CHAPTER 1 - AWAKENING

An ugly pain from everywhere nagged at Peter Beard.  Bloodshot blue eyes peered down at the narrowing gap between his body and the edge of the mattress.  He tried a second time to grip the linens of his bed, in an effort to relieve a pain in his right butt cheek, failing miserably at his task.  Exasperated, he stopped, inches from the edge of his bed.  He felt frustrated and helpless.

"What are you trying to do?  If you pull that needle out again, I'll put Ben-Gay on your thermometer.  You got that, mister?"

Nurse Hall, a former Naval Lieutenant Commander and lifetime professional RN pressed firmly on Pete's chest as she approached his side of the room.  She wrapped her arm around his middle back, shifting his 190 pounds with the ease and expertise only gained from years of experience.  Once shifted, she checked the IV needle, tapping the tape on the back of his hand, finding amusement at his curly shock of hair peeking out from the bandages surrounding his head. 

Satisfied the drip was correct and the needle was held securely by the double wrap of tape, Carol Hall reached for the torture stick, or so Sergeant Pete Beard had named it.  Placing the thermometer in its intended position, Nurse Hall secretly reveled in the satisfaction of getting one over on the troublesome sot lying in the critical ward of the UCSD Medical Hospital trauma care unit.  She checked the monitors once again before removing the thermometer and noting the temperature in the chart. 

"Why do you do that?  I can hold the damn thing in my mouth. You know the other end?"  Pete wriggled slightly as the thought made him uncomfortable.  She smiled and finished with the chart, waved to him as she walked to the far side of the ward to check another patient.  Pete shook his head, releasing a heavy sigh, staring at nothing in particular.  He gazed dully at the mottled color of the exposed parts of his arm then looked away, bored and disgusted.

 "You’re awake.  How's the most newly decorated police officer in San Diego doing?"

Pete stared across the room, foggy headed as Abel Strang ambled in, still limping on the leg injured in the gang melee that landed Beard in the hospital.

"Why aren't you dead?"  Pete droned in mock indifference to Strang's presence.  He was actually very pleased Strang's injuries weren’t worse, considering the battle that had ensued.

“I am.  I am just a figment of your imagination, come to haunt you until you get back to work.”  Abel grinned, winking slyly.  “Now be nice or I'm gonna send this back.”  Strang began speaking in hushed tones, pulling the neck of a bottle of single malt scotch out far enough that Pete recognized it.  Pete’s eyes enlarged, he made an effort to reach for it with his left arm; pain glazed his face.  Still whispering, Strang grabbed a chromed, wheeled stool sitting beside the bed, leg outstretched, and sidled up to Beard.

"I'll just let you have a little in your water glass...."

 Nurse Hall eyed Pete from across the room, her forehead wrinkling in question.  She finished folding the blanket and dropped it on the bureau,  gliding over to Pete. 

“Cheese it, it’s the man.”  Abel mumbled and disappeared, leaving Pete tipping the glass and holding the bottle.  He relished the taste of the whisky sliding down his throat, the mild tingle as it cleared his lips.  The flavor of the malt...

“What are you up to?"  Nurse Hall snatched the bottle from Pete, as he flopped back into bed, splashing the scotch on his hospital gown.  Nurse Hall narrowed her eyes, shifting from the doorway to Pete.

“Where’d it come from?”  She snapped.

“A gift from beyond, compliments of the Captain.”  He stated proudly.

“Well I’ll take that up with him when I see him.”  She chided, resolutely.  She turned to leave then hesitated.  Pete winced as she refocused her gaze on his chest, where the half-empty glass of scotch sat, propped up by his bruised fingers.

“No, you don’t get to keep that, either.”  She snatched the glass and disappeared through the doorway not waiting for a response.

Abel peeked in around the doorway just as the nurse left.

“Wow!  That was close.”  He mumbled

"Are you nuts, bringing that stuff in here?  You could get me, well; I guess it couldn't get too much worse than I already am."  Pete looked down the length of the bed at his sorely broken body, a broken arm and leg, slashed torso and arms.  Not to mention the two bullet holes and a concussion from being dropped from a second story fire escape in East San Diego.

"Yeah, you’re pretty fucked up alright.  You'll be lucky to go back to the street this year."  Abel lifted Pete's good hand, now purple and bandaged from being rolled over by the perp's getaway car. 

Pete slowly wrapped bruised fingers around his partners’ hand.  “Thanks, ah, I really needed to be apprised of that.”  He said sarcastically.  Strang withdrew his hand, and ruffled Pete’s short hair before shrugging his shoulders. 

“It is what it is, Petie-boy.  I’ll be around.”  Then he slipped from the room in a breeze.

*****

Pete's eyes flashed open.  Breath was coming hard, no air.  A burning sensation worked its way through his back, knocking breath from him as he fought for his next step.  He worked the door at the end of the hallway, as he glanced over his shoulder; blackness had begun to close in on him.  The door shuddered as he pushed against it, forcing the latch, tearing the hinge.  The door flew inward, as he lunged again, struggling to keep his mind, and vision clear. 

A crash alerted him, as he fell through the doorway, stumbling down the stairs, losing his balance, he tumbled head over tail, crashing into the landing, 10 feet below.  A clap of thunder forced its way into his left leg, the burning pain clouded his mind.  Rolling toward the stair, he slumped over the edge, still trying to free the derringer taped to his ankle, falling the remaining 15 feet, slamming his head into the corner as he landed.  He slipped quickly from consciousness.

 He awoke falling free.  He tried to grab for the railing as he left the balcony.

Time stopped as he viewed the individual bricks on the side of the building.  He counted the rivets on the edge of the rusting, antique fire escape.

…the twist in the riser supporting the balcony, slanting to the building. 

…the rusted head of the loose retaining bolt holding the ladder leading back up. 

…the exposed, rotting wood of the windowsill and the dirty, broken glass, hiding the empty room in an empty building.

His hand closed on the handle of the derringer as he fought to gain leverage to pull it loose from his leg, then a crash, pain and then blackness.

"Dreaming again, honey?  Sit up for me so I can check your bandages.”  Alice Hamilton, the night nurse wiped the perspiration from his face, as she lifted him to a sitting position.  She had become a friend since he first awoke in the hospital, being the first face he saw and remembered since that night.

His bladder was full, and he wanted to pee in private.  Shaking his head as he surrendered to his incapability, he motioned for the bedpan.  Alice smiled, placing it on the bed and tended to the chart as Pete relieved himself.  How long would this take…?