Edge of the Heat 3 (2 page)

“Wouldn’t that be awesome if we found our family through the database? I should have done that a long time ago,” Emma said.

Vivian nodded. “Yeah, I never would have thought of it if it weren’t for my tumor. When my doctor asked me about my family history and I said I didn’t have a clue, that was the first thing he suggested. It’s just taken me a while to get to it, with everything else that was going on.”

The waiter brought their food and conversation stopped while everyone started eating.

Jerry looked at his watch. “Emma, we have 20 minutes.”

“Ok.” She dug into her chicken cacciatore and started telling Vivian about the party she and Craig were hosting on Saturday to say goodbye to most of the FBI agents that had been undercover with Craig.

“So does everyone have to go but Craig and Hawk?” Vivian asked.

“Yep, they are all being reassigned. Everyone’s cover was blown when they tried to arrest Norman, so now they are all on to new assignments. They just don’t need that many investigators in the new phase of the investigation.” Emma answered.

“So this Senator guy, can they arrest him yet?” Vivian lowered her voice, not wanting to be overheard.

“No, apparently they haven’t found any real evidence linking Norman’s actions to the Senator yet. Hawk is heading out to the prison hospital tomorrow to see if Norman will talk yet. So far he hasn’t said a word.”

Vivian’s heart beat faster at the mention of Hawk.

“So Norman
can
talk?”

“Yeah, apparently. He’s paralyzed from T8 down so he can’t move his legs or do much with his arms, but his face and neck are OK. My first bullet hit him in the left arm, and the other two went into his chest, one of them grazing the 8th thoracic vertebrae, twisting it and putting pressure on the spinal cord there.”

Jerry leaned over and placed a hand on Vivian’s back, right at the top of the bony part of her shoulder blade. “This is where T8 is,” he told her.

Vivian nodded. “Ah.”

Vivian watched Emma’s face when she finished talking about shooting Norman. It remained calm. The incident didn’t seem to bother her as much anymore. Vivian wondered if she was still having the nightmares. She’d ask later.

For now, she smiled. She’d been worried about the consequences of Emma having to shoot Norman. Would it scar her? Mar her sunny and sweet outlook? So far things seemed back to normal. Sometimes though, Vivian wished Norman was dead, instead of paralyzed in a prison hospital. It seemed to her that it would be easier not to be afraid of someone if they were dead and gone.

T
he inside of Norman’s lip bled freely. The slightly metallic taste soothed him. He felt around with his tongue for a new, smooth spot to bite and, finding one, chewed it to pieces. He tried to breathe deeply.
Goddamn nurses and doctors didn’t give a shit if he was paralyzed forever, or even if he lived or died,
Norman thought, imagining he could feel steam coming out of his own ears. He’d been a Captain in the Westwood Harbor Police Department for fuck’s sake! And now they treated him like he was lower than an ant, lower than dirt, worth nothing.

Norman could still smell, and that’s how he knew he’d soiled himself. The heavy aroma of his own stink surrounded him. He didn’t recognize it as his own smell. It wasn’t the smell of a strong, healthy man whose digestion worked fine. It was the smell of an invalid. A putrefying, decayed smell.

“GODDAMN IT GET DOWN HERE AND CLEAN ME UP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. It hurt to do so. But someone needed to know he was still alive in here.

He held his breath and listened. No one was coming.
Goddamn fucking shit piss fuck fucking CUNT!
he screamed, only in his mind. Emma had done this to him. Emma had shot him. Emma had put him in this hellhole. This was all Emma’s fault. If she ever came to see him ... his mind went off on a daydream. One he’d had many times before. He’d whisper to her, whisper quietly so she had to come close, close enough for him to use his teeth. He’d bite something off and swallow it quicker then she knew what was happening. Maybe her nose. Or a piece of her cheek. Or her lower lip. And then he’d laugh and laugh.

Norman stared at the gray wall opposite him and felt his mind cracking under the strain. His arms and legs were paralyzed. They never sat him up. He didn’t have a TV or books or even music. He’d done nothing but lay on this bed for 24 hours a day for 28 days now. He’d memorized the crack pattern in the concrete wall. He’d analyzed every thought in his head. He’d tried to recall books and movies and stories - anything to pass the time. They only turned him once a day. His neck muscles were incredibly sore from being in the same position for 24 hours, but nobody cared. His body was wasting away to nothing. He wouldn’t eat so they fed him through a tube and an IV. They didn’t even have to sit him up for that.

