, and put her hand on the side of his face. "No, Tim. Thank you." As she walked from the room, Tim Henderson felt a kind of peace wash over him; he felt like he once used to, before he had gone to southeast Asia. He felt like there was hope in the world, and that tomorrow might indeed be a better day. + She wasn't shy, that much was certain. Jennifer had returned the next morning, sat with Tim as he spooned down some scrambled eggs and cream of wheat. She had sipped milk through a straw, and then tidied up the flowers in his room. Tim had tried to move in the articulated bed, and cried out in pain as the staples holding his sternum together bit into his skin. Jennifer had jumped to his side, helped him shift position, then wipe off the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead with a cool, damp washcloth. She stroked the side of his face with obvious compassion as he grimaced and gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Oh God, oh, oh . . ." he had ground out between searing stabs of pain. But he felt Jennifer there with him in the room, felt her holding him, and he felt his heart reaching out to her. He had felt Jennifer reach for the nurse's call button, then had felt another presence in the room, and looked up to see a nurse sticking a syringe into the little rubber plug on his I.V. line, and seconds later he felt warmth and well-being flooding into veins on a fresh tide of sleepiness. He drifted away from the reality of the room, but somehow the presence of Jennifer's hand holding his stayed with him as he found his way back to the comforting arms of sleep. + Henderson woke in the middle of the afternoon, disoriented and thirsty, but aware there were people in the room. Mike Huffines was there, as were Gary White and Ted Sands, all from the Quail Run Court incident. They were all in uniform, still had the sheen and scent of a long summer day's work about them. As Henderson drifted between sleep and consciousness, he heard them talking. "Man, she's been here like all the time since he woke up. Nurses say she checks in on her kid then comes down here. Holds his hand almost all day long, like, even when he's out . . ." ". . . the night shift nurse told me this morning that she spent all last night in here with him . . . kinda like some weird Stockholm Syndrome thing, huh . . ." ". . . man, you think Tim knows what's goin' on?" "Yeah, I think I do, guys," Tim Henderson said. "Hey, It lives!" Huffines said. "I guess the food didn't kill you after all!" "Food? You mean what they serve in here is called food?" "You 'bout ready for a longneck, bro?" White said. "Fuck you, Gary, just fuck you . . ." Everyone laughed. "How 'bout a chicken-fried steak and turnip greens, some cream gravy . . ." "Sands, when I get outta here I'm takin you down to the zoo and I'm gonna get a gorilla to turn your asshole into a four lane expressway!" More laughter followed. Huffines broke in: "So, Tim, what about this Taylor woman. You want me to take care of it?" "No, Mike, no. Just leave her be. I really don't think it's hurting anything, and hell, to tell the truth, she's been nice to have around at night. She used to work at County, an RN I think, and some of the nurses here kinda like her too, ya know. God knows, I do." The three uniformed men looked at their stricken comrade with some concern, but knew enough to understand that life was funny, that sometimes life took you down unexpected roads at the weirdest times. They respected his choice, and let it go at that. "So, bro, you need anything . . . new Penthouse or anything? Some fresh Vaseline?" "Only if you can bring a hooker in here to fire the damn thing off!" They all laughed again, the tension gone. "Assuming it still works! Y'all get on outta here, now, and go get laid or something!" The guys all said their goodbyes and headed out of the room. Huffines stayed behind a moment. "Just thought you should know. Internal Affairs and the DAs office all declared it a good shoot . . . there ain't going to be any second guessing. And the Taylor woman cooperated with their investigation, backed up your interpretation. So, you're clear. Rest easy on that score, bro." "Thanks Mike. Heard how long I'm gonna be stuck in here?" "Probably another week here, then a month at home. Then maybe light-duty - you know, work in dispatch - for a month or so until you get the green light from the docs." "Man! How long have I been in here so far?" Huffines chuckled. "Man, you are out of it! You been horizontal for eleven days, bro. Shattered sternum and cardiac tampanade, whatever the fuck that is." "Bruised heart. Shit. Well, thanks Mike. Thank the guys for comin' by again, willya?" + As the summer sum set late that evening, Jennifer Taylor sat in the chair next to Tim Henderson's bed. She had turned the chair so that she faced him as he lay there, and she had helped him eat his dinner, and joked about the perils of eating hospital food again. She looked at his bed side table, at the issues of Penthouse Magazine that sat there stacked on top of other less "interesting" magazines. "So, the guys brought you some interesting reading material. Pet of the year playoff. . . how to have a thicker penis? Sounds like Cosmo for the testosterone impaired!" She was speaking more clearly tonight, as the wires holding her jaw closed had been loosened. Henderson was turning bright red, even under the green light of the dim florescent lights. "Tim, surely that's not embarrassing? Is it?" Henderson was now almost purple, and he was looking away. "Have you read any of them yet?" "Ah, no." "You know, I like the reader stories, you know, the Forum stories . . ." Henderson did a double take. "You . . ." "Hell yes, Tim. You think women are made of stone from the neck down or something?" Tim just looked at her, his gaze almost unfocused; but he was listening intently to everything she was saying. "So, you read any, yet?" He shook his head, indicating he hadn't. She picked up the issue on top, and flipped it open to the Forum section near the front. She skimmed a story, then another. "Ah, here's a good one . . ." and she started reading out loud about a man and his wife inviting another woman to dinner, and about going home with them afterwards. Events progressed naturally enough, for Penthouse anyway, until the women were locked in a sixty-nine while the husband jacked himself off, then all three were going at each other like they were in the Olympics and