The Morning After the Night Before
 
Author: Linda Wilson AKA ranapipens4ever (rana pipens = bullfrog–love
frogs!)

E-mail: linda_31467@msn.com

Rated: PG-13–some strong language

Summary: This is one possible scenario for the aftermath of "All the
Rage". It started out as a response to Romantique's challenge, but
went way beyond her word count, so it will just have to stand on its
own.

Disclaimer: Nick and Burton Fallin, Detective Darger, Taliek Allen,
James Mooney, Alvin Masterson, Larry Flood, and Judge T. Handley are
all taken directly from "The Guardian." Critical Care Nurse Gerri
Henninger and Dr. DeThomas are my own creation. Resemblance to any
person living or dead is purely coincidental; similarity of events,
dates, characters or the portrayal of events is unintentional. The
garden is imaginary; the toads that live there are real.

You made me sound like an intelligent human being again, Suzanne and
Janet–thanks.


--+--
 

Neither Fallin said anything until Nick turned a corner and passed
the LSP building. The lights were on in the offices, which didn't
surprise him–occasionally the cleaning crew came in early. "What do
you want to do?" he asked his father.

"Do? I don't know," the elder Fallin replied. For the first time
since they had climbed in the car and sped from the Heinz Hall
parking garage Burton turned his head and really looked at his son.
He pointed to Nick's knuckles with the cigarette he had been lighting
as Nick pulled out of the garage."You better put something on your
hands," he advised.

"Yeah."

"I mean it. You can't go around with your knuckles all bloody."

"All right," Nick said.

A few more miles of the drive passed in silence. "I don't think I
want to stay at the house tonight," Burton sighed.

Can't handle it now that Shannon's gone, huh? Nick thought. What
would you do if I wasn't here, anyway? "You want to pack a bag?" was
all he said.

"Sure."

Nick pulled up in front of Burton's house. "I'll wait in the car," he
said quietly.

"No, no," Burton said. "While I'm getting my things together you put
some peroxide and ointment on those knuckles."

"Uh-huh." As Burton changed out of his tuxedo and put some things in
an overnight bag, Nick did as he was told. The peroxide stung
slightly and Nick welcomed the sensation. At least, he told himself,
I can feel that. He looked up from putting Neosporin on his hands to
find Burton standing in the doorway of the bathroom. His tuxedo and
his dress shirt were folded over one arm, ready for a trip to the dry
cleaners.

"You ready?" Burton asked his son.

Nick nodded. "You get any blood on your shirt?" he asked his father.

"I couldn't find any," Burton said. "I don't know if I got any on my
pants or my jacket." He inspected Nick carefully. "I don't see any on
you."

"I'll look closer when we get to my place," Nick said. He took the
overnight bag from his father and they started down the stairs. Nick
carefully avoided glancing in the direction of what had once been his
bedroom–the room that had been taken over by Shannon Gressler. Would
Shannon ever occupy that room again? He decided he didn't know the
answer to that one. Would he? He didn't know the answer to that one,
either. He wondered if he cared any more and decided that, too, was
something beyond his ability to deal with at the moment.

The drive to Ellsworth Avenue was also a silent one. To his surprise
Nick found a parking space almost in front of the house. They got out
and went inside.

The guestroom bed was already made up and all Nick had to do was put
towels in the guest bathroom. The irony struck him. Last year at this
time I was doing this for Mandy, he thought. "And it'll probably have
the same result."

Burton's "What?" made him realize he had spoken his thought.

"This time last year I was doing this exact thing for Mandy," Nick
said. He turned and headed for the stairs. "I'm going to make some
coffee."

Burton followed him downstairs and into the kitchen. "That's right, I
remember," he said.

"It won't turn out the same way this time," Nick said quietly. He
measured out four scoops of coffee, put them in his coffee maker and
filled the carafe to the four-cup level at the sink. He poured in the
water and turned the machine on.

Burton put two cups on the breakfast bar. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, come on, Dad. I fought it last time because I really didn't do
anything wrong. They were Mandy's drugs and I was calling the cops,
like a good citizen and an officer of the court, when she attacked
me." Even then, Mary and Shannon between them almost put me away, but
let's not go into that now, he thought. "This is different."

"How? The guy attacked me."

"Yeah–-after you started it."

"So what? You came to my defense. And the guy was plainly hostile and
aggressive."

"Dad, it doesn't matter if he was the reincarnation of Attila the
Hun. Three sessions of court-ordered anger management therapy and
then I go and beat the shit out of some clown I never saw before over
a damn parking space. If that isn't a probation violation I don't
know what is. Handley's been looking for a reason to nail me ever
since last year, and now she's got a very good one."

"I still think we can beat it. It's his word against ours, you were
defending me and anyway there were no witnesses."

"Yeah, sure. I suppose every security camera in that garage
conveniently shorted out."

The coffee was ready and Burton poured a cup for Nick and one for
himself. He put some sugar into his and stirred it
thoughtfully. "That just might be the case," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Remember last year when we got the city legal work and I gave you
the bond issue?" Nick nodded. "The Planning Commission and the
Buildings Department had a wish list of what they wanted to do with
the bond revenues. One of the things on that list was revamping the
security cameras in the Heinz Hall parking garage. The ones in there
now haven't worked for about a year."