Black despair rolled over Norman like a wave. All he wanted at this point was to die. The thought of being paralyzed and incarcerated forever settled a doom over his heart that left no room for light, no room for hope, nothing to look forward to. If he couldn’t take Emma with him, so be it. As long as he didn’t have to be here anymore.

Footsteps fell in the hall outside his room. Sometimes he could tell who it was by the sound of their walk, but not this time.

“Norman, Norman, Norman, had a little accident did ya?”

It was Jensen, one of the easier nurses to deal with.

Norman shut his eyes, out of energy. He could hear Jensen behind him, gathering items. Jensen ripped off Norman’s diaper from behind and roughly sprayed something on him. Norman could hear the splash of the liquid hitting his skin, but he couldn’t feel it.

“Gotta get you cleaned up. You’re getting a visitor.”

Norman opened his eyes. A visitor. A doctor? A cop? He used to have a few friends, but none he would want to come and see him like this. So far no one had visited him except a few doctors and that FBI agent. The one whose sister he had killed.

Maybe if it was him, he could tell him. He could say
hey asshole, I killed your sister, and then I fucked her corpse.
He hadn’t, well not the second part anyway, but maybe if he got the FBI agent to believe it, the agent would kill him. Just pull out his gun and put Norman out of his considerable misery.

“Who?” he croaked at Jensen.

“Don’t you worry your skinny little ass about it none. You’ll see soon.”

A slap rang through the room and Norman rocked a little bit in the bed. Had Jensen just slapped him on the ass?

“You should really do something about these bedsores Norman. They get any bigger and they gonna swallow you.”

Norman gritted his teeth, willing himself not to say anything. He knew better. Sassing the nurses was a bad idea. He couldn’t feel the bedsores, so he really didn’t care. But he knew they must be getting bad. The bastards should be turning him every few hours, not once a damn day.

Jensen finished whatever he was doing and pulled something across the floor. A chair?

“Gonna turn you over here so you can talk. You gonna talk today Norman?”

Jensen walked around to the side of the bed Norman was facing, undid Norman’s restraints, and pushed Norman over so he was laying on his other side. He grabbed the pillows and propped him up. Norman’s neck sighed in relief at the change in position.

Jensen refastened Norman’s restraints, then grabbed his garbage and disappeared out the door.

Norman had once asked why he had restraints. He was paralyzed for fuck’s sake. It’s not like he could walk out or even hit anybody. The nurse had answered that all paralyzed prisoners had restraints, in case they were faking, or in case they regained movement in their limbs. That had given Norman hope at the time. But the hope had died over the last month. He wasn’t regaining anything.

Norman looked around, eying the layout of the room for the millionth time. Nothing was different, except the gray chair that usually rested against the wall was now in the middle of the room. He closed his eyes and waited. His left foot itched intensely, but Norman ignored it. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, and it wasn’t like he could scratch it or anything.

***

H
awk walked down the plain gray corridor, listening to the screams and catcalls of the miserable prisoners housed within. He quickened his pace, wanting to get this over and done with as soon as possible. How anyone could stand to work here boggled his mind. This place sucked the life out of him as soon as he pulled in the parking lot. By the time he made it into the lobby he felt 90 years old.

It was good, though, he told himself. It had to be doing the same to Norman, so maybe a new tactic would convince Norman to talk. The last time he had come to see Norman, mostly just to find out if being shot had caused Norman to want to confess to anything, Norman had refused to look at him or talk to him.

This time, Hawk hoped things were different. Norman had had several weeks to wallow in his own helplessness and hopelessness. Maybe now he’d be willing to spill.

Hawk approached the door to Norman’s room and stopped for a second, going over his plan in his mind. Then he entered swiftly, taking in the room in one glance.

The room was stark, devoid of even a window, the walls that same horrible gray. There was no TV, no artwork, nothing that might be pleasant. There were a few medical supply cabinets, and the one, small, medical bed.

