Single Handed: Finale

As promised, this is the final part to Single Handed, both parts. I know it's a bit long, but just keep in mind that it's wrapping up two sections of a story. Not much to say about it: nobody has really had anything good or bad to say about the story up til now, so I'm just assuming it's been well received. I'm funny like that. So, without further ado, the Finale to Single Handed by Jacob Moore.

I was woken from the blackness by whispered voices. I didn’t care where I was. I was
warm, and I didn’t have a rabid wolf on me anymore, and that was all that mattered. I just laid
there for a while, enjoying not doing anything until the voices got louder and I could no longer
ignore them.
 Opening my eyes, I saw that I was in a hospital, lying on a bed in a gown too small for me.
An I.V. hung next to the bed, and considering I couldn’t feel my fingers, I bet it was on the good
stuff. Or dead: dead people probably couldn’t feel their fingers either, right? Definitely the good
stuff.
 The room wasn’t empty, of course. A female doctor was arguing with a cop who was, in
turn, waving emphatically for her to get out.
 “It’s not appropriate,” she hissed as he pushed her firmly towards the door.
 “And I told you, I don’t care. He should have a friend here when he wakes up, not some
quack!” I recognized the voice, and while I was annoyed, I couldn’t help but smile at his
presumption. “Tell me what?” I asked. The doctor zeroed in on me like a missile, but the cop took the
opportunity to give one last good shove that sent her flying through the opened door.
 Over the sound of metal and plastic crashing to the ground, Lt. Locke called out, “You
two, keeper out…or shoot her. I don’t really care which,” and he slammed the door, walking over
to the bedside. In a city full of blondes and ravens, Alex Locke was an anomaly with his flaming
red hair and freckles over his Asgard pale skin. He was friendly enough for having as touch a job
as he had, and was almost always smiling ear to ear, even now. My father had always said he’d
never be a good cop: he was too thin, frail, and friendly. I knew better. If anything, Alex was too
smart.
“Friend, huh?” I said, smiling up at him. “Stretching it a little, aren’t you?”
 “Suit yourself, boss,” Locke said, sketching out a little salute. “Don’t know why we can’t
be both.”
 “What happened, Locke?”
 Locke’s face clouded over, but he grimaced as he started. “From what we understand, the
Wolves knew your route somehow. That’s being looked into. They hijacked a snowplow and
knocked the transport van over. The plow backed out and the Wolves swarmed the area,
making it possible for Fenton to escape. One of the officers called in for backup shortly after
things started.
 “My unit was in the area. I coordinated with five others, and we circled the wagons. We
got every one of them: ten total, three injured. We had light casualties over all, but the officer
who called in for backup was killed.” “Did you get Fenton back to jail?” I asked. Locke stopped talking and frowned down at
me, “What?”
 “I just said that one of your men died and all you want to know is if some scumbag is
back in jail?”
 I scowled and attempted to straighten myself in the bed, “What was his name?”
 “How should I know?”
 “If you can tell me, I can tell you what his unit number was, how long he’s been with us,
even how often he came in with scuffed boots. I’ll know his parents, because I’ll have to call
them and arrange his funeral expenses. I have time to mourn my officer later, so don’t tell me
how to prioritize! Now answer my goddamn question, Lieutenant!”
 By the time I finished shouting, my stomach was hurting and I had to remind myself that
I’d been recently stabbed. Locke turned around for a few minutes, but recovered, angry, but
controlling himself.
 “We found Fenton in the snow plow without the keys to start it. He was half frozen and
bleeding. He’s got some new charges against him now…now what?”
I was staring at him, aghast, “How did he get in the plow? I had him cuffed to me. I
couldn’t let him get away again. What did he do?”
 Realization seemed to come to Locke, and it made his already pale skin lighter, “We
thought you knew…there was so much blood. We didn’t think anyone could go through it and
not know.”
 “I passed out when he tried filleting me, Locke. What did he do?”
 “He cut off your hand…” The words didn’t seem to register, spoken so matter-of-factly…so blunt. He was talking
again, but I couldn’t put the words together. I felt around, and sure enough, I realized that I
could feel one hand, but everything below the other wrist was numb. I pulled my arm out of the
sheets and looked. The stump was well rounded with bandages, clean linen encircling an arm
that used to be whole.
I gazed at it like a man trying to puzzle out some sort of abstract art, and hours seemed
to pass by at a time before something inside me seemed to click out of place. With a snarl, I
attacked the bandages with my remaining digits, pulling at the neat, clean, offensive linen,
ripping and tearing at it in rage.
