Chapter twenty two

HAZEL HOLCOMB REACHED for the phone, pushing aside a pile of administrative bulletins as she did. "Yes?"

"Catherine Rawlings is on line two," her secretary informed her.

"I'll take it." She pressed the other line and said, "Catherine? What can I do for you?"

"Can you see me this morning?"

"Just a minute," Hazel replied, instantly alert to the flat tone of her friend's voice. She rummaged under a stack of file folders and found her weekly schedule. "I have forty-five minutes open now. If it's urgent, I could cancel a meeting later this morning."

"No—I'll come right over. I have clinic in an hour, too. That's perfect. Thank you."

Hazel buzzed her secretary and instructed, "Send Doctor Rawlings in when she arrives, and then hold my calls."

Five minutes later, a knock on the door heralded Catherine's arrival.

"I'm sorry to barge in like this," Catherine began as she took one of the upholstered chairs in front of Hazel's desk.

"It's fine," the Chief of Psychiatry assured her colleague as she moved around to join her in the other chair. "What's happened?"

"Is it that obvious?" Catherine asked ruefully, folding her hands in her lap to hide the trembling. "God, I'm embarrassed."

"Catherine, nothing is obvious unless one knows you. You wouldn't have called if it weren't important, and you wouldn't have that very wounded expression in your eyes if it weren't personal. So—something has happened."

"I think Rebecca and I just—I don't even know what to call it. Broke up?"

"Well," Hazel said gently, a small smile on her face. "We can start with that. What prompted this—event?"

"I'm not sure," Catherine admitted. "That's why I'm here."

"Ah, I see. Good point—spoken like a true psychiatrist. Let's hear the details, then we'll plumb for all the deeper, hidden meanings."

Catherine managed a faint laugh. "Do you talk to all your patients like this? It's very irreverent. Freud is cringing somewhere in another dimension."

"You're not a patient. You're a friend," Hazel replied softly, placing her hand briefly on Catherine's arm. "So, tell me."

Catherine closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and said, "I got a call from a woman last night whom I'd never met, telling me that Rebecca had collapsed in her apartment and that she needed my help."

Hazel listened, her expression intent, as Catherine described the previous night and morning's events. When her friend fell silent, she remarked, "I'm afraid I have to ask—how do you feel right now?"

"Terribly angry at her, and just—empty." Catherine met Hazel's eyes, tears swimming behind her lashes. "It's tearing me apart that she would risk her life like this, and that she doesn't realize what that does to me."

"Yes, I can see how much it hurts. I'm sorry."

"I thought about calling her Captain, telling him what happened."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because," Catherine replied with a sigh, "it would be divulging patient confidences—"

"You're not her doctor," Hazel pointed out.

"No, but I have privileged knowledge that I wouldn't otherwise have had."

Hazel made a dismissive gesture. "A technicality at best."

"All right," Catherine conceded. "Because she'd never forgive me."

"She's hurt you. " Hazel's tone suggested that turn-about was fair play.

"She's hurt me because she's stubborn and careless with herself, but this would be such a betrayal."

"And what she's done--isn't that a betrayal? Of the connection between you? Of your love for one another?"

Catherine regarded her sharply. "It's only a betrayal if you know what you’re doing--if it's a conscious act. She didn't intend to hurt me, she's just doing what's she's always done."

"But things are not the same any longer—for either of you," Hazel pointed out reasonably.

"No," Catherine said quietly. "Everything is different." She looked at Hazel in frustration. "What a mess. I keep thinking that I should be better at this."

Hazel laughed. "Why? Love is messy. Relationships are horrible, unpredictable things." Suddenly serious, she asked, "What do you intend to do?"

"I don't know. I can't be with her like this; I can't watch her kill herself."

"You know, Catherine, I don't know this detective of yours, although I'd certainly like to. She sounds fascinating, especially if you don't happen to be in love with her. But I know that she almost died two months ago. That's a terrifying occurrence. For someone like her, the best defense against that fear is to—"

"Deny it ever happened." Catherine sighed. "Yes, I know. Like the business executive who has an MI, and insists on taking phone calls in the cardiac care unit. I know. It doesn't help." She rubbed her eyes, glanced at her watch. "I have to work, and so do you."

"Don't make any decisions today, or even tomorrow. It's already too late to break up. You love her, remember."

"Yes, I do," Catherine said, wondering if that would be enough.

Catherine contemplated canceling her last patient of the day. It was almost eight; she was tired. Beyond tired. Bone weary and just plain—sad.

"It's going to be a tough session and you want to avoid it. Because she's going to walk in here, all spit and polish, and very possibly pissed off. And she reminds you of Rebecca." She rubbed her temples. "And you've started talking to yourself, which can't be good."

Joyce knocked on the door and stuck her head in. "You've got five minutes. Want anything?"

"Yes," Catherine replied, "when she gets here, tell her I need to resche--"

"What?"

"Nothing. A coke if you're getting one."

"Will do."

A few minutes later, the door opened again to admit Dellon Mitchell.

"Hi," Catherine said as Mitchell settled into the chair. She wasn't in uniform, but she wore her chinos and shirt as if it were one. Neat, tidy, precise.

