Sunday, March 27

6:40 am
Hotel

Can't sleep.

My fucking leg is killing me.  Can't even take anything for it--surgery coming up on Friday.  Tried booze, that didn't work.

Gonna have to see if Dean can do anything magic for it before we hit the plane.  But that's a couple hours yet.

I'm packed and ready to go.  Can't wait to get home to see my Girl.

Now if I can just get a few more hours of sleep first.

Time ??
No idea what time zone I'm in
Plane

Are we fucking there yet?  I'm getting more and more antsy by the minute.  Been on this plane too damned long.  Long flights like this suck.

Watching basketball with Jesse and Steph, have been snacking almost nonstop since we took off.

Forgot how much I love peanuts.  Salted and in the shell.  Mmm-Mmm-Mmm.  Got me a nice little stack of empty peanut shells on the table.  Right next to my beer bottle.

Speaking of salty nuts... think I'm gonna call Cate and warn her I'm almost home.  Heh heh heh.

9:30 pm

Bedroom

I don't know what the Hell is happening

I'm numb.  Scared.  Sad.  Angry.  Confused.  Guilty.

Helpless.

I don't know what to do, how to make this better.

Of course, Cate tells me there's nothing I can do except deal with it and move on.  That's what she's doing.  And that should be much harder for her than it is for me.  She's the one who's recovering.  It was her ordeal, not mine.

But it is my ordeal, in another way.  I'm her husband, and I couldn't help her.

When I asked her how this could have happened, Cate just shrugged and gave me an ironic little smile and said "That's life.  It sucks sometimes."

That's a fucking understatement.

This is not at all the homecoming I envisioned.  I planned to walk in the door, drop my bags and sweep Cate off her feet and carry her to the bedroom and make love to her for hours.  To make up for the time we missed, to look forward to the wonderful future we have on the horizon.  God, I was looking forward to that.

But I can barely hold her.  I'm afraid to, I don't want to hurt her.  She tells me not to be stupid and to stop treating her like some delicate little flower.  She'll be good as new in a week or two.  Maybe so, but it might take me awhile to recover from this.  I always feared this, in the back of my mind, but I never thought it would actually happen.

While My Wife was out doing her job she was hurt.  Seriously, physically hurt.  As in trip-to-the ER hurt.  And I couldn't do a damned thing to help her, protect her, hold her hand... Hell, I couldn't even tell her on the phone that I love her.  Because she couldn't tell me what happened.  And then when she could tell me she was injured she wouldn't because she didn't want me to be distracted while I was on the road.

My Wife was in harm's way for a week, suffered actual physical pain, and she didn't want me to be distracted from my pansy-ass little job as a singing and dancing monkey.

Distracted?  Fuck, I would have been on the next plane home.  There would have been no more "Road."   Dates would have been cancelled, rescheduled.  Which she knew, so she kept this to herself.

And here I've been pissing and moaning about my insignificant little strained calf muscle and lack of sleep.  Christ, I'm such a pussy.  Cate's been on painkillers for a week and she hasn't said a word.

I almost lost it when I walked in the door and saw her there in the living room.  I was a little surprised when she told me she didn't want to meet me at Teterboro; I figured she'd go out to the Jersey house and come pick me up.  But now I know why.

She didn't want the kids to see my reaction.  We'll have to explain soon enough what happened to her since we're spending the day with them tomorrow.  But in her wisdom Cate knew I'd need some time to get it together before she faces my family.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her.  The first thing I noticed was the obvious -- the sling on her left arm.  I was so shocked that it took a minute for it to sink in, and for me to notice the faded black eye and the cuts and scrapes on her face.  And then when I rushed over to pull her into my arms and she winced I realized there was more.

Cate has a healing dislocated shoulder.  And two cracked ribs.  And five stitches in her scalp.  And assorted horrible-looking bruises and cuts and scrapes on her face and neck and arms.

But somehow she still looked so beautiful, standing there and smiling at me to welcome me home.  She was ready for my reaction; when my jaw hit the floor she gave me a wry little smile and cracked  "Yeah, but you should see the other guy."

I wasn't amused.

Of course I demanded to know what happened, who did this to her.  I was ready to pick up the phone and call whatever relatives I have left in the Old Country or North Jersey and hire them to make the Fuckers who hurt My Wife disappear.  For good.

And when she answered "Baby, I can't tell you that," I went ballistic.  I just lost it.  I started yelling and ranting, "What the fuck do you mean you can't tell me?  I'm your Goddamned HUSBAND!"  I blew through every curse word I knew and I'm pretty sure I made a few up.  I cussed her job and her boss and her agency and national fucking security up one side and down the other before I had to take a breath.

Cate just stood there and calmly stared at me, watching me throw my tantrum.  When I finally caught on that she wasn't going to say a word until I shut up, I calmed down.  Cate told me to take my bags to the bedroom and take a deep breath, then we'd talk.

I did what I was told, knowing that if I wanted Cate to tell me anything I was gonna have to cool it.  So I took a deep breath.  I counted to ten.  I almost put my fist through the wall.  I counted to ten again.  I went in the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face.  Then I went back into the kitchen.