Norman lay in the middle, eyes closed, looking supremely uncomfortable. A tiny pillow propped his head at an unnatural angle. A threadbare hospital gown covered his body. His legs and feet were bare. Hawk could tell Norman had lost weight since he had last visited. Norman’s color was bad. His face had lost that healthy glow and the padding of good nutrition. Now his cheekbones looked sharp as razors, and his eyes were sunken to new depths.

Hawk almost felt sorry for him. He was sure this fate was worse than death for a man like Norman. All of a sudden, he doubted his plan. If Norman were hoping to die, a little pain wouldn’t scare him. He might enjoy being told what Hawk was about to tell him.

Hawk sat down in the flimsy chair and reevaluated. Well, the plan was the plan, and he wouldn’t know until he tried it. If it didn’t work, he would wait another few weeks and come back with something different.

“Norman, are you ready for your transfer?” Hawk put all the hard strength he had into his voice.

Norman opened his eyes.

Yes! t
hought Hawk.

Norman watched him silently, sizing him up. Trying to drink the knowledge from his soul.

Hawk waited. This part was crucial. Norman had to initiate the contact or this visit would go nowhere fast. Hawk forced himself to relax. This would only work if Norman thought that Hawk didn’t need anything from him, and if Norman decided that he needed something from Hawk. The room though - the gray room with no window pressed in on Hawk and tried to steal his breath. If only there were a window in the far wall! A glimpse of sunlight would have made this much easier.

Hawk stared into Norman’s eyes, but turned his mind’s eye to lighter things, happier things, prettier things. Imagining sunlight streaming through the tree branches, warming his skin. A soft spring breeze stirring the faint scent of jasmine. His old dog Bear, as a fluffy, black puppy, licking his face. The smell of puppy breath. The delicious curve of a woman’s hips and breasts. The way Vivian’s eyes crinkled when she laughed. The feel of a -

“What transfer?” Norman croaked, sounding weak and done to Hawk’s ears.

Norman heard it to. He lifted his head and cleared his throat.

“Last week your doctor told me he was thinking about clearing you for general population soon.”

“General population? But I’m a cop!”

Hawk nodded. “You were a cop, but this is a prison hospital, not a prison. The rule that keeps former cops out of general population in prisons has never been instated here. They aren’t sure what to do with you.”

Norman dropped his head and closed his eyes again. Hawk waited. Hawk and Norman both knew what happens to former cops when they are put in the general population in a prison. Most don’t last 24 hours. None survive. The malice for former cops is strong in prison. That’s why the rule was put into place, that former cops were kept separate from the rest of the prisoners. Without it, a prison sentence is a death sentence for cops.

Norman spoke with his eyes closed. “But I’m paralyzed. Where would I go?”

“You would have a bed in an open ward with other prisoners with varying degrees of non-medical problems. Some paralyzed like you, most not.”

Hawk let that sink in and then went on. “That’s a hard row to hoe for a former cop, I know. I wouldn’t want to be there myself. So I thought I would see if something could be done for you. I called the Governor. His office said he was deferring all decisions of that matter to the Senator. So I called the Senator.”

Hawk waited a beat, then pushed forward with the lie. “The Senator said he didn’t care what happened to you and he supported whatever your doctor decided.”

Hawk sat, studying Norman. This was where it all fell apart or came together. Either Norman decided he wanted to die, and general population was the way to do that, or Norman decided he was ready to live, and he needed to find a way to get out of it.

Norman’s jaw clenched. Hawk imagined he could hear the teeth grinding together.

“Which Senator?” Norman finally spat out, his voice hateful and tight.

“Oberlin.”

Norman’s teeth appeared and bit down onto his lower lip. Hawk watched a trickle of blood flow slowly to the pillow. Norman wasn’t acting defeated. He didn’t look dead yet.

“I could talk to your doctor maybe. See if there was anything else he could do for you. Maybe a semi-private room with another paralyzed inmate. No danger to you.”

Norman kept working his lip.

“I’d be happy to do it for you if you would cooperate with me, just a little bit.”

Norman’s teeth bit deeper. Hawk half stood, alarmed. He didn’t want to watch Norman bite off his own lip.