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FIC: "Scars"
SERIES: The 'Jim-and-Brian' Songfic Series
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn (camelotslash-2@qwest.net)
DATE: May 10, 2005 - July 5, 2005
FANDOM: "S.W.A.T."
PAIRING: Gamble/Street (Jeremy Renner and Colin Farrell)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Robert Hamner, Columbia Pictures and the respective actors of the movie. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
RATING/WARNINGS: PG-13 at least. Another song fic! Angsty, a tiny bit of slashy subtext (just like in the movie and book). Very dark -- you may not like the ending (but I won't say more in the template).
SUMMARY: An AR (alternate reality or continuation) S.W.A.T. story where Street tries to deal with the aftermath of the events in the film. (If you haven't seen the movie, those events are well-detailed in this fanfic.)
BETA: Thanks, Charlie (whew!).
DEDICATION: To my new online friends who choose to use the names Brian and Jim -- I'm glad it's ended up better for you guys than it did for your movie counterparts. (Thanks, Jimbo, for letting me "borrow" some of the ideas from your stories. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.)
AUTHOR NOTES: I've seen the movie "S.W.A.T." dozens of times. I've read the novelization. I can completely believe that Brian Gamble would go bad after breaking up with Jim Street, because there's no way the two could go on without each other, whether you see slash potential between them or not. That means there's no way Jim could live with what happened at either the end of the movie or the end of the book (which have alternate endings, by the way).

The shot warmed the back of his throat and infused his chest with a pleasant flush, filling him with a sense of euphoria. The word 'euphoria' -- by its very definition a feeling of exaggerated and often unfounded happiness -- fit his current mood perfectly. Tequila was his ticket to well being, and lately it was his only ticket.

Often now, it was his only ticket to sleep, as well.

The cd player was blaring. It was the latest offering of Papa Roach, one of his favorite bands, ironically titled 'Getting Away with Murder.'

Great music for a cop . . .

Chopper, his German Shepherd, looked up at him from across the room. The dog's head rested on his front paws and his dark eyes stared, unblinking. What was he thinking? Was he wondering what the fuck was wrong with his friend and master -- what was driving him to drink?

"Too bad you can't talk," he actually said aloud to the dog. "I could use the company."

The answer was a low doggy whimper.

Well, at least Chopper was still with him, unlike the woman who had shared his apartment for months and the man who had shared his life for years. Chopper had now been his companion for half a decade, and maybe a four-legged friend was the only kind Jim Street would ever have for that long again.

Street sighed, still holding the shot glass loosely in his hand. He knew if he checked his watch he'd find it was well past midnight. He also knew if he didn't get at least four hours of sleep, he would be unable to function the next day. And it was an important day for the young S.W.A.T. officer. He couldn't afford to be bleary-eyed again.

"Gotta re-qualify tomorrow," he told Chopper, deciding the dog was, if nothing else, a captive audience. "Hondo will have my balls if I don't do better than last time." He had barely squeaked by during the last test of his shooting ability. He definitely needed to show significant improvement this time around.

Street stared out the large window at the murky Pacific Ocean; he could sense the rolling waves rather than actually see them.

He had always loved the sea. Years earlier he had served with the Navy, with an elite SEAL unit.

At one time, he had loved to surf.

Now the repetitious action of the waves served to calm and even tranquilize him; he had come to rely on the hypnotic effect of the view from his apartment window. He couldn't afford to let his mind concentrate too hard on anything these days. He had to focus on actions, large and small, to get through the day.

Get up, take a piss, brush your teeth, take a shower, shave, find clean underwear, feed the dog, stop and get gas, check your gear, do another set of reps in the gym, eat a burger, point and shoot, smile at someone's joke, rappel down the side of a building, go to the liquor store, pay the rent, feed the dog again.

On and on. One action after another. Few words, fewer thoughts. The surf continued to crash against the shore, and the days ticked off.

Coby Dick's voice filled the room, and Street's attention was directed to the cd player.

"I tear my heart open,
I sew myself shut.
My weakness is
That I care too much.
And my scars remind me
That the past is real.
I tear my heart open
Just to feel."

Street set down the shot glass and opened his hand slowly, staring at a florid dent in his palm. This particular scar held vivid memories. It was the spot where his former partner, Brian Gamble, had stabbed him and pinned him to a railroad car.

