By Lacy

When your body is dying your entire life flashes before your eyes. This isn’t a myth. I just wanted to clear that up. You remember things. The most minute details of personal events. You flash upon things that were neither distinctive nor memorable when they happened.

When my body was dying I remembered the strangest things. I remembered verbatim the lecture Hoynes gave me about Social Security. I recalled so clearly the expression on Sam’s face when he told me was getting married. I also remember the distinct feeling that life hadn’t turned out the way we planned, for either of us. I remembered a silly phrase that Joanie used to repeat just to get a rise out of me. I remembered the smell of the perfume my mother wore at my bar mitzvah. Each memory came with a lesson.

I learned that it wasn’t time to give up on life. I learned that life is precious, even the most mundane moments of it.

When your soul is dying, it’s different. The memories that pass before you are the ones calculated to do the most damage. They are engineered for maximum torturous impact. It’s a judgment, of sorts.

There comes a time when we all must face judgment. We must face the consequences of our actions and be held accountable for them. On a personal level, I have always believed this, but spiritually I’ve never been so sure. But now I know that this is my time to be held accountable. This is my day to face the verdict, no matter what it will be, and I can pray only for leniency, because my crimes will sanction no pardons.

"Josh," Sam’s voice penetrates my haze. "Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"We’re here," he replies. The officers emerge from the cruiser and open the back doors to release us from this hell carriage.

I want to ask what the hell is going on, but I don’t. All in good time, a voice in my head whispers. All in good time. I can only follow with Sam at my back, as the officers, whose names I never got, lead me into the station.

The precinct bustles with the same level of controlled chaos, as does the West Wing. Except here the tone is different. Here, there is a tone of determination, and buried beneath it, a barely leashed rage. I remember the feeling well.

The officers lead us past a door with the nameplate ‘Operations Command’, which causes Sam to raise an eyebrow. My curiosity is piqued, as well. We are led to a man who has the well-worn look of command.

"Captain," Driver-Side Officer says. "This is Mr. Lyman."

"Of course he is," the Captain replies. "And Mr. Seaborn, as well. I’m Captain Brock."

"What’s going on, Captain Brock?" I ask. "They wouldn’t tell me anything."

"Could you tell us who was driving your car last night?" he asks.

It does not escape my notice that he speaks in the past tense. "My fiancée," I reply. "Donna Moss. We had a fight. She took my car to get away. Has something happened to her?"

"We believe that Ms. Moss is in a hostage situation," he tells me.

"A hostage situation?" The meaning of the words doesn’t want to sink in.

The Captain glances at Sam before he continues. "At approximately one a.m., in an attempt to flee from pursuing officers, a man name Leon Proctor, got into a 1970 black Corvette and forced the occupant to drive away at gunpoint. A witness has described the driver to be a Caucasian female, long blonde hair and 25 to 30 years of age. Does that sound like Ms. Moss?"

I nod. "At gunpoint?"

"According to the witness," he confirms.

"At gunpoint?" Donna’s being held at gunpoint? My Donna?

"Yessir."

"Where are they now?" Realizing that, for the moment, I am beyond any meaningful comprehension, Sam decides to ask the important questions.

"We’re really not sure," the Captain answers. "We’ve got choppers in the air, trying to locate the car."

"You lost him?" A hot spark flames to life in my belly. "You let him get away? This Proctor took my girlfriend hostage and you let him get away? In what world is that good police work?"

"We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Lyman."

"He could be anywhere by now. He could have taken her–" I stop as my brain finally kicks in. "Sam," I say, turning to my friend, "If he’s taken her over state lines, this becomes FBI jurisdiction. We can call the Attorney General, we can have the Feds on this in fifteen minutes."

"Josh," he warns.

"This guy hasn’t left the city," the Captain says. "And nobody’s calling the Feds in on this, you got me, Lyman?"

"Why not?" I ask, forcefully. "They have more resources and they can widen the search."

"We’re handling this one on our own," he tells me in no uncertain terms.

"What is your problem?" I shout.

"My problem, Mr. Lyman, is that Leon Proctor killed one of our own last night. Proctor is a cop killer, and by God, I’m not handing him over to the Feds."

"This is about revenge? Soothing your wounded pride is more important than saving a life? Are you actually telling me that?" The political operative in me awakens and is spoiling for a fight. "Are you telling me that you won't bring the Feds in because you're afraid they won't let you shoot this guy in the back?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I think you know who I am. I think you also know that I can pick up a phone, call Rodriguez in House Appropriations, and have your funding revoked like that," I snap my fingers for effect. Sam grasps my arm at the elbow and attempts to pull me back, but I will have none of it.

"And what exactly will that solve?" he asks, quietly. "I understand that you're distraught, Mr. Lyman, and that you may not be thinking clearly."

"Distraught, Captain? I am so beyond distraught it's not even funny. I hit distraught at eleven o'clock last night and moved right on past it."

"I understand."

"Do you? You find her," I demand. "You find her and you get her back."

"We're doing everything we can."

"Do more." I walk away from him then, but with nowhere to go I can only pace in front of a wall. I can hear Sam and the captain discussing the situation but I can't catch every word.

I know that Sam tells the captain of my fight with Donna, just enough to let the captain reach an understanding of my current mental state. He apologizes for my words even though he knows that when this is over, no matter the outcome, I will not feel sorry for them.

Across the busy room there's a woman who seems to be inordinately interested in me and the conversation being shared by Sam and the police captain. She looks over at me, as she picks up a stack of files from the desk in front of her, and our eyes meet.

She heads doggedly towards me, casting a meaningful glance in the direction of the captain. She's wearing a pair of comfortable looking slacks, a black turtleneck, and a gun is holstered to her right hip. Her hair is auburn and very curly, but it's brushed back from her face and tucked behind her ears. She appears young, but I sense that she is older than her face tells me.

"Mr. Lyman?" she asks, gently.

"Yeah," I snap.

"Mr. Lyman, I'm Detective Andrea Jefferson. Perhaps you'd like some coffee and we can find a seat somewhere."

"Detective Jefferson?" I ask. "Why aren't you out looking for this guy?"

"Because I'm here with you," she responds simply, her eyes filled with compassion. "C'mon, let's get you some coffee, you look like you could use it."

TBC

****