threesomes was a medal event. By the time the story ended - with all three contestants bathed in sweat and cum - Tim was sure the thing between his legs standing at attention would suffice for a run at pole vaulting. Needless to say, Jennifer Taylor noticed it as well. She flipped ahead to another story, a story about one girl inviting another over to her swimming pool while her husband was away at work. Somewhat predictably, as one asked the other to rub her down with suntan lotion things heated up nicely, and before you could say 'eat my clit' three times the girls were going at each other nicely; and the tent growing above Henderson's groin was reaching ever more impressive heights. Jennifer Taylor slipped her hand under the sheets covering Tim Henderson, and her hand drifted over toward his lap. He stiffened when he felt her hand touch the side of his thigh, and his lower lip trembled when he felt her fingernails trailing little arcs as they rose toward his loins. Yet still she kept reading, holding the magazine in one hand while her other continued it's explorations. As the story moved towards it's climax, it's fair to say that Tim Henderson was well on his way to one of his own. Jennifer's hand reached his cock and she swiftly encircled it, played with it. She gripped it, stroked it, worked her fingernails around the tip of it. She continued reading, the story describing in exacting detail the shattering orgasm the two girls inflicted on each other, their tongues delving into the deep recesses of their hot, wet vaginas, and Jennifer picked up her stroking as she felt his cock growing harder, then twitching and swelling . . . then she felt his cum running down the shaft of his cock onto her hand, coating her fingers and his cock with warm oozing slickness. She brought her hand out from under the sheet, a vast pool of semen cupped in the palm of her hand. She held it there in the dim light, looking at Tim, then at the glistening pool of pearlescent liquid. "By the way, Tim," she said, "just in case you were wondering; I swallow." She brought her cupped hand to her mouth and poured his cum onto her barely visible tongue. She played with it a moment, swirled it with her tongue so that Tim could see it, so he could watch her enjoy his cum - and she saw his hypnotized gaze locked on her mouth, she watched his eyes as she swallowed his cum, saw his eyes follow it down her throat - pass her bobbing Adam's apple - then return to her eyes. She smiled at him with the earthiest look of satisfaction he had ever seen on a woman's face in his life. "So you're the one, huh?" he said. He was just short of breathlessness. She looked at him quizzically. "The one what?" "The one I'm going to love the rest of my life," he said, looking at her with awe. "I wouldn't be surprised, Tim. I wouldn't be surprised at all." She had felt that way for some time now. She was surprised he had only just now felt her love for him. + Ten days later Henderson was driven home by Huffines. Jennifer had already been released, and had come by his apartment to help a cleaning lady get it tidied up before going back to the hospital to stay with her son for the afternoon. Huffines and a short term home nurse had helped Henderson up the stairs to his apartment, and helped him into an easy chair in the little apartment's living room. Huffines sat with him a while, then left him with the nurse. He watched television a while, then grew tired, and reclined back in an old leather chair; the nurse slipped an ottoman under his legs and covered him with a light blanket. He dozed off while afternoon televison droned away in the background. Not too long had passed, or so it seemed, when he smelled food, and he shook himself awake. The room was almost dark; the sun had set, and the ten o'clock news was on. "Anyone here?" he called out. And there she was. Jennifer came out from the little kitchen. "You hungry?" she asked. She had a huge smile plastered all over her face. "My God! You're here? How?" "You have good friends, Tim. They love you. Not half as much as I do, but they do care for you big time." "You love me, huh?" "That would be a fact." "How 'bout a Coke?" "Alright. What about food?" "How's Drew?" he asked, wanting to know how her son Andrew was doing. "Better, he ought to be comin' home in a week or so. How about a CFS?" she said, indicating a chicken fried steak. "No kidding? Who told you?" "That Sands guy . . . said it's your favorite. My Grandmother taught me how to make it. Greens, too. That sound good?" "Sounds like heaven to me. You an Angel?" Jennifer walked into the room and came directly to him, knelt beside him and took his hand. "You're my Angel, Tim. Don't you ever forget that." On The Shoulder "When can I kiss you?" he asked, looking at her still healing mouth. "It's hard as hell to love somebody so much and not be able to kiss 'em!" She leaned forward and lightly kissed his forehead. "Soon, my love, soon." + After she had cleared the dinner dishes, she helped Tim to the bathroom, then into the shower. He held on to the walls as the water ran over his neck, and was a little surprised to hear the shower door slide open a few moments later and a cool draft waft into the little tiled-space. Then he felt her beside him, felt her nakedness on his back. He felt her nipples rubbing on his back, the warm water running between them making their skin slippery and sensitive. He felt her arms encircle his body, hold on to him as if the reality of his presence was keeping some monster at bey. The side of her face rested on his back, he felt her breath on his skin. He heard the water splashing off the plastic dressing covering the center of his chest, felt the burning of the wound and the thready beating of his heart, and he fell into the black fear of imminent death that had pursued him from the jungles of southeast Asia, and for a moment he was afraid. Then he felt the warmth of Jennifer's soul next to his, and he knew he would be alright. He felt the warm water - the blood of life - running over his skin, her skin, and he knew that whatever else life might throw at him, with her here beside him, he would endure. He would not fear life again. And now, he knew, he would love life again. + Life's like this, ya know. Full of unexpected twists and turns. Tim and Jen Henderson. He had stopped her for speeding then killed her husband. All in a morning's work. Oh well, that's life in the blue lane. What did you expect?