Oh, yeah, he thought. My scars remind me of the past, that's for sure. The past is definitely real. More real than the present.

"Drunk and I'm feeling down,
And I just wanna be alone.
You shoulda never come around!
Why don't you just go home?
Cuz you're drowning in the water,
And I tried to grab your hand.
I left my heart open
But you didn't understand."

No. Gamble hadn't understood a thing. He had believed Street betrayed him, even after five years of partnership, of saving one another's asses both literally and figuratively, of watching one another's backs and sharing thousands of experiences, both good and bad. When the final breakup came, it was more than a dissolution of a partnership. It was the shattering of a big part of Jim Street's belief system.

How much more had Jim's world been shattered when the car window beside him had imploded from the shot that took down one of his team members, Boxer, and he had found himself staring into the crazed eyes of Brian Gamble, the man who held the offending weapon?

Instinct and a call to action had taken over at that moment, and it had allowed him to keep up a semblance of sanity ever since.

"I can't help you fix yourself,
But at least I can say I tried.
I'm sorry but I gotta move on
With my own life."

Had he tried to reach out to Gamble? It had been more than six months since the end of their partnership when the evidence of Gamble's disintegration was suddenly and unexpectedly staring him in the face. Why hadn't Brian Gamble killed him when he had the chance? Why had he merely smiled, bragged about what he'd done and cuffed him to the steering wheel?

"I tear my heart open,
I sew myself shut.
My weakness is
That I care too much.
And our scars remind us
That the past is real.
I tear my heart open
Just to feel."

Now Jim Street couldn't feel a thing. Life, not tequila, had effectively anesthetized him. What would it take to finally feel something again, more than a year since he had come up against his own former partner in the execution of his duty?

He would have to tear his heart open.

And he couldn't do it. If he did, he doubted it could be sewn shut again. He would bleed out.

"Fuck it," he said, pounding on the stop button of the cd player. He picked up the bottle of tequila and carried it to bed with him. He had to sleep, and in order to sleep, he had to close his eyes. The tequila would serve as a sort of Visine for the imagery of the past -- he had to get the fucking red out, scars or no scars.

He had to force Brian Gamble out of his head again, just as he had done night after night for more than a year and a half. So he swigged straight from the bottle, then let his head fall back on the pillow, oblivion setting in.

When he woke, he was already late. The man who had always been early -- compulsively so -- was late again for roll call . . . and on re-qualification day when the team was meeting at the shooting range.

Oh, fuck.

Jim Street forced himself into the shower and shivered under a blast of cold water that almost inhibited his ability to piss. There wasn't time to do everything separately, so he pointed in the corner and let fly; he would have to forego shaving.

He moved automatically and quickly through his morning routine, his motions on fast forward.

Throw on fatigues. Feed the dog. Grab a hunk of cheese and a swig of milk out of its plastic container. Lock the door behind you and take off. Ignore the posted speed limits as you travel east. Flash your ID at the gate of the training grounds and roar down the narrow lane. No parking space in plain sight? Pretend your wheels are not edging into the red zone. Haul ass!

Sgt. Hondo Harrelson glared at him when he finally arrived at the range. He was actually out of breath, a sad testimony to his reduced fitness level, not to mention his anxiety over the upcoming test. Jesus, just a year earlier he had been in police Olympic shape! What a difference no sleep and lots of tequila can make.

Not commenting on the late arrival, Harrelson grabbed a clipboard and pointed to the outdoor targets. "You better be ready, Street," Hondo warned. "If you don't qualify today, you'll be riding a desk for the next month."

Street nodded. He would qualify. He had to.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand, easing the tightness from the puckered scar tissue.

"Our scars remind us
That the past is real.
I tear my heart open
Just to feel."

This was no time to start feeling something. He had to keep his heart closed, as encased in hardened tissue as that spot at the center of his palm, the spot where his lifeline had been transected. A dead zone, like the one inside his head and the one in the center of his chest.

Closing his eyes for a brief instant, Street caught his breath and gathered himself. It was time to do what he had been trained for.

Shoot.

He ran, crouched, shot, ran, rolled, shot, ran, poised and shot again. He ejected the spent cartridge and reloaded, then turned quickly and watched for the familiar faces. Bad guy. Shoot. Civilian. Hold. Guy with gun. Shoot. Woman with child. Hold. Guy with gun. Shoot.

No. The last guy wore a uniform like his.

Fuck.