Locke reached for me, and I shouted, pushing him backwards where he crashed into the
wall. The door opened and two uniformed cops looked in, obviously concerned. I ignored them
and finished unwrapping the bandages. The stump was well stitched, but red and angry as it
came into the light. I looked at it, and felt the piece I’d lost slip further away. I’d sacrificed my
hand…my flesh and my blood…the only thing I had in this world.
“Where’s my hand?” I asked to no one in particular.
Locke looked hurt but answered, avoiding looking at my arm, “Fenton didn’t have it, and
we couldn’t find it anywhere. I’m sorry.”
“’Sorry?” I said, glaring at the stump…my stump, refusing to look at anything else. I’d lost
my hand, and what did I have now? “Get out.”
“I don’t think you should be alone right now, Kris -” Locke started to say.
“That’s Chief Tyler, Lieutenant!” I shouted, feeling the stitches in my stomach pulling, but
I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Now get your ass out of here! Now!”Locke frowned and walked back to the door where the officers had disappeared.
Grabbing the door, Locke turned back to me and glared. “Suit yourself, boss,” he said, and
slammed the door, leaving me alone. Just me…and the price of my obsession.
***
“Let me get this straight,” Locke said, perched on the edge of my bed while I re-wrapped
my bandages, having thrown the bloody ones in the trash when I’d gotten home. “Some woman
off the street pulls a gun on you and demands you open your safe deposit box. You take her
there, give her a ring and pull a gun on her. The teller comes in to check on you, the woman
shoots her, making everyone in the bank think the one-handed guy with the gun did it,
effectively stopping your pursuit. You then attend to the teller’s wound ‘til the paramedics show
up. Did I miss anything?”
I finished wrapping the bandages and turned back to Locke. After the paramedics had
taken Anna to the hospital, cops came to question me. Recognizing me, they’d called up to
Locke who had ordered me taken home. He’d shown up ten minutes later, bright and shiny in
his uniform and not smiling at all.
“Nope, that pretty much covers it,” I said.
“Oh good, ‘cause I’m trying to get a baseline for the new and improved, retired
Kristopher Tyler, but it’s not like they make a litmus test for this.”
“Hey, I was just going to get a new coffee pot.”
Locke raised his eyebrow and looked at the mess of sludge and glass around the room,
then back at me. I shrugged. I hadn't had time to clean before he’d shown up.
“Why didn't you go after her?” Locke asked, bringing us back on topic.“You know, I remember a young punk Lieutenant getting mouthy with me after I asked a
similarly insensitive question,” I said, frowning down at him.
“That ‘punk’ is Chief now, and understands how to prioritize,” Locke said, getting off the
bed and walking towards the door.
“Then you missed the point I was trying to make,” I said. “If Fenton had escaped, he
would have killed more people, maybe even more cops. If I’d chased after that woman, the
teller, whose name is Anna, by the way, would have died, even if I had caught her. My
responsibility is always going to be towards the people I can help, Locke.”
Locke seemed to think it over for a minute before nodding and going for the doorknob.
Before he opened it, he snapped his fingers in an all too familiar manner that made me glad I no
longer had my gun in hand. “That ring she took,” Locke said, turning around. There was an eager
glint in his eyes, but otherwise, he appeared calm. “What did it look like?”
“It was a cheap knock off of my grandmother’s wedding ring,” I said. “My mother lost
the original and didn’t have the heart to tell my father. It was a plain gold band…almost man-ish.
Why?”
“No reason,” Locke said, frowning. “Missing evidence from the Wagner murders, but it’s
not your problem.”
“Welcome to my life, Locke,” I said, as he turned his back to me, opened the door, and
started out. “Sometimes things just go that way.”
Locke nodded and closed the door. I walked over to the kitchen. Everything was
connected to the ring. Fenton and now Helena both wanted it. I watched out the small, dirty picture window above the sink until all the police units drove off then walked over to the phone
and picked it off its cradle. Digging my fingernail into the seam, I cracked it open like an oyster.
Inside, where I’d removed the ringer three months ago laid a small evidence bag.
Nestled in it was a small ring with a minuscule diamond setting…a ring familiar to me since I’d
seen its owner wearing it so proudly in his youth. Just visible on the inside, dull and faded in the
fluorescent kitchen lights, read: Alex Elias Locke.