"Yeah?"

"The bond revenues haven't come in yet. Those cameras are still out
because the city doesn't have the money to replace them. So I think
we're home free on this one."

Nick did not respond at first. "That doesn't make me feel any
better," he finally answered.

"Come on, Nicholas–-I don't think we're the first ones to have a run-
in with somebody that hostile. The guy asked for it."

"`I'll be judge, I'll be jury'." Nick quoted Alice In Wonderland. "It
isn't supposed to work that way." His cell phone beeped–the new one
that his cell phone service carrier had replaced two days after he
had smashed its predecessor into a courtroom table, earning himself
the anger management sessions. "What the hell–it's almost midnight."
He opened the phone. "Whoever you are, this better be important," he
snapped.

The conversation was one-sided, with "What? When? Oh, my God!"
constituting Nick's responses. Finally Nick closed the phone, his
face pale and shocked.

"What is it?" Burton asked.

"It's–-it's James–-he's been shot." Nick ran his hand through his
hair restlessly.

"What?! Where, for God's sake?"

"LSP. Alvin went in to pick up a file a couple of hours ago and found
them."

"Them?"

"Yeah–Larry Flood got it, too." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Who's Larry Flood?"

Nick swallowed, his voice shaky. "Larry Flood? He's a new guy at LSP–
just started this week. That is, he was. He's dead."

"Nicholas, pull yourself together. What did Alvin say?"

Nick closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Alvin said–-he said–-the
last time he saw James and Larry they were waiting for the elevator–
the car was full, and they couldn't get on with everyone else, so
they were the only two left in the office. Alvin went back to LSP
tonight about 10:30 to get a file he said he wanted to look at over
the weekend and found them. Larry was shot once in the head. James
was shot in the lower chest." Nick took another breath and stared at
his father. "Larry was dead. James is barely alive, Alvin said. He
was calling from the hospital–-James is in surgery, but they don't
know if he'll make it."

"My God," Burton said. "Does Alvin have any idea who did it?"

Nick put down his coffee cup. "He doesn't-–but I think I do."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Remember when you stayed here last fall because of your eye
and I told you James's nephew, Levi, had been murdered?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know all this at the time, but I found out later that James
asked–-an-–acquaintance of his named Winston to find out who killed
Levi. This Winston fingered a guy, Taliek Allen. James and his
friends paid Allen a visit."

"How do you know that?" Burton asked.

"Because among the eight million other things I was doing at the
time, I talked to James outside Allen's house. James told me to get
out of there, considering my status–-"

"Status, yes," Burton said. "I understand."

"–-and as I was pulling away another car came up and some other guys
got out. They all had those damn hoods up, and I couldn't see their
faces."

Burton frowned. "Did you see them enter the house?"

"No, and I didn't know whose house it was, either. I left as they
were getting out of the car." Nick took a breath. "The next day,
James came in to LSP with his hands looking like mine do now–-only
worse; I think I remember he was sporting a band-aid on one knuckle."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing, for about five or six months. Then I got a new LSP client-–
Taliek Allen." Nick shuddered. "Whoever worked him over was thorough–
he's missing about half his face and he's blind in his left eye. I
had to attend that continuing education seminar so James covered for
me at his first hearing."

Burton looked at his coffee cup. The continuing education seminar and
its aftermath were something neither he nor Nick wanted to dwell
on."What was Allen's case about, anyway?" he asked.

"Allen was trying to get visitation with his son–-the kid is–-I don't
know, a year old or so. Allen's girlfriend, the child's mother, is
Winston's sister. Allen roughed her up once or twice and she was
living with Winston to get away from him. Winston wanted to get back
at Allen for beating up his sister, so last November he tricked James
into doing it for him." Nick paused, then went on. "At first, James
took an interest in the case, even though he declined when I asked
him if he wanted to stay on as Allen's attorney–-he didn't have the
time, he said. Damsen decided that neither parent could provide a
proper home environment and put the kid in foster care, and about
then James realized that Allen was the man he and his friends
attacked. I advised James to forget it and move on and as far as I
know he never said anything officially, but I gather he did tell
Allen. That was a week or so ago."

"So this Allen waited until tonight and went after James and that
other guy–what did you say his name was, Larry Flood?"

"Yeah, Larry Flood. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time," Nick said with a sigh.

Burton got up and went to the coffee maker and poured himself another
cup. "I imagine the cops would like to know what you just told me."

"Yeah. I'm going to call that detective–-Darger–-remember him?"

"Yes, I do." Burton frowned. Then a lifetime of legal training kicked
his brain into gear. "Nicholas, I don't see how you're in any way
culpable for the first incident–-you didn't know who lived in the
house at the time, you weren't present to witness any wrongdoing on
anyone else's part and you certainly didn't instigate any of what
happened."

"I had reason to believe a criminal act was about to take place."

"No, you didn't. And whatever you surmised can't be proven and isn't
admissible."

"All the same, if I'd said or done something then, this wouldn't have
happened tonight."

Burton shrugged. "You don't know that."