Hondo said nothing as Street holstered his weapon. The scorekeeper conferred with Harrelson, and Street turned away and wiped sweat from his brow. He felt suddenly old and tired, and he wondered for the first time if he was struggling in vain to stay on the team. Maybe it was time to hang up the body armor.

And do what?

"Go clean your weapon, Street. You qualified. But barely. No improvement over last time. I want you at this range every weekend until the next exam."

Street let out his breath, realizing for the first time he'd been holding it. "Gotcha," he replied, ignoring the disgusted way his sergeant was shaking his head.

Cleaning weapons was something Jim Street could do in his sleep. He had spent six months in the gun cage after the seminal event that had led to Street and Gamble severing their five-year partnership. During a bank robbery, the two S.W.A.T. officers had disobeyed a command to hold their position and instead confronted two suspects, one with a gun to the head of a hostage. Incredibly, Gamble had shot through the terrified bank teller and taken out the gunman, but the wounded hostage had ended up suing the L.A.P.D. for her injury, and Gamble and Street had been kicked off their elite S.W.A.T. team.

Disgusted, Gamble had quit the force. Street had been exiled to the gun cage. And the two men had gone their separate ways both literally and figuratively, the friendship shattered.

Their captain, Thomas Fuller, was known as the Teflon Man of the L.A.P.D. Nothing stuck to the smooth surface of his telegenic persona, just as nothing seemed to dull the luster of his artificially white teeth. He played politics and rarely, if ever, put his men before his own career. He had offered Street complete vindication if the young officer would turn on his partner and admit Gamble was a bad influence on the team and the cause of the incident in the bank.

He had been damn convincing.

But Street had refused. Despite the fact Gamble had initiated the violation of their orders, his bold action had saved a hostage in a volatile situation. No one could ever be sure, but Jim Street's instincts told him the woman would have died if he and Gamble had followed those orders. And he knew he would have spent the rest of his career -- and maybe the rest of his days -- regretting that death.

Now, instead, he regretted his life.

Gamble had been convinced of Street's disloyalty, as had much of the force it seemed. It had taken Street more than six months of eating shit to work his way back to S.W.A.T. -- and it had taken Hondo Harrelson's stubborn insistence to get Fuller to relent and give Street the chance.

As unthinkable as it was, Hondo and Fuller had once been partners. Jim Street could only imagine what that unholy alliance had been like. Maybe they had once been as close as he and Brian Gamble had. Maybe they had confided in one another and trusted one another above all others, and maybe some terrible falling out had destroyed that trust. He and Hondo had never spoken of it, and he doubted they ever would.

Fuller had ended up as the Man Who Would be Chief, and Hondo was still on the street, saving lives.

Thank God for that, Street thought. Without Hondo he never would have made his way back to S.W.A.T., instead spending what remained of his career as a desk jockey like his gun cage partner Gus Leonardson; but, unlike the complacent Gus, he would have been forever dissatisfied and frustrated.

As he applied a thin layer of lubricant over the slide bolt and muzzle of his handgun, Street reflected on what Hondo Harrelson had meant to him in the past year. The world-wise veteran of S.W.A.T. had shown Street that the demands and stresses of making daily decisions that could mean life or death to a civilian or a team member didn't have to turn a man into a psycho or a burnout. What Street had seen happen to Brian Gamble didn't have to be the inevitable result of dealing with the job and then dealing with the ungrateful and sometimes ethically bankrupt brass. Gamble had been a brilliant and fearless officer early in his career and had ended up a troubled misfit with an unfortunate talent for mayhem after that career was over.

And it had been his old friend and partner Jim Street who had finally taken him down.

Too often now, when he wasn't deep in concentration at work or half drunk late at night, Street's mind would start to play the 'What If' game.

What if he had tugged on Gamble's shoulder when the two were dropping through the ceiling of the bank lobby? What if he had taken the first shot, the clearer shot, and saved the woman without shooting her? What if he had officially complained to the union about the handling of the incident in the bank? What if he had gone public with his frustration over the injustice of being blamed for what had started out being a heroic act? What if he had argued more passionately with the disgusted and disillusioned Gamble and convinced him to stick it out? What if he had tried to contact Gamble during the six months they were separated, showing the man he still cared? What if . . .

The game was dizzying and exhausting.