"Hi."

Catherine waited a beat, and when nothing else appeared to be forthcoming, she said, "Let's talk about this morning."

"All right," Mitchell replied neutrally, but her eyes were wary.

"Sometimes it can be awkward or uncomfortable when you run into your therapist unexpectedly. Was it a problem—my being there?"

Mitchell regarded her steadily. "What we talk about in here—it's confidential, right?"

"Usually, yes," Catherine answered. Mitchell stiffened, and she added quickly, "Officer, you were referred for an official evaluation. I still have to do that. I don't include information that isn't relevant to my opinions, and I very rarely include specific details of what we've discussed."

"But you wouldn't..." She searched for words. "You're going to be working with the people I work with. There are things...private things...I don't want anyone to know."

"They won't learn them from me," Catherine said quietly. "First of all, it's my business to keep confidences. Secondly, I'll be there for professional purposes, and on a fairly limited basis. There is absolutely no reason anyone should know that you and I have a professional relationship."

"Fine."

"Good." The officer crossed one ankle over her knee, and sat back a little into her chair, a pose Catherine was coming to recognize as relaxed. For Mitchell. "Now, let's talk about the incident in the alley."

"I knew her."

Catherine had many years of therapeutic experience, and she was glad of that now. Because she wanted to blurt out, What? Slowly, carefully, she asked, "The young woman who was being attacked?"

"Yes."

"When did you realize that you knew her?"

"When he let her go. She fell...I saw her face in the light from the window."

There was sweat on her forehead that Catherine was certain that she didn't know was there. Her right hand trembled where it rested on the chair arm.

"What happened when you recognized her?"

She was quiet a long time. Then, her voice hoarse, she replied, "I hesitated. I thought maybe I had imagined it. That's when he hit me, knocked me down." She looked at Catherine, stricken. "There was so much blood on her face, I was frozen...I thought she...Jesus, there was so much blood."

Catherine's stomach lurched. So much blood. She took a long, slow breath. "How well do you know her?"

"She's just someone I met...on the job."

"More than a passing acquaintance?" Catherine probed softly. "A friend?"

Another pause. "Yes."

"You told me you don't remember hitting him with your gun."

"I don't." For the first time, the young woman looked scared.

"What do you remember?"

Mitchell ran a hand through her hair. "I remember...I remember her face. I was so fucking angry. The bastard had his hands up her...and then I was on the ground...and she was screaming at him. Screaming not to hurt me..." She stopped and stared at Catherine. "Oh, fuck. I was on the ground, and he kicked me. My head...my side...it hurt. And I could hear her screaming at him...he hit her again, I think. I was afraid he'd kill her."

"Do you remember striking him with your gun?"

"I don't," Mitchell shouted. She covered her face with both hands, shoulders heaving. "I don't."

"It's okay," Catherine said gently. "It's okay."

She finally looked up, her face streaked with tears. "It isn't really, is it?"

"Oh, yes, it is," Catherine replied firmly, sitting forward, hands clasped on the desk. "You were alone, in a dangerous situation. There was the threat of deadly injury to yourself or a civilian. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the situation is personalized—this is someone you know, care about. And you were both in peril. You had a gun, Officer Mitchell...and you were facing a bigger, stronger opponent who had already hurt you. You protected yourself, instinctively, but you didn't shoot him." Catherine paused, making certain that Mitchell was listening. "You didn't shoot him. And you could have. You did well, Officer."

Mitchell grinned weakly, brushing impatiently at the moisture on her cheeks. "Would you mind putting that in your report?"

"I most definitely will," Catherine replied, smiling. "In my opinion you acted appropriately under the given circumstances."

"There's a problem."

"What?"

"The part about me knowing her? It's not in my report."

"Why not?"

"Because that's nobody's business. It doesn't have any bearing on the events. I reported it exactly as it occurred."

Catherine considered the information. "I can't see that it affects the legalities involved, but," she continued as she saw Mitchell give a sigh of relief, "it is germane to the effect this has had on you. "

"I'm okay."

"Yes, in all probability you are," Catherine answered wearily, suddenly aware of her own fatigue. "I'll take care of the report to your precinct, Officer."

Mitchell was quiet for a long moment. "Would you mind—uh, holding off for a little while. You said it might take five or six visits, right?"

"Do you mind telling me what brought about this sudden change of heart?"

"I don't want to get pulled off the task force."

The task force. And here I thought it was my stellar therapy techniques. "I think the situation reasonably warrants another visit or two. But then I'll have to file the report."

"Fair enough. Thank you." Mitchell stood, a smile to match the one she'd had when Sloan included her in the plans that morning. "Thanks a lot."

As the door shut behind the young officer, Catherine leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Rebecca rolled over and opened her eyes. She lifted her wrist and squinted at the dim dial of her watch. Nine p.m. She'd been asleep for eleven hours. She was wearing loose cotton workout shorts and nothing else. Her body was covered with a thin film of sweat, and when she brushed her palm over her chest and down her abdomen, her hand came away wet.

Nine p.m. Plenty of time to get some work done. She got up from the bed, stiff muscles protesting, and made her way into the bathroom to shower.

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