Nick looked at his father. "All right, from a legal standpoint I'm
not responsible. But from a moral standpoint-–"

"What moral standpoint? Nicholas, you were not responsible for what
happened to that man Allen, and you are not responsible for what
happened to James and that Flood person. Your responsibility consists
of calling the cops and telling them what you just told me–-leaving
out your conscience attacks. That's all."

Nick sighed. I can't talk to Dad about this, he realized. He just
doesn't understand. He picked up the cell phone and dialed a number
he knew too well. He asked for Detective Darger, spoke briefly to
whoever answered, listened, and concluded the conversation
with, "Okay, tomorrow morning. Yes, I'll be home." He ended the
call. "Darger will be here around eight tomorrow morning," he told
his father.

Burton got up, walked over to Nick's refrigerator and opened it. "You
could fire a howitzer in here and not hit anything," he
commented. "I'll go out and get some stuff early tomorrow morning.
Feed Darger some bacon and eggs, tell him about this Taliek Allen and
he'll go away happy. You've met your legal obligation and that's the
end of that."

"It's that simple, is it?"

"There's no reason to complicate it that I can see," Burton said
persuasively. He glanced at his son's hands. "You got some Bacitracin
or something?"

Nick nodded absently.

"Put some on your hands before you go to bed."

"All right," Nick said. Burton went upstairs.

As Nick cleaned the kitchen, his mind ran over what his father had
directed him to say. And that's all, he thought. He picked up the
cups, rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. The gospel
according to Burton Fallin. Stick to the story, stay within the
letter of the law and everything will be just fine. Never mind that
there are people involved here, people who had their lives destroyed
because of something I did–or something I didn't do.

He dumped the coffee grounds in the garbage disposal and the filter
in the garbage can, and continued thinking. I didn't do anything last
year. Now James is still alive only because Taliek must have gotten
rattled at the sight of two people. Hell, if I'd stepped in last
November, Taliek might still have his whole face and his kid. I
destroy people I don't even know! Larry Flood–the poor bastard never
did me any harm and now he's dead—-took one right through the
forehead, Alvin said. It had to be Taliek who shot him. He's the only
logical candidate.

Nick made sure the alarm was set and the house was secure before
turning out the lights on the first floor and going upstairs to his
bedroom. His knuckles were still bleeding slightly, he noticed as he
got ready for bed. The hell with the Bacitracin, he thought. Maybe I
deserve to bleed a little, especially after tonight. I don't know how
Dad feels about what happened, and I'm not going to ask. What for?
It'll just give him another chance to shut me out.

I'll bet he'd talk about it with Shannon fast enough, Nick thought as
he turned down the covers and got between the sheets. My father would
take a street kid who accused him of sexual misconduct over me. No
matter what I do, no matter what happens, it's not enough for him.
I've never been what he wants and I never will be. The tears that
suddenly stung his eyelids had nothing to do with the pain in his
hands and a few bruised ribs. He turned out his bedside light. His
system suddenly drained of adrenalin, he fell asleep.

*************

Burton woke the following morning, looked around, briefly unfamiliar
with his surroundings, and then remembered where he was and why. He
looked at the bedside clock–six-thirty. He got out of bed, put on his
slippers and robe and dealt with his morning toilette. The cops would
be here in a little over an hour or so and he wanted to have some
breakfast for them as well as for Nicholas and himself. It would help
to put things on a good footing.

Burton dressed quickly in casual Saturday attire and went downstairs.
He made a full pot of coffee and sipped some while he inventoried
Nick's kitchen. He shook his head. If Nicholas ate two meals a week
in this house it was a lot, he thought. Too bad he couldn't seem to
find himself a nice girl and settle down. That cop–-what was her
name, Kim–-had been a nice person, though Burton had only met her
once or twice, but a divorcee with a kid was not what Burton
considered a suitable match for his only son. Then there was Lulu
Archer, Lulu Olson–-had she taken back her maiden name after her
divorce? Burton didn't know. He had met her and liked her, respected
her as a lawyer and thought she was nice-looking, but there it was
again–another divorced woman. Nicholas, Nicholas, he thought, what's
the matter with you? Don't you think you deserve better than someone
else's castoffs?

Burton Fallin was not given to introspection, nor did he usually
question his own decisions, but reaching that point in his musings
made him pause. Someone else's castoffs. Is that how Nicholas
compares himself to Shannon? Does he think I cut him out of my life
for her? I really didn't mean to hurt him, and I know he didn't mean
to hurt her, Burton thought. Oh, hell. He'll get over it. He shook
his head. Will I get over it? I still can't believe she'd rather live
with Roy Cantwell. She doesn't even know him. Well, obviously I don't-
–I didn't–-know her.

There was no point in going over something that wouldn't change, at
least not any time soon. Burton set thoughts of Shannon aside and
made out a short grocery list for himself. At least Nicholas had
enough basic cooking equipment to get by on, but the larder was sadly
deficient. Burton made a mental note to twit Nicholas about taking
the Mother Hubbard nursery rhyme too seriously and patted his
pockets. Wallet, car keys–-no, on second thought he decided to walk
to one of the delis in the immediate vicinity. Though he would have
admitted this to no one, Burton was feeling more than one twinge from
the battle of the parking garage and knew a brisk stroll would work
some of them out. He took the car keys back upstairs and put them on
the dresser in his bedroom.

