SquidgeWorld Archive

Safe

I landed hard on the pavement. I hadn't expected this and he caught me by surprise. Jim had warned me about staying at the university so late and the dangers that could find me. My vision darkened at the edges, and I could feel blood seeping into my mouth, its sharp coppery taste sending a million signals to my brain. I tried to turn and scramble away, but I was too slow. He grabbed me by the neck, lifted me up, and slammed me head-on into the wall next to us, then proceeded to slam his fist into my rib cage repeatedly.

"Where is she, you little shit?" he roared as he whipped me around, and in spite of the pain, in spite of the cold, in spite of all the crap that had happened in the past six weeks, I had to smile. She was safe and this son of a bitch was never going to touch her again.

But smiling was a bad move. Jim would have been really pissed at me about now. He's told me before about not provoking someone who's already beating the crap out of me.

Of course, he picked up on the smile right away, and his rage exploded again. He slammed his right fist into my face. Damn, that hurt! I think he may have broken my nose. The pain crashed through me, choking me with its intensity. When I could breathe again, I turned my head to one side and spat. I wondered what he was waiting for? I looked at the clot of blood and mucus that I'd just relieved myself of, and my heart sank. Was that a tooth in there as well? Aw, shit, this really sucked.

"You want me to tell you where Anita is?" I asked, hoping he'd think I was open to negotiating. He was still holding me pressed against the wall, and my body recoiled, waiting for the attack, but my reactions didn't seem to bother him any. After all, he had a good six inches and sixty pounds on me. I felt him relax a little, possibly waiting for an answer.

That was all I needed.

I head-butted him as hard as I could, grateful for all the self-defense practice I'd had with Jim -- who was also six inches taller than me and had a good sixty pounds on me. I grinned again as I ignored the jolt of pain that jackknifed through to the back of my skull.

He let out a single muffled grunt of surprise and released me. Still, he was quick, much quicker than I thought he'd be after a surprise blow like that, and he immediately swung at me with a vicious uppercut. I dodged to the left, missing his fist more out of luck than anything else, pulled back, and threw my own fist as hard as I could at his face. He jerked his head back to avoid the swing, but not far enough. I caught him right on the throat. He staggered backwards, not able to breathe, his hands clutching at his neck, leaving himself completely exposed.

Now a long time ago, before I'd been kidnapped and shot at, beaten up and just generally abused, I was an avowed pacifist. And to a certain extent I still am. I don't carry a gun -- and I won't. I don't look for fights, and if given the opportunity, words are my weapon of choice. But Jim made me learn to defend myself better; he insisted that I had to be able to protect myself, because he couldn't always be around. He couldn't always keep me safe.

So, despite any qualms about the lack of ethics in ignoring the Marquis of Queensbury rules, I realized that when you're my size, and you've got two hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle stretched on a six foot two frame that is extremely pissed at you, you take advantage of any break you get. So while he struggled to get air through his windpipe, I reared back and kicked him as hard as I could in the nuts. He actually rose up in the air a few inches before coming back down, eyes bulging, veins popping out on his neck. He collapsed to his knees, hands clasped around his groin, his mouth a big 'O', and this time I drew back and kicked him squarely on the left side of his head. I heard a wet crack and he collapsed onto the pavement.

I headed back for my office immediately and only realized I didn't have my keys when I got to the door. I didn't have my keys because I had dropped them when the behemoth attacked me. And I didn't have my cell phone or my wallet or any money because that was all in my backpack, which was in the back seat of my car where I'd thrown it before I'd gotten slugged. I wondered briefly if I dared risk trying to go back and get my keys before Anger Boy woke up, but I didn't want to think about what would happen if I timed it wrong and he grabbed me and decided to yank my insides out and feed them to me.

