Gray Spaces

 (NOTE: Some of you read an early version of this some time ago. I dug it out and did a first edit on it, mostly to get back into the routine/writer mindset for NaNo. Don't feel obligated to re-read it. Or to read it for the first time, for that matter. It's about 3000 words, after all. I'm just indulging myself a bit.)

The cruiser rolled to a stop in the apartment complex parking lot, tires softly crushing gravel in the deep silence of early morning. 

I shut off the engine and stepped out into the darkness. I lit a cigarette, trying to clear my head. I had to be sharp.

I knew the place. I had been here dozens of times. The warren of dingy apartment buildings was arranged in four blocks of four buildings, each block around a central area that served as a combination courtyard and playground. They were long since worn out, painted a fading brown and looked as hopeless as it's possible for buildings to look.

She was in there. She was in that shithole. I had to get her out. had to,  Had To, HAD To, HAD TO. I knew it was dangerous obsession, but I could not rest while she was there.  In fact, I hadn't rested, hadn't slept in over 36 hours; not since I'd finally tracked her here.

She reminded me of Jonnie.

But, then, they all did. It made me do stupid things.

I took a long, vicious drag on the cigarette and cleared Jonnie from my mind. I considered the problem again.

The residents were the graying ring left at the high-water mark of their lives. They were transient white-trash, mostly, serious proto-rednecks sometimes working the always available unskilled grunt jobs at the mines and on construction sites, but mostly dealing dope and collecting Government checks in their spare time, of which there was an abundance. Most seemed to have evolved only a small step from simian; we half-joked that it was an unsettled question which direction that step had taken. In any event, there were no cooperative, social, cute, "hey-everybody-let's-fuck," bonobo apes here. These were the big, vicious, meat eating chimps.

This is gonna suck, I thought.

I ground the butt under my heel and radioed the dispatcher and told her where I was. I didn't tell her what I was doing or ask for backup; no point in getting anyone else jammed up for the sake of my little project. If things went badly I was going to be hurt, or worse. If they went well, I stood a 50-50 chance of losing my job.

I smiled to myself. Good odds -- I was comfortable with them, anyhow. For her sake, the odds would have to be a lot closer to zero for me to hesitate for a second.

I dropped the PR24 nightstick into the ring on my equipment belt. I checked to make sure my badge was bright, the seams straight, the boots clean, the black uniform perfect. These details were very important. This time of day they would be stoned to incoherence, and dropping into a polished machine persona just might keep them under control for that extra minute I'd need.

It was nearly 3:00 AM when I kicked through the apartment door unannounced. I'd convinced myself that I didn't really need a warrant since I was kinda in pursuit of a suspect; after all, I knew she was here. Doubtless the court would have something to say on the matter, but resolving problems tended to resolve legal issues, and her being here was a problem long overdue for resolution.

It was dark as a horror-movie tomb, a hazy confusion of sharp smelling gray smoke and the stink of human grease and people scattered like pick-up sticks, sleeping in their own trash. My entrance hadn't even raised an eyebrow.

Crossing the darkened, colorless room littered with passed-out bodies was like navigating a yard full of dogshit. I stepped over most of them, stepped on one, and finally stood in front of Zig Zag.

He was watching MTV, sitting in grand style in a plush arm chair upholstered in red fabric with large white flowers, a splash of cheery color growing from the middle of the garbage heap. He looked up at me and calmly lit a bong, inhaling deeply. He was a tough guy, hard to shake, I'd give him that.

"Whaddaya want Sarge?" he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke up at me.

"You know," I said. "I was here yesterday morning. I asked nice then. Not now. I want her. It's time for her to go home."

"Big surprise," said Zig Zag, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." He gestured smugly at the bong. "But, it's pretty good dope. Maybe I'll remember tomorrow."

"It's OK Zig Zag, you just sit there. I'll go find her myself."

Zig Zag was a hard-core old biker, and a long-time doper, and he was so trashed he could barely make out one end of a thought from another, but there was nothing wrong with his reaction time. He was up and standing in front of me in a flash.

"What I think is that you ought to get the fuck out of here," he snarled.

Several of the corpses I'd stepped over were beginning to realize that something was going on. They began pulling themselves to their feet.

A thrill of fear shot from the base of my skull, rippling down my back like an electric shock. I could feel the adrenaline seize my throat and the hair prickled up on my forearms. I exhaled slowly with my mouth open.

Minimum movement, smooth like ball bearings; I slid my hand down past my belt, snagging the PR-24 in a single motion.

"You know, if people are so close to me I can touch them, I get all scared," I announced in a flat voice, "and when I'm all scared like that, bad things can happen."