He peeked in Nicholas' room. There was a lump under the blankets that
stirred a little as he watched. "I'm going to get those groceries,
like I said," Burton told it. "When you go downstairs, could you set
the table?" After a pause, he heard an "Uhhh–sure," responded
with "Okay" and went downstairs.

Nicholas had a spare set of house keys on a hook in his kitchen
utility closet, but Burton looked at his watch, decided time was
getting on and elected not to use them. He turned off the alarm,
unlocked the front door and tripped the bolt so he wouldn't lock
himself out. After all, he told himself, it's only a couple of
minutes and nothing ever happens around here. He headed down the walk
and turned toward the business end of Ellsworth Avenue.

*********************

Taliek Allen watched from an alley between two of the townhouses
across the street from Nick's house as some old guy he didn't know
came out of 1980 Ellsworth. After he had come across Fallin, his
fancy-ass lawyer, pulling out of that parking garage the previous
night he had decided to go back to the LSP offices and see if he'd
really taken out Mooney. He thought he might have been distracted by
that geeky guy standing there when the elevator doors had opened,
and sure enough, when he got up to the legal clinic he'd found Mooney
still breathing. Before he could finish off the slug the elevator had
gone down and Taliek had ducked behind the desk in Fallin's cubbyhole
office. And just in time, too. That goofy-looking guy who ran the
joint, Masterson, had come in and discovered Taliek's handiwork.
Masterson had called `911' and the EMS people had taken Mooney to the
hospital before Taliek could do anything about it. From what he'd
overheard, though, Mooney was in a pretty bad way. He might not make
it after all, and if he did, Taliek could take care of that whenever
he wanted.

Meanwhile, there was Fallin. Taliek figured that Mooney had probably
told Fallin enough when he gave Taliek's case back to him that Fallin
could probably figure out who took out Mooney and why. Fallin
couldn't be allowed to walk around knowing what Taliek had done.
Besides, Fallin blew it in court and that judge, the sister, had put
the baby–-his baby!–-in foster care. Yes, Fallin owed Taliek for
that, too, and Fallin was going to pay, just like Mooney had.

Taliek had stayed in his hiding place while the EMS crew had taken
Mooney away and then the morgue guys had come for the geek. Masterson
left a few minutes after the morgue crew did, and Taliek had managed
a peek at his Rolodex before ducking out just ahead of the office
cleaners. Yes, there was Fallin's address.

Taliek had gone home then and sacked out for a few hours before
changing into worn work clothes, including a denim cap that he pulled
down over his face as far as he could. He put a few tools in a canvas
bag so he could try to pass for a handyman on his way to an early
morning job. People in that neighborhood probably didn't fix their
own sinks or whatever anyway, and Taliek knew he had to look like he
had a reason for being on that street at that time.

The old guy was two blocks down the street when Taliek came out of
the alley and found himself on a cross street. He walked back into
Ellsworth Avenue, this time on the same side of the street as 1980
and approached the front door, pulling a piece of paper out of his
pocket. If anyone was looking out a window, all they'd see was a
black handyman checking the address of his job.

Fallin's door was sure to be locked, Taliek had figured, so he'd
ring, wait till Fallin answered and shoot him right then and there.
But when he got to the door he found it unlocked and the bolt
tripped. Taliek smiled to himself as he walked into the hall, leaving
the door slightly ajar behind him. Whoever that old guy was, he
wasn't real swift in the head. What kind of fool left a door unlocked
and turned an alarm off–-Taleik had noticed that, too–-even in an
upscale `hood like this one? Answer: a rich fool who thought a hot-
shit house like this meant you didn't have to worry about people
coming in and bothering you. Taliek's mouth turned down. Bolts and
bars and a steel door hadn't helped him any, now he thought of it.
Well, no point in going over that now.

Gun in hand, he peered around doorways, into first a living room,
then a dining room. Nobody. Then he heard footsteps. Someone was
coming down the stairs. Taliek went down the hall and found himself
in a kitchen. He looked around for a place to hide and saw that
cabinets and the back door made a sort of alcove. He opened the door,
put his toolbag on the back step and tripped that bolt–if the old guy
did it, so could he and he'd want to make a fast getaway. He held the
gun up next to his head, ready to bring it down to firing position.
He was breathing hard, he noticed, and commanded himself to settle
down.

Nick was just beginning to wake up when his father had poked his head
in his door, told him he was going out, and asked him to set the
table for their expected guests. After Burton had closed the door and
gone downstairs, Nick had climbed stiffly out of bed. He hadn't been
in a real fight since that business in the Incline, more than a year
ago, and just about every muscle in his body was protesting. A hot
shower helped get some of the kinks out, but didn't make him feel any
better about what had happened.