Cate was fixing coffee.  Or trying to, anyway, one-handed.  I bit my tongue and gave her a kiss on the cheek and helped her.  Then we went into the living room and sat down, her in the armchair and me on the couch, as close to her as I could get.

I sat there and gazed up at my beautiful wife and my heart just broke.  She looked so weary and worn.  My strong, fiery, independent, kick-ass Wife, so subdued.  But she still had that little glint in her eyes, behind the dull grey-blue fog that was probably caused by her pain meds.  She definitely wasn't weak or fragile or broken.  Just wounded.

We just looked at each other for a long minute, then I reminded myself to stay calm and asked her what happened.  She got this little smirk on her pretty, bruised lips.  "Car accident," she said.  

I knew that was bullshit.  So I asked her again.  Again, "Car accident."  I was about to mouth off and tell her to cut the crap, when suddenly I understood.  That was the "official" story.  Because of her case.  Because the real story has to be kept under wraps.

I couldn't stand that thought.  It made me nauseous.  I was overwhelmed and I felt my eyes fill with tears.  I couldn't help it.  I just blinked at Cate and whispered -- because my voice wouldn't work -- "Baby, please."  I needed her to tell me the truth.

Cate teared up a little at my reaction.  But she quickly got herself under control.  She very quietly told me "Car accident," is what we are going to tell Dorothea and the kids and anyone else.  That she was a passenger in a taxicab that was in a wreck.  In Puerto Rico, where she had to go for a training seminar.

I couldn't speak.  I just nodded and looked at the floor, trying to hold back my tears.  I don't know whether I was pissed about the cover story or afraid to know the truth.  Probably a little of both.

Cate reached over and took my hand and told me to look at her.  I did and she gave me a little smile, then a serious look.  She told me she was only going to tell me this once, and then it would be done.  I couldn't ask her any questions and I can't tell anyone.

I just nodded and my heart sank because I knew I wasn't going to like whatever it was she was about to say. 

Cate took a deep breath and kinda winced--it hurt her ribs.  Then she very calmly started to tell me the truth.  I just sat and stared at her.  It was like she was reciting lines from a script or reading a report or something.  She just very matter-of-factly, in her logical cop way, gave me a complete accounting of the assault.

Assault.  My wife was assaulted.  The woman I love, the woman I'd kill for.  The woman I'd die for.  She was  victimized, attacked and injured by two men who obviously intended to do much worse than separate her shoulder and crack her ribs.  And if she hadn't been as strong and well-trained as she is it could have been much, much worse. 

I felt sick as she described what happened.  I must have looked awful because a couple times Cate paused and squeezed my hand and waited a minute to let me process what she was telling me.

She was working a surveillance in a little nightclub on the beach.  She didn't say where, but I know damned well it wasn't Puerto Rico.  She was following a female target.  Because she was on the beach she wasn't armed; she couldn't conceal her gun in her skimpy little light dress.  But she was wired.  Thank God.

Her target went to the ladies room, Cate followed.  The bathroom was in the back of the bar, near a door leading to an alley.  It was dark, she pushed open the bathroom door and one of the guys grabbed her from behind, dragged her head back by her hair and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Cate's instincts and training kicked in. She bit his hand, tried to head-butt him.  Then she felt something metal pushing against her side.  She couldn't tell if it was a gun or not but she knew not to fight.  That's the training; don't resist if there's a firearm.  Be calm and wait for your chance to escape.  Christ, I don't know how on earth she stayed calm -- my hands are shaking just writing this.

But she did.  She knew she had to try to stay inside or close to the bar.  If these guys got her out in the street and into a car she'd be in real trouble.  So she pretended to faint, went limp.  The the guy with the weapon pulled it away from her, and the one holding her dragged her toward the door.  She waited until one was outside ahead of her and the other was in the doorway, then she fought back.

One guy dragged her out into the alley, but she got enough distance from him to fight.  She yelled and screamed and punched and kicked.  Cate said she knew if she could just stay there for 3 minutes she'd have backup.  I remember that from the training she gave me at the Center -- if an officer can fight for 3 minutes, chances of his survival are 90 percent.

Jesus.  Thank God she taught Officer Survival Training.

So Cate did just that, she fought back with everything she had.  And next thing she knew there were police cars in the alley and her attackers were on the run.  But not before one of them punched her in the face a couple times and bashed her against the stone wall and the door and tried to drag her down the alley.  That's how she got the shoulder injury and the cracked ribs.

She doesn't remember how she got the other injuries.  She doesn't remember the pain, until the cops showed up and it was over.

The local cops called an ambulance and she went to the ER.  She had to fill out reports, get fixed up.  She wouldn't let them keep her overnight, she insisted she just wanted to go back to her hotel and be alone.  The Police told her she was a lucky woman, what happened to her was a by-the-book kidnap attempt.  Apparently there is a criminal element wherever she was that preys on women tourists.

Cate didn't tell me more than that, but I can draw the conclusions on my own.  Kidnap.  Rape.  Possibly even Murder.  Or the victim just disappears.

Jesus.