By way of demonstration I snapped the PR-24 in a blurred half-circle and touched an arm. The arm's owner jerked and fell backwards with a scream and a crash over a coffee table as he tried to back away. He probably thought I'd broken his arm with that little touch but I'd only slapped a nerve group.  As stoned as he was, he wouldn't even remember where he got the quarter-sized bruise on his elbow in the morning. There was a general movement to step back from me. Everyone seemed to be inclined to give me the room I wanted.

"Hey, fuckhead!" said Zig Zag, starting to move toward me, then thinking better of it, "you got no call to come in here and start beating on people."

"Zig Zag," I said, emotionless, enunciating sharply enough to cut flesh, "Focus. Where is she?"

He looked at the zombies. "Get this asshole out of here."

"We don't want to do that, do we guys?" I said without taking my eyes off of Zig Zag. They milled like a cluster of maggots, trying to push a decision out through layers of charred brain. No one moved closer.

I laughed. It wasn't any bullshit movie tough-guy courage. I was scared shitless, truth be known. It was just reaction to the adrenaline dump. Blood sang in my ears, and there was a low buzz like wasps, and a taste of copper that reminded me of when I was a kid and once put a penny in my mouth and held it there for a whole minute... I took a deep breath and smiled, and Zig Zag stepped back.

I put on a conversational tone. "I'm about 3 seconds from getting on this radio and yelling 'officer down' and 'riot.'" I said.

"Then you KNOW what happens, don't you? More cops are coming. And not just a couple of cops, either, Zig Zag, lots of cops, more cops than you've ever seen before in one place. It's gonna fucking rain po-lice, and then every single human in this shithole is gonna take a beating and go to jail, then I'm gonna tell them you started it. You're a three-time felon, so I'm guessing instigating a riot while you're tits-deep in dope and other felons would be bad, yes? You'll get to die of old age in a steel box, and I'll get what I want anyway." I swept the PR-24 past his face, casually, as if I were too bored to bother with waiting for an answer. "Or you can just give me the girl now and get on with your life."

He gritted his teeth. Things would go very badly very quickly if he made the wrong decision.

"So what's it going to be? Have you seen your last daylight ever, or are we all friends here after all?"

"She's in one of the rooms down the hall," he spat. "Get her and get the fuck out."

"Thanks, Zig Zag," I smiled, all teeth, no eyes, "you're a sport."

I dragged her out of the bedroom handcuffed and barefoot, spitting and screaming. She'd been hiding in the closet under a pile of dirty laundry.

"Zig Zag!" she screamed, "don't let him take me!"

Zig Zag, back in his flowered throne, didn't move.

"What do you want her for, anyhow?" he asked.

"She's a runaway," I said. He actually looked surprised. "She's just barely fourteen. But you knew that, right?"

"Fuckin' cunt," he yelled at her in sudden fury, "Fucking fourteen? You TRYING to get me locked up? I'll fuckin' kill you, bitch!" He sprang to his feet and took a step toward her and she screamed and jerked away from him against me, struggling like a wild animal in a trap. I let go of her and she fell to the floor.

The PR-24 made a black blur -- textbook; the tip buried itself just below his sternum, right at the sweet spot, nearly lifting him off his feet. Zig Zag exhaled with a great "whoof!" and collapsed back into the chair, gasping.

"You really gotta expand your vocabulary, bud," I said. His eyes glittered with hate, but he still couldn't get his breath. The strike to his solar plexus had frozen his diaphram; but he'd be fine in a few minutes, albeit a little sore.

I figured it would probably be best to be gone by then.

I reached down and grabbed her arm. She was shaking like a frightened chihuahua, finally more afraid of Zig Zag than me. I pulled her, terrified and weeping to her feet, then to the front door and out. A beer bottle smashed on the door frame behind us, and I swung around and pushed her behind me. I dropped the PR-24 and my Beretta appeared in my hand locked and loaded, sights centered on the doorway, waiting for the rush.

But it never came. Apparently the bottle was just a pro-forma protest.

She was sobbing as I dragged her across the courtyard and out into the parking lot to the patrol car. I leaned her over the trunk, face down.

"Sorry, kid, nothing personal," I apologized, and searched her while she wept. At least she'd stopped struggling. Nothing in her pockets -- used up corners of baggies with residue, a small flat brush, a note from a boy carried so long that it was unreadable. I swept my hands down her legs and felt the single-edged razor blade she'd hidden in the cuff rip through my index finger.

Shit. I should have been wearing gloves.

I carefully checked the other cuff, but the razor blade was her only weapon. I opened the back door and put her into the cage. She was still weeping softly.

I stood next to the car in the dark, the only illumination the streetlight a half-block away, and waited for it. Suddenly it was on me like a wild animal. My hands shook, and bright pressure behind my face made me feel like I had been punched hard and was about to have a nosebleed. A wave of emotion and nausea crashed over me.

I waited patiently -- and it passed, a beach wave soaking into the sand. It always did, but it always took something with it. Extreme fear with a whiff of death and adrenaline overload is great stuff when one needs it; but the backside for me is a nasty crash, leaving me wrung out and depressed.