I wouldn't be surprised if I end up doing time for last night, Nick
thought as he watched himself shave. What did that therapist
say, "Why not try expressing your feelings?" Well, if that's what
happens when I let my feelings out, I'd be better off not letting
myself feel anything at all. Besides, what happens when I do express
my feelings? I said "I love you" to Lulu, and what did she say? "I
don't know how to respond." I said "I love you" to Dad a year ago and
I didn't even get an answer–-wait a minute, yes I did!–-Shannon
Gressler. That's some answer, all right. He probably wishes I didn't
exist at all. I'm just good for beating people up and a place to stay
when he doesn't want to go home to an empty house. And now that
Shannon's gone he'll take the reins at the firm again and I'll end up
sitting there, being ignored.

Nick put his hairbrush back on his bathroom shelf. "Everything in my
life is–shit," he told the mirror. He finished dressing and went
downstairs.

Better get that table set before Dad gets back from the store, Nick
told himself as he came down the stairs and went through the dining
room into the breakfast room. God, I get tired of being dinged at all
the damn time. And that's all he does. I tell him maybe we should
talk and he says "About what?" That's how much he wants to talk.
He went into the kitchen. Okay, coffee. Guess I can use some. He went
to the coffee maker, took a mug from the mug tree that sat next to it
and poured himself a steaming cup of black caffeine.

Coffee mug in hand, Nick crossed the room to the cupboard where the
breakfast dishes lived. He was reaching for some plates when he heard
a noise behind him. He turned. Taliek Allen was standing just inside
the back door with an automatic pistol in his hand–an automatic
pistol that was pointed straight at Nick. "Don't move, man," Taliek
said ominously.

Nick was surprised to find he wasn't surprised. Somehow, he thought,
I knew it would be like this. "How did you get in here?" he asked
calmly.

"That old dude left your front door open and your alarm ain't on,"
Taliek said.

Thanks, Dad. Why didn't you hand him an invitation? Nick
thought. "Can I put these plates down?"

"Do it real slow. Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Nick complied."How did you get this address, Taliek?"

"Hid in your office last night when that Masterson dude got an
ambulance for Mooney. After they all left I just walked over and
looked at the card file, and there you were."

"I'm surprised you didn't run into the cleaning people at LSP."
Maybe if I keep him talking I can reason my way out of this one, Nick
thought.

"Knew they'd be in late. My grandmomma, she cleaned lawyers' offices.
She said lawyers always work late. Sometimes she'd get home at six,
seven in the morning `cause she couldn't start till midnight–-they
didn't want to hear any noise from a black gal tryin' to clean up
their mess."

Nick nodded, feigning interest."Did she ever work at Fallin and
Associates?"

"Dunno. She never said. Just came home, got me off to school, took a
nap and got up and went out again that night. We didn't talk much,
her and me."

Nick nodded again. Fear and adrenalin were making ordinary things
stand out–the smell of coffee wafting through the room, dust motes
dancing in the early morning sunlight that slanted across the floor.
Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl.

Taleik shrugged and went on. "She told me one thing I remember though–
finish what you start. I'm gonna do that right now. If Mooney didn't
outright tell you why he didn't want to take over for you, you
probably figured it out anyway. And if you know why he didn't want to
take my case, you know who did him."

There was no point in lying. "Yes, I do," Nick said. "And I'm not the
only one. Masterson at LSP knows by now and so do a couple of other
people."

"So what? I got another beef with you, man. My kid's in foster care
because of you. You know what that means? I'll never see him again.
He won't even know who I am."

"It doesn't have to be that way. We can appeal," Nick said smoothly.

"What're you gonna appeal, man? I killed that geeky guy. I killed
Mooney."

"I can get the best criminal defense lawyer in Pittsburgh to take
your case. We can argue that you were mentally unbalanced because of
what Mooney did to you. And you didn't intend to shoot Flood–-the
geek. You'll probably get a light sentence, if my guy can't get you
off altogether."

"Like it matters. I got no eye, I got no face, I got no work, I got
no woman, I got no kid. I got no life. I already took out two guys–
one more won't make any difference." Taliek brought the gun down and
aimed at Nick.

"You know, Taliek," Nick said slowly, thinking out loud, "we're a lot
alike, you and me."

"Oh, yeah." Taliek's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"Yeah. I don't have anybody either. Life? What life? I get up, go to
work, come home and that's it. We both loved some people, or at least
trusted them enough to believe they wouldn't hurt us, at least not on
purpose, and we both got screwed." He shook his head slowly. "The
only difference is, your scars are visible. Mine aren't, but they
still hurt just as much."

As Taliek was thinking that over, there were footsteps in the front
hall, then a voice: "Hello? Fallin? Nick? It's Darger. Anybody home?"

"Who's Darger?" Taliek asked in a whisper.

"He's a cop–-I'm supposed to talk to him about last night," Nick
whispered back, eyes wide.

Taleik's gun wavered.

"Fallin? You shouldn't leave your front door open." Darger's
footsteps were coming nearer.

To Taliek, it looked like Nick was about to call for help. Taliek
fired twice. One bullet tore into Nick's body. The other went wild,
hitting the opposite wall. As Nick fell back against the breakfast
bar, Taliek ran out the back door.