There had been one final meeting between the two former partners before the whole thing went completely to hell. The night after Street's new team had passed their final test, he had encountered Gamble in one of their old haunts, a bar where they often drank and played pool and picked up stewardesses together. Gamble had been transformed from an edgy cop into an edgier -- what?

Drunk and typically flippant, Gamble's punked-out hair, pierced ears and newly inked forearm had somehow seemed to suit him better than had the L.A.P.D. uniform he had worn for so many years. For an instant, as their eyes met, Street had felt a glimmer of hope. It had quickly faded as Gamble's attitude showed him he was still condemned in his former partner's mind.

"Looks like all that ass kissing paid off," Gamble whispered in his ear.

Jim Street could still feel Gamble's hot breath on the side of his face.

What if he had followed Gamble out of the bar that night and insisted the man listen to him, listen to his explanation of what really happened in Fuller's office? What if he had apologized for what Gamble had seen as a betrayal and explained that he just couldn't give up being a cop, no matter how much Gamble had wanted him to go along with him?

That one time, Jim Street couldn't go along with Brian Gamble.

But what if he had?

The next time he saw Gamble, the man was holding a gun -- a gun that had just wounded Michael Boxer, one of Street's new team members and the brother of his former girlfriend.

One-time white knight Gamble had turned to the Dark Side. And it was up to Jim Street to unleash his lightsaber and give chase. Too bad he was dealing with reality instead of a popular fantasy . . .

Street forced himself to put Brian Gamble out of his mind, unwilling to think about the events that had followed Boxer's shooting. When he had finished cleaning his gun, Street worked out in the training academy gym, lifting for a while and then doing crunches, pulling off his shirt so he could watch his abdominal muscles working, concentrating on nothing but the mechanics of his body. He glanced at his watch and then counted silently, trying to do 50 sit-ups in under two minutes, one of a string of physical requirements for a Navy SEAL. He was oblivious to the stare of a nearby recruit until he had reached the number 45 in a disappointing three-and-a-half minutes, finishing with a loud "fuck!" and then looking up and catching the young man's eye.

"Uh, nice tattoo," the embarrassed redhead said, indicating Street's left arm.

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Street answered, tossing a bead of sweat off his forehead with two fingers. On his upper arm he wore his latest tattoo, one he had gotten about six weeks after the breakup of his partnership with Gamble. The design showed a large headstone.

"Who died?" the newbie asked.

Who indeed? Street shrugged and reached for his t-shirt, not answering. He and Gamble had both been fans of tattoos and sported several that marked significant events in their lives. He thought of the tattoo Gamble had worn on the inside of his left arm, the eagle with the thunderbolt and laurel branch, the logo of L.A.P.D.'s S.W.A.T. division. Gamble had gotten the tattoo before he and Street had even taken their final exam, sure they would pass. It was typical Gamble, confident and arrogant; and, of course, it was one of Brian's gambles that paid off.

When he encountered Gamble in the bar, he had noticed the text portion of the logo had been covered by a wide black band tattooed around Gamble's forearm, leaving just the eagle.

Street showered and headed to town to run a few necessary errands, like going to the grocery store and the bank, the kind of mundane tasks he usually despised. He blared the radio to block out his thoughts.

Inane ads and deejay chatter gave way to music. Jim Street grimaced.

Of course.

"I tear my heart open,
I sew myself shut.
My weakness is
That I care too much.
Any my scars remind me
That the past is real.
I tear myself open
Just to feel."

He reached over and punched the radio off. Then he pulled into the bank parking lot and hurried inside.

His most recent bank statement had shown an error, one that couldn't be resolved by phone or on line. So Street was forced to visit the bank in person and try to argue with a human being instead of a disembodied voice or an electronic cursor. He stood in line and waited, surprised to see so many people in a bank in the middle of the day. Did people still come to banks? The last time he had been in one . . .

He had killed a man the last time he was inside a bank.

When it was his turn, Street approached the cage and held out his statement and bank card. When he looked up at the teller, he stared for a minute, confused. The attractive black woman was familiar, but he couldn't remember from where. Then he saw the recognition in her eyes, and he instantly knew.

She was the hostage Brian Gamble had wounded in that other bank nearly two years earlier.

Her hands were shaking, and her eyes filmed over. Street cleared his throat and tried to speak, but found his voice had deserted him. The moment stretched on for what seemed like an eternity.