Cate told me she wasn't lucky, she was well-trained and well-prepared and well-watched.  She survived because she knew what to do, and her team did what they were supposed to.  That confused me--she said the local cops showed up and scared off the attackers.  Then I realized what she meant--the cops came because they were sent.  Whoever was watching her heard what was happening on Cate's wire and alerted the police.

That pissed me off.  I have enough training to know there were other agents in that bar or just around the corner, watching and listening.  And they sat on their asses while my Wife was fighting for her life.  They were right fucking THERE and all they did was call the local cops.  Motherfuckers.

Of course when I started to make my opinion about all this known Cate shut me down, hard and fast.  She said "the matter was handled by-the-book" and the "outcome was favorable."

Goddammit.  I'm terrified at the thought of what could have happened and my Wife is spouting off fucking training-manual chapter and verse.

But I had to shut up and let her finish.  I promised and I knew she wasn't gonna say another word if I went off on her.  So I stuffed all my rage back inside and sat there and listened.

Cate had to do everything alone.  The police report, the ER, the medical exam, the collection of physical evidence.  Having her head stitched up and her shoulder popped back in and her cuts and bruises cleaned up.  She had to do it all ALONE.  She couldn't break her cover, had to pretend she was some poor naive lonely single American girl there on holiday that stumbled into a bad situation.

That fucking pisses me off more than anything.  My Wife had to endure a major trauma and she had to deal with it all alone.  All in the name of fucking Operational Security.  God Forbid the feds blow their fucking cover on whatever this Goddamned case is.  Apparently their agents are expendable.  MY WIFE is expendable.  They just sat by and watched and let Cate get her head bashed against a wall.

Nobody from her team came to the ER, nobody came to the Police Station, nobody drove her back to her hotel.  She did it all alone.

She deserves a fucking medal, at the very least.  Talk about fucking sacrificing for your job, for your country.

This all happened last Friday night.  When I was having a grand old time with Dorothea and the kids, living the good life in Vegas.  I was whining about the boys keeping me from getting a good night's sleep in some fancy hotel suite while Cate was laying on an exam table in some Emergency Room in some damned place where they probably don't even have real fucking doctors.

Christ, I feel so fucking guilty.

So Cate told me all this as gently and calmly as she could, then gave it a little time to sink in.  She could see I had questions but she told me not to ask, so I didn't.  But she told me a little more, I think because she could see how angry and scared I was.

She said once she got back to the hotel her team did everything they could for her.  They got her straight to their standby physician, apparently a military doc who was on call in case something bad went down.  He checked her out, made sure everything was okay, gave her meds from his dispensary.  He even did another set of x-rays just to be sure the locals didn't fuck up.

Guess they didn't, the military doc didn't find any additional wounds or injuries.  He gave her a sedative shot to help her sleep and stayed with her through the night, just in case there were complications like a concussion or something.  There weren't, Thank God.

Cate spent the next couple days there, recuperating and working in the command center, until they could get her out on a military flight.  She said that was standard procedure; I don't know if that was because they didn't want anybody to see her and compromise their precious operation or because that's what they do for an agent injured in the line of duty.  Frankly I don't fucking care.  They should have had her on the first plane out, in a fucking First Class seat.

But I don't get any say in the matter.  And Cate said she was glad she didn't fly sooner because it was torture--the pressurization on her cracked ribs.  She said she was flying high on Percoset but it still sucked.

When she got back here one of the guys from her office picked her up and brought her home.  She's been working from home since then.  Technically she's on medical leave but she's still writing reports and doing teleconferences and talking to attorneys and all kinds of shit.  She said she can't not work.  She has to stay in the game.  It's part of her recovery, from a mental standpoint.

I guess I can understand that.  And she would know.  She's been down this road before.

So after she told me all this I couldn't help myself--I lost it.  I sat there and cried.  I apologized for not being there for her, for her having to go through all this alone.  And then I begged her to quit.

Cate just moved over beside me on the couch and sidled up close.  She said "Baby, it's over.  I'm here, I'm safe, I'm gonna be fine.  And I'm not gonna quit.  But I just need you to hold me and tell me you love me and that everything's okay between us."

So I did.  I very carefully wrapped my arms around her and kissed her and told her what she needed to hear.  Over and over again.  And after a little while it started to make me feel a little better too.

We sat there for a long time, then finally Cate told me to get my ass off the couch and go unpack my shit so she could throw my clothes in the wash.  I had to grin at that.  That's my Wife--she's not gonna sit around and wallow in self-pity.  Or let me do it, either.

She followed me in the bedroom and sat and talked to me while I emptied out my bags.  Nothing more about her injuries or the Op--that topic was clearly closed.  Just about normal stuff:  appointments and plans and how last night's show went and that we're gonna do with the kids tomorrow.  We even talked about how Russell liked being on tour with the band, ha ha.

It was a little scary I had so much to say about an imaginary ferret.

And Cate told me she's gonna get me a cane so I can hobble around on my bum leg.  Ha ha, very funny.  But it made me smile.  It was her silly little way of telling me we're both gonna be fine.

She's right.  We will be.