Darger and his driver, a sergeant, dashed down the hall and into the
kitchen. Nick was lying against the breakfast bar, blood spreading
across his torso. Darger knelt beside Nick, who was pale, his skin
clammy to the touch. He's going into shock, Darger thought as the
coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. He ripped the lawyer's
shirt open. "Jesus," he said. He pulled out his police radio. "This
is Darger. I need an ambulance at 1980 Ellsworth pronto-–gunshot
victim." He looked up as the sergeant, who had run out the open back
door, came back in, shaking his head.

"Perp's gone," the sergeant reported. "There was just this." He held
up the bag of tools.

"Nick! Stay with me!" Darger patted Nick's cheek hard and was
rewarded by Nick briefly opening his eyes. "Are those tools yours?"
Nick managed a slight shake of the head. "Do you know who did this?
Come on, Fallin–-who shot you?"

What does it matter? Nick thought. Nothing matters. "Allen–Taleik
Allen," he whispered hoarsely and passed out.

Darger looked up at the sergeant. "Get on it," he said. He turned his
attention back to Nick. That ambulance better get here quick or it's
going to be a wasted trip, he thought.

***************

Burton turned the corner into Ellsworth Avenue. Shopping had taken
more time than he had expected, but he'd found some nice looking
Danish pastries and really fresh eggs. Some of the stores around here
had good things, and the prices weren't too bad, either, he
reflected. Nicholas had made a good choice, moving into this
neighborhood.

Burton looked up as he neared the house and for a second thought he
was traveling back in time. Just as there had been last year, a
police car and an ambulance were double parked, the ambulance lights
flashing. Oh, my God, thought Burton, did Nicholas overdose? I
thought he was staying away from that stuff. He quickened his pace
and almost ran up the front walk.

This time no police blocked him. Burton heard voices and followed
them. At the kitchen door he stopped, transfixed. There was blood all
over the floor and an EMS crew was bending over someone on a Stokes
litter. One paramedic moved and Burton felt a cold hand clutch his
heart as he saw that the crew was working on his son."Nicholas!"
Burton shouted, dropping his bag of groceries. "What's happened to my
son?"

One of the paramedics spun around. "Get him outta here," he snapped.
A man Burton remembered as that detective named Darger, who had been
talking to another cop, crossed the room and took Burton by the
shoulder. "You're Burton Fallin, aren't you?" he said. Burton
nodded. "Come on in here. Let's let these guys do their job."

Burton allowed himself to be guided into the breakfast room, where he
sank into a chair. Darger sat at the head of the table. "What
happened here?" Burton asked anxiously, craning to see through the
serving hatch into the kitchen.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Darger said.

Burton rubbed the back of his head. "I knew last night that Nicholas
arranged for you to be here this morning to talk about what happened
to James Mooney." Darger nodded. "I was going to make breakfast for
all of us. I went out this morning to get things–Nicholas never has a
lot of food in the house."

"When did you go out?" Darger asked.

"Oh, about seven, I think–I made some coffee first. I–-I looked in on
Nicholas and asked him to–-to get things ready while I was gone."

"Was he awake at that time?"

Burton found to his amazement that the recollection of the semi-
conscious Nicholas made him smile briefly. "Barely. He said `sure'
and I decided I needed some exercise so I left my car keys in my room
upstairs and I went out. I thought–-I thought I'd only be a couple
minutes, so I didn't lock the door–-just tripped the bolt so I could
get back in." He looked at Darger, his dark blue eyes moistening with
sudden shock. "I didn't lock the door."

Darger played with a pen. "Do you have any idea who shot your son?"

Be careful now, Burton warned himself. "Nicholas told me he was
assigned a Taliek Allen as a client at LSP," he said
slowly. "Nicholas represented this Allen in a custody case and lost."

"So Allen had a motive for shooting Nick. Do you know if there was
any connection between Mooney and Allen?

"Nicholas had to attend a continuing legal education course a couple
of weeks ago, so he got Mooney to cover for him at Allen's first
court appearance," Burton said slowly, thinking the matter
through. "He said after Mooney and Allen were in court together that
one time, Mooney followed the case for awhile and then let it drop.
Nicholas didn't know why. And all I really know is just that the
judge ruled against this Allen when Nicholas was representing him."
Burton shrugged. "Maybe this Allen thought Mooney had a hand in his
losing the custody case, too. That's all I can think of to tell you."

"Okay," Darger said. He studied Burton. "You live across town, don't
you?" Burton nodded. "Can I ask why you were here?"

Burton sighed. "I was fostering this little girl–-Shannon Gressler."
It was Darger's turn to nod. "I found out a couple of days ago that
she decided she wanted to live with her biological father instead of
me. Nicholas and I were supposed to attend a charity concert last
night and I-–well, I didn't feel like going home afterward-–to my
home, that is. Nicholas and I were talking over coffee last night
when Alvin Masterson called and told about what happened to Mooney. I
was glad I decided to stay with Nicholas-–I didn't think he ought to
be alone after hearing something like that."

Darger nodded in acknowledgment but did not comment on Burton's
story. "Okay, my turn," he said. "We got here around eight. The front
door was unlocked and cracked open. We walked in, I called for Nick,
we heard shots. We followed the sound to the kitchen and found Nick.
The back door was open and we think the perp got out that way. Nick
was able to tell me who shot him–a Taliek Allen, he said–and then the
EMS guys got here and took over. If it's any consolation, they
haven't told me much about what's going on with Nick either–guess
they've been too busy working on him." He paused and both men
listened. "It sounds like they're about finished," Darger said.