He had held her shaking body that day as she went into shock, trying to talk to her calmly and soothingly, to convince her she would be all right. He had held her sobbing frame close to his chest, waiting with her until the paramedics took over; and when he removed his body armor and gloves later, they had been stained with her blood.

Her name badge read Maybella Evans. He remembered reading that name in newspaper accounts of the shooting. She was the single mother of two young children, a woman from East L.A. who had risen out of a neighborhood of crack addicts and prostitutes to earn a living for herself and her kids. Before the shooting, she had been barely making ends meet. Afterward she was forced to be off work for months, in physical therapy and psychological counseling. The City of Los Angeles had quickly settled her claim, paying her a lump sum in the high six figures, relieved to have her sympathetic tale of woe at the hands of a police officer finally become yesterday's news.

Jim Street had experienced a mixture of guilt and resentment over Maybella Evans; she was just another example to him of the ingratitude of the general public and the misunderstanding of the self-righteous watchdogs who wanted to second-guess every action taken by the men who risked their lives to enforce the law. In his mind, she was partially responsible for the six months he had spent shining gunmetal and licking boots, and, even worse, for the breakup of his partnership with Brian Gamble. She could have -- probably would have -- died if not for the quick actions of the S.W.A.T. team. And even if she had suffered from her experience, it was galling that she had ultimately benefited from the downfall of Gamble and Street.

Now, looking at her stricken face, he felt a wave of compassion.

"Sir?" she said, averting her eyes and biting her lip. "How can I help you?"

He pushed the statement forward on the counter without speaking. She reached out a hand and touched a fingertip to the paper.

"Ma'am . . ."

She swallowed and glanced up at him.

"Miss Evans?"

"What do you want?" she said in a whisper, her eyes darting left and right. "What are you doing here?

"This is my bank, ma'am. I didn't know you were working here."

"You need to go to another teller, Officer. I can't help you." She pushed his statement back across the counter.

"Miss Evans, I don't want to upset you. I'm sorry for what happened to you."

Wiping a tear away from her lower lashes, Maybella Evans met Street's eyes. "I'm sorry for what happened to you," she said. "And to him. I never meant for any of that to happen! It wasn't my fault what happened--"

"Of course not, Ma'am! It was their fault -- the bastards in the bank!"

"He saved my life," she said, and Street felt a wave of nausea roll through his gut. "Your partner . . ."

Street's hand shook as he picked up the bank statement. "Yeah. That's all he wanted to do."

He was able to swallow the salty bile in his throat until he reached the parking lot. Then he bent over next to his convertible and vomited. When he finished retching, he turned and leaned on the car, sucking air; a sheen of sweat covered his face and his eyes watered. The scar in his palm throbbed.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.

Why had events conspired to fuck up the lives of Maybella Evans and Brian Gamble, two human beings whose lives had absolutely no reason to collide in such dramatic fashion? The unfortunate collaboration had resulted in the ultimate no-win situation.

Maybella Evans had lived.

And Brian Gamble -- the Brian Gamble whose mission it was to save lives and defeat the bad guy -- had died.

"You're like a goddamned rash!" Gamble had complained after Street chased him off the Sixth Street Bridge. Street had rappelled off the structure -- leapt out, trusting in the rope, following his former partner down into the blackness. While he was trying to get his balance, the blade had struck.

"You might want to get that looked at, brother," Gamble had said when he left Street pinioned to the flatcar.

Gamble, his trusted friend and partner for five years, had gone bad -- bad enough to pick up a weapon and use it against his former allies. And all for the money -- the $100 million being offered by international crime lord Alex Montel to anyone who could break him out of custody and foil the attempts of S.W.A.T. to transport him to a federal prison.

Gamble had taken the bait dangled by the suave French bastard. He had managed, somehow, to seduce Street's S.W.A.T. teammate, T.J. McCabe, to turn his back on his partners and join him in his quest to go for the gold. The chronically dissatisfied McCabe, after weeks of training with Hondo's team, had clearly read the handwriting on the wall announcing he would never be the better shot (Street had already bested him), the most fit (team member Deke Kay had a body like a rich rap singer) or even the prettiest (their elite group included Chris Sanchez, an attractive woman). But all that glitters doesn't necessarily lead to Fort Knox. Gamble's get-rich-quick scheme had taken a turn for the worse when Street's team, led by Hondo Harrelson, guessed the escape route chosen by Gamble, McCabe and their partners