So, gasping for breath and bleeding, I turned and ran. I don't know why I didn't head for campus security; I wasn't thinking straight. I just knew I wanted out of there. It's hard, trying to breathe while you're spitting out blood every thirty seconds or so. My mind was racing ahead, trying to figure out where was the best place to go where I could catch a cab still cruising at this hour. Over by the movie theaters and coffee houses that always surrounded a college. I raced across the campus and down the street, finally stumbling over to Foxgrove Ave. I walked out of an alley I'd cut through, then jumped back.
There were still a few cabs prowling the city at this time of the night, but it wouldn't do me any good trying to hail one with my face covered in blood and looking like I'd just gone ten rounds with Tyson. At least I still had all of my ear. I grinned as I stripped off my shirt, flipped it inside out, and wiped off as much blood as I could from my face. Then I turned it right side out, slipped it back on, and walked out onto the street.

Jim was not going to be happy when I got home. I'd broken about a dozen different safety rules and I was sure I was going to hear about every one of them.

Don't stay so late at the university.

Don't park at the far end of the lot.

Don't park in the lot that has that high wall at one end; it makes it too easy for someone to hide in the shadows.

Call home before leaving so he knows I'm coming.

Call security for an escort when you leave the building.

Keep your cell phone on your person, not in your backpack.

Oh, hell! There were others I'm sure I'd managed to trash tonight as well, but I still wasn't thinking too clearly.

One of the streetlights was out, so I stood under it, thinking I'd still have a better shot at getting picked up if the driver couldn't get a good look at me. A cab appeared, and I raised my arm. As it drove by I looked inside. Occupied. Damn.

I could always just call Jim, but my friend from the parking lot would be waking up pretty soon -- if he hadn't already -- and when he did I had a feeling he'd
come after me with a vengeance. When you get kicked in the nuts, it becomes personal.

I'd be willing to bet he'd forgotten all about Anita for the time being.

Another cab turned onto the street. I tried hailing it, and watched helplessly as it drove by me. Occupied again. Talk about the damned Sandburg luck ...

I started walking down the street. I was nervous just standing here and felt too much like a target. I wanted to get as far away from him as possible. And besides, with all this adrenaline inside me, I was too wound up to stand still. But then, I remembered what I'd look like in the light, so I turned and went back to my spot under the broken lamp.

I was really starting to feel bad. As the adrenaline wore off, shock was setting in. The vision in my left eye was starting to go in and out of focus. I was starting to shake pretty badly. Some of it was still the adrenaline; some of it was the fear. Most of it was the fact that I just wanted to be at home in bed. Who needs this shit at three in the morning, man?

I just hoped Jim could hold off on the lecture. I didn't think I could take it tonight.

Another cab was coming. I raised my arm, and my heart jumped as it flashed its lights and pulled over. I kept my head lowered and got into the back seat.

"Where to?" the driver asked in a bored Indian accent. All my fears about how I looked seemed to have been for naught because he looked about as interested in me as he'd be in a pile of dog turds. I rattled off the loft's address, then settled back into my seat, trying to look drunk. By now my head had become one big pulsating mass, threatening to burst. I briefly wondered if I'd gone beyond concussion and into subdural hematoma. Bad news, man. That's not the kind of shit you'd want to wind up with.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Jim would know. I'd be home soon and he would clean me up and bandage me and he'd let me know it was going to be all right.

And, of course, he'd roast my ass for taking unnecessary risks with my safety. Jim's really big on safety.

It could've been five minutes, it could've been an hour, I don't really know, but the cabdriver finally got to the loft. I got out and told him I didn't have any money. Needless to say, he was a little pissed, but he calmed when I told him to come on up and the cop I lived with would pay him. But Jim must have been listening for me in his sleep, because by the time I staggered into the building, he was there, reaching out and holding me up.

He gave the cabbie a twenty and a dirty look for not helping me more, then hauled me toward the stairs.

The elevator was out -- again.

Two flights. Two fucking flights of stairs. I stood in front of the first one, Jim's arm around me, his hand holding me up as I swayed back and forth, contemplating.

"Want me to carry you, Sandburg?" he asked, half-sarcastic, half-serious.

That got me started. I was halfway there when I had to stop and lower my head to my knees to let the lightheadedness fade, but that got the headache hammering away even more inside my head, making me dry-heave. Jim was practically holding me up, murmuring encouragement and not lecturing, thank God. I got going again. The next time the lightheadedness threatened to take over, I stopped. I put my thumb in my mouth, and bit down as hard as I could. I welcomed the pain as it chased the wooziness away, but I must have pissed Jim off because he grabbed my hand and yanked it from my mouth, then lifted me up with a grunt and carried me up the last half-flight.