It began to fade. I was leaning against the car, head down, hands on my knees, breathing hard. My hand was warm, and I could feel the blood dripping onto the pavement. I took a deep breath and stood up.

Well, let's see what we've done here, shall we?

I grabbed the big rechargeable flashlight out of the car and held it under my arm to examine the wound. It looked bad, but wasn't, not really.  Just messy. The razor blade had cut deep, but not quite into the muscle, a clean cut on the side of the finger, second knuckle to first, just short of the fingertip; the bleeding was beginning to slow already. The blood had smeared and run, leaving clotted rivulets, making it look worse than it was.

I squeezed the finger forcing it to bleed, enormous crimson drops splashing to the ground in a stream, hopefully washing out any toxins forced in on the edge of the razor blade. Then I got a couple of Wet-Ones from the box I carried in the trunk and cleaned up. I forced the wound open and laid in antibiotic cream (pain) then wrapped a small compression bandage around the finger. A little touch-up work with another Wet-One -- good as new.

Now, if I could just keep from banging the thing around for a few hours, it would be fine.

It would have to wait till tomorrow for a doctor. If I went to the ER for the stitches it looked like it was going to need, there would be a report -- and I'd have to charge her. I looked at her leaning against the window in the back door, huge, hurt brown eyes watching me in misery, tears running down her face...ah, Jonnie, I'm so sorry. No, we wouldn't be doing that.

Looked like I was going to be having -- or at least reporting -- some sort of household accident in the morning.

-------------

I'd been working her case for awhile. I knew why she was a runaway and why she'd been a runaway before, and why she would be again, and why she would die if I didn't stop it and give her a fighting chance. I knew that her father was doing bad things, but there was no proving it. No matter how long I worked, it always surprised me how many times on The Job I'd find that something was a fact, but couldn't be proven.

So I took her back home from Zig Zag, and she wept wordless despair all the way, knowing where she was going was clean and bright and warm and in a nice neighborhood, and worse than where she'd been.

Her father was relieved, and shook my hand telling me how much he appreciated me bringing her home. My skin crawled, trying to get away from his touch. Molten hate seethed up through me, but I controlled it, handled it. I had to, or I would have killed him where he stood.

Her mother was hysterically glad to see us, and took her little girl up to her room, both of them crying and clinging to one another.

I decided to go ahead and have a chat with Dad while they were gone. There was nothing to lose, and the night had been running pretty lucky. When he heard which direction our conversation was going, he slid open the glass doors to the back and motioned me to be quiet and come with him. We stepped out, and he silently slid the door closed, watching the top of the stairs, where his wife had gone with his daughter, like a hawk.

We stood on the back porch and smoked and talked. Eventually he knew that I knew, and he tried to explain. I stopped him and told him I didn't care about his explanation, nor his "problem". I told him I didn't give a shit how he fixed it; he could get counseling, he could get medication, he could get religion, he could stick a pistol in his mouth -- he was a subhuman, I told him, looking at him as if he were something I'd found stuck to my boots. It was just us and the night, so I pulled no punches, didn't decorate what I wanted to say. I told him I literally did not care if he lived or died if were a choice between him and her. Whatever he decided, I told him, it stopped now, or I was coming back.

Then I told him in detail what I was going to do if he ever touched her again, or was even just alone with her in a room or a house again. There was no yelling, no anger, no Hollywood pick-him-up-by-the-throat frothing. Just a quiet, earnest talk between two guys smoking on the deck.

Then, I calmly and carefully explained all the reasons he couldn't stop me from doing it. I never raised my voice, not once, but it was necessary to make sure he understood our positions.

In the end, he knew I was serious.

I told him I appreciated him giving me the chance to speak with him and clear the air. He was ashen gray, pale as death.

I stubbed my cigarette out in a potted plant near the sliding glass doors, told him to have a nice night, and went back out on patrol.

After a long couple of months, he and his wife divorced, and he left, moving to Salt Lake City, and never came back, and that was that.

Slowly, she surfaced. It was terrible in all kinds of ways that no one but her will ever know, but she lived. She eventually learned to smile again. She went back to school, and then had friends and, after a long while, boyfriends, and drama; and she grew up. Almost three years later, I made a traffic stop on a car that was loaded with high-school girls, all wide-eyed and on the verge of crying, and she was there. They'd stolen a six-pack of beer from one of their parents and were trying to hide it from me.

She was mortified...that she'd been caught being a normal teenager. I smiled, and pretended I didn't see anything, and let them go, to their considerable relief. I didn't see her anymore except sometimes at a distance or driving by on her way to school.

Then one day, an envelope was left for me at the front desk at the Department. It was an invitation to her High School graduation. It had the words "Thank You," in flowery, girly handwriting and a heart drawn around them in red ink, and her first name.

I didn't go.