Burton and Darger got up from the breakfast room table as the
stretcher on which Nick lay, an oxygen mask over his face, was
wheeled into the hall. A paramedic holding up an IV bag walked
alongside. Burton caught a glimpse of a bloody field dressing
underneath Nick's shirt, which was completely open. He saw the
paramedic who had ordered him out of the kitchen and grasped the
man's arm. "How is he? How's my son?" he demanded.

The paramedic looked at him. "He's breathing," the man
responded. "That's the best I can say right now." He turned to his co-
workers. "All right, let's move!" The EMS crew wheeled the stretcher
out and carried it down the steps to the ambulance.

Burton made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a moan.
Darger tapped his shoulder. "Come on. I'll get you to the hospital.
When the crime scene team gets finished here they'll lock up."

"Lock up," Burton said absently. "Yeah–-keys would be good." He
looked in the bowl on the table at the back of the front hall for
Nicholas' own keys, found them and dropped them in his
pocket. "There's a spare set on a hook in the–the broom closet that
your guys can use." Darger spoke briefly to one of the officers and
then he and Burton headed out the door and down the walk to Darger's
car, where the sergeant sat at the wheel.

"It's a pretty good bet that this Allen shot all three of them–
Mooney, another guy name of Flood and Nick," Darger said as they put
on their seat belts. "We have to do ballistics tests, but we dug a
bullet out of your son's kitchen wall that just on eyeball
examination looks like the ones we recovered from Flood and Mooney."

"Do you have any idea how Mooney is?" Burton asked. "When Nicholas
talked to Alvin Masterson last night Alvin said Mooney was in
surgery."

"I don't know, but if he's alive he's probably in extremely critical
condition," Darger said. "It would have been four or five hours
before they found Mooney, let alone got him to a hospital. Your son
was lucky–we were there just about as soon as it happened."

Be grateful for small favors, Burton thought. "You mind if I smoke?"
he asked.

"Not as long as you give me one," Darger said. Burton offered him a
pack of cigarettes, Darger took one and then he and Burton lit up.

"I can't believe I was that stupid," Burton said. "I knew where those
keys were. I just didn't want to take the time to go back to the
kitchen and get them. Hell, I could have used my son's set–-that
table in the hall is where he always puts them when he comes in."

"Don't hit yourself over the head too much," Darger advised. "Based
on my experience with this kind of thing, if the door had been locked
probably this Taliek Allen would've rung the bell and just shot
whoever answered. It could have been you he shot."

"Yeah," Burton said absently. That doesn't make me feel better about
this, he thought. I should have known. As soon as Nicholas told me
about this Allen and his grievances I should have known. I'm supposed
to do better than this–and not just by making sure I lock a door
behind me, either.

Darger decided to try to keep Burton's mind off Nick if he
could. "There must have been a full moon last night," he
said. "Things were happening all over town. Somebody performed a
public service and beat the bejeezus out of a guy in the Heinz Hall
garage."

"Why is that a public service?" Burton asked.

"The victim–-to use the word loosely–-is not a nice boy. Got a long
history of domestic violence, petty assault, the whole works. Last
night he was going to the hall to make life miserable for his wife-–
she sells those $5 drinks at intermission." Burton nodded. "He
thought she was two-timing him and was going to wait and lay into her
when she came out the employees' entrance. Somebody decided to give
him a taste of his own medicine–he was lying beside his car
unconscious and pretty well beat up when a garage security patrol
found him."

Burton felt he had to say something. "Any suspects?" he asked.

"Suspects, nothing–we got a confession. The wife's brother walked
into the precinct last night and copped to it–said he thought his
sister didn't look good in pain and finally decided to do something
about it. He said he took a couple good licks at the guy even after
he was down. The husband woke up in the hospital and corroborated the
story."

"A man who beats up a woman isn't a man," Burton said. "If the
brother needs a good lawyer, my firm just started a criminal defense
unit. We'll be happy to represent him."

"He won't need it," Darger said. "He went before a sympathetic night
court judge who said he couldn't dismiss the charges, but did the
next best thing–six months suspended."

"Talk about falling in the outhouse and coming up smelling like a
rose," Burton said. "I'm glad something worked out for somebody."

"This'll work out too," Darger said.

"From your mouth to God's ears," Burton answered. Each man stayed
lost in thought for the rest of the ride.

*****************

Burton sat at his son's bedside, holding Nick's left hand. An oxygen
mask covered Nick's nose and mouth and an intravenous line was
inserted in his right arm and taped in place. Wires under the
hospital gown Nick wore snaked out to a bank of monitors and Burton
occasionally switched his gaze from Nick's face to the screens that
gave a graphic indication of every beat of his son's heart.

A private duty nurse trained in critical care also watched the
monitors. Only her being in attendance and the fact that the ICU was
full with other very ill patients–including, Burton learned, James
Mooney–had brought about Nick's being assigned to a private room.
From time to time she checked Nick's blood pressure, adjusted the
oxygen monitor clip on his right index finger or made sure the other
tubes and lines remained in place. Taliek's bullet had grazed Nick's
aorta, a stretch of which had been replaced by a plastic graft, and
he'd lost his spleen and part of his liver, the surgeon who had
operated on Nick had told Burton. If anything changed for the worse,
Nick was going straight back to the ICU and they'd damn well better
make room for him.

"Is he going to be all right?" Burton had asked.

"At this point, it's impossible to tell," the surgeon, a Dr.
DeThomas, answered. "I've done everything I could. It's not up to me
any longer."

Burton had spent most of the hours that followed watching over Nick,
trying not to get in the way of his son's private duty nurses and
sending forth many a silent prayer. Among those prayers was an
apology. It would be some time before Burton forgave himself for
thinking the worst of his son the minute he saw an ambulance in front
of Nick's house, especially, he thought bitterly, since that
ambulance was there because of his own carelessness.

*****************

He was floating in a dark pool, Nick thought. When he surfaced there
was pain and now and then tugging and a sharp pinching feeling, but
the dark pool closed over him again and the pain retreated. Gradually
it diminished and he realized that it was safe to approach the pool's
surface. With the absence of pain came awareness of other sensations.
Someone was holding his hand, saying his name. He opened his eyes.

"Hey, son," Burton said gently. With his free hand he brushed some of
Nick's curls off his forehead.

"You can take the mask off," another voice said. "From now on we'll
use an oxygen cannula."

Burton let go Nick's hand and eased the straps of the oxygen mask
over Nick's head. A nurse came into Nick's view. "Okay," she said and
slipped another tube over his face and let two soft plastic prongs
rest in his nostrils.

Nick tried to say something, but his throat was dry. Burton reached
for a cup with a bendable straw in it on the overbed table and put
the straw in Nick's mouth. Nick took a sip, then another. "Okay?"
Burton asked.

Nick managed a nod. The water soothed his throat and he realized he
could talk. "How long–?"

"How long have you been here? About a day and a half. You were out
for about twelve hours after they got through putting you back
together." Burton put the cup back on the table and took Nick's hand
again."You had me scared for awhile, there."

"Sorry."

"Oh, Nicholas," Burton said, a little sadly. "I'm just glad you're
going to be all right."

"James?"

"How's James? Still in intensive care. He didn't get to the hospital
after he was shot as fast as you did." With his other hand Burton
tugged at his moustache. "Your friend Darger has cops guarding both
of you. He doesn't want to take any chances with Taliek Allen still
running around loose."

"Oh."

Burton looked at Nick. "They thought you might have hurt your hands
struggling with him."

"Guess so," Nick said. He realized he hated himself for joining in
the lie–and for being powerless to do anything else, at least at that
moment.

"Mr. Fallin," the nurse interjected, "I'm just going across the hall
to the nurses' station for a few minutes."

"All right, Gerri," Burton said. "We'll be okay until you get back."

The nurse left the room and Burton leaned closer to Nick. "Darger
told me the guy in the parking garage got beat up by his brother-in-
law–a little rough justice for longstanding domestic violence. The
victim ID'd the brother-in-law and the brother-in-law got a suspended
sentence."

"Uh-huh." So what? Nick thought. It doesn't change what I did.

"I know, I know. You're just too tired to think about it. That's all
right." Burton picked up the cup with the straw and offered it to
Nick, who again took a few sips. "You don't have to worry about
Taliek Allen, either. They'll catch him–or else he'll kill himself; a
lot of people in his–situation–do. It'll all work out, son. You'll
see."

"Yeah." It'll all work out, everything's fine. Just forget it ever
happened. Sure.

Burton once again took Nick's hand. "Gerri–Henninger's her last name,
by the way–and two other private duty nurses have been taking care of
you. They even let me help a little." He smiled. "Get some rest now,
Nicholas. I'll be right here."

Nick managed a weak smile in return and let his eyes close. And now
that's something else I owe him for. Wonderful.

Gerri, the nurse, came back in and turned her attention to the bank
of monitors. Burton continued holding Nick's hand. Nick stirred
restlessly. Burton leaned closer.

"I wish–" Nick muttered.

"What? What do you wish, Nicholas?" Burton whispered. Anything you
want, son. Anything. Just tell me and it's yours. I don't care what I
have to do to get it.

"Wish I'd never been born."

Burton gasped.

Gerri met Burton's stricken look with a slight smile. "The last dose
of pain medication is wearing off, that's all. That's what I went out
for." She took a syringe out of her pocket, unsheathed it, poked the
needle through a cap on Nick's IV line. and depressed the plunger. In
seconds Nick's body relaxed and he was quiet. "That was pain talking,
Mr. Fallin. Don't take it seriously. Right now he probably doesn't
even know what he's saying."

"You're the boss, Gerri," Burton said. He continued holding Nick's
hand and kept his eyes on Nick's face. She's right. He didn't mean
it. He doesn't know he said it.

They were both wrong. On some deeper level that no one outside him
could access, that he himself was barely aware of, Nicholas Fallin
knew exactly what he had said. And he knew he had meant every word.

The End