By the time he put me down, my vision was fading in and out. I leaned against the wall where Jim put me while he opened the door. I managed to shuffle over to the sofa almost by myself, but then I collapsed.

Jim pushed me back onto the sofa, very gently, and disappeared. He was back in a flash with a glass of water, first aid kit, and pain relievers.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked as he began to clean my face.

"Anita's husband," I grunted. By now my headache was very bad, pulsing, throbbing, making me nauseous again. "Gonna be sick."

Jim must have planned for this contingency as well, because when I tried to rise and head for the bathroom, he just held a basin in front of me and said, "Let 'er rip."

So I did.

When I had emptied my stomach of everything possible, I fell back against the couch. A glass of water appeared and I rinsed my mouth and spit, then drank a few swallows.

"Easy," Jim said, pulling the glass from me. "You drink too much, you're just gonna get sick again." He put the glass down and went back to washing my face. It hurt, but it felt good, too. "Where'd this happen?"

"Parking lot," I said shortly, hoping he'd leave it alone. I should have known better.

"I've told you not to park so damned far from the building, Sandburg," Jim grumbled, but his touch was still gentle. "Bet you were in the lot by the wall, too, weren't you?"

"Don't, Jim," I begged, "I don't think I can take it tonight."

He grunted, all the acknowledgement I would get, but he let it go. He was touching my nose now and it hurt. "I think it's broken," he said.

I just closed my eyes.

"What else hurts?"

I shrugged. "Everything. Mostly my head. He slammed me into the wall a few times. And my chest."

Jim stripped my shirt off and ran his hands lightly over my rib cage. "Bruised," he announced, "but not broken." His hands then touched my head and I marveled at the gentleness this big, strong man was capable of. Long fingers ran carefully over my skull, fingering through the snarls in my hair to trace slowly over every inch of my scalp. "Nothing's broken up here, either," he announced, "but you're on head injury watch for the next twelve hours."

" 'm sorry, Jim," I said, and I really was. This meant he'd have to stay awake and wake me every hour for the next twelve.

He patted my shoulder gently. "It's all right, Blair."

At that, my eyes filled with tears -- it had to be shock. For some reason, I could deal with him being mad at me for not listening, I could deal with him being frustrated that I didn't follow simple safety guidelines. I could even deal with him being annoyed that he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight. But hearing him say my name in that particular tone that told me how much he cared? I couldn't deal with that and the tears fell.

He pulled me into a hug and held me until the emotional storm passed then helped settle me comfortably on the couch. That was Jim -- total enigma at times. He'd be mad at me for working late, a perfectly logical thing for me to do because it was the only way I got everything done that needed to be done, but then I break down like some teenaged girl and he's suddenly Mr. Understanding.
It completely baffles me.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked as he passed me three Tylenol and the water glass.

I swallowed quickly, then took a couple of extra sips and passed the glass back. "Jackson was waiting for me. I got the car open, threw my pack in the back seat and was getting ready to get in, when he grabbed me. He proceeded to beat the shit out of me. I got in a couple of blows, including one very nifty kick to the family jewels that put him down. Then I nailed him in the head." I looked up, suddenly alarmed. "Oh, shit, Jim! I may have really hurt him. I kicked him in the temple." I struggled to rise, but Jim was holding me down. "We need to go check on him!"

"Shhhh, Chief," he said calmly. "Let me call the station. They'll send someone out to pick him up if he's still there."

"Pick him up?" I asked in confusion.

"For assault," Jim said grimly.

"Oh." I nodded, then covered my face with my hands. "God, Jim. I can't believe I did that. He was down. I didn't have to kick him again."

"Blair," Jim's tone was gentle as he pulled my hands from my eyes, "what did he want?" He laid my hands in my lap, then rested his hands on my shoulders, making me look at him as we spoke.

"To know where Anita was," I replied.

"And would you have told him?"

"Of course not," I said without thinking.

"Then you had to kick him, because if you didn't put him out, he would have kept after you until he killed you." He tightened his grip on me, and I could feel the slight shudder that ran through him at those words.

"I'm okay," I said, reaching out to touch his arm.

His jaw was tight and he nodded. "Yes, you are. And you're going to stay that way." He nudged me back a little more until I was laying down on the couch, then covered me with a blanket. "You rest," he said softly. "I'm going to make a few calls."

I fell asleep soon after and I only vaguely remember being awakened as the hours passed. Jim fed me Tylenol and made sure I drank and I drifted through the night and morning and into the early afternoon. When I finally woke for real,
my bladder insisting on a rendezvous with the bathroom, Jim was sitting in the chair across from me, reading a paperback.

I started to rise and he was beside me so fast, I wondered that I had even seen him move. "Steady," he said as he helped me to my feet.

He left me at the bathroom door and I managed to take care of business, then wash my hands all by myself. I know that sounds strange but believe me, at the time it was a major accomplishment. I spent a few minutes just looking at
myself in the mirror. My face was so swollen, all my features looked distorted. Vivid bruises in purple, red and black ran together, no way of knowing where one stopped and the next one started. Both eyes were swollen half-shut. And we won't even talk about my broken nose.

Jim was waiting when I emerged and he helped me back to the couch. "You think you can eat?" he asked.

And that made me think about the tooth. I probed gingerly and sure enough, I was missing a molar on the right side. "Damn!" I said, more irritated than anything.

"What?"

"I just remembered I lost a tooth last night."

Jim pried my jaw open and looked, then sighed. "You should have told me last night. If we'd gotten it, they might have been able to put it back in."

"I forgot, all right?" I grumbled. "I had other things on my mind."

Jim patted my shoulder. "All right, Sandburg," he said, "I remember. No lectures. But look, will you at least promise me you'll keep the damned cell phone on you -- in a pocket, on your belt -- just not in the backpack where you can't get to it easily. Can you do that? For me?"

I looked at Jim. His eyes were shadowed with worry and lack of sleep and I knew this was a small enough concession to make if it would ease that look of concern, so I nodded. "Yeah, Jim, I can do that."

He nodded and gave me a slight smile. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I'm gonna make you some soup. You stay put."

He talked as he worked and I listened.

"Jackson was gone when they got there last night. He must have come to and split. But they found your keys and one of the uniforms drove your car home for you. I went down and got your stuff and it doesn't look like that shithead did anything to it."

That was interesting. It hadn't occurred to me that Jackson might have gone on a rampage on my car or my belongings. You'd think after a couple of years of living with a cop and being around cops all the time, I'd have thought about something like that. But I didn't. Still, I was glad that Jackson hadn't thought of it either. It would have been all too easy for him to destroy my laptop and there was no way I could afford to replace that right now.

"They sent a car to his place, but he wasn't there, so they put a couple of guys on watch and they picked him up an hour or so ago." Jim looked up from his soup warming and met my eyes. "You're going to have to go down and identify him."

I nodded. "I can do that."

"Simon told me this guy was pure muscle, Blair, and big. Even after I told him how messed up you were, Simon was surprised it wasn't worse." I could hear the hitch in his voice as he spoke. "Guess you got lucky."

I snorted. "Wasn't luck," I remarked. "It was all those hours of practice with you, all those bumps and bruises you took letting me use you for target practice." I sighed and lowered my head. "If you hadn't worked with me like that, I think he would have killed me."

"It was worth it then," Jim said gruffly. "Don't want to lose you." He poured soup in a mug and brought it over, pressing it gently into my hands. "You up to making the ID this afternoon?"

I sipped and nodded. "With my testimony, there won't be any doubt he's going away now, will there, Jim? Anita won't have to keep hiding."

Jim nodded. "You make a clean ID and I think we can get him on attempted murder. We need to go to the hospital and get your injuries documented, but when the jury sees the size difference, and what he did to you, I think we've got a shot at making the case."

I finished the soup and set the cup on the table, then rose to go and change.

"Blair?" Jim called as I got to the door to my room.

I turned and waited.

"The phone, Blair," he said softly. "Please keep the phone on you."

I nodded.

"And use it," he added, even more softly.

"I will, Jim. I promise." I turned and went into my room and began to change.

It was nice to have someone who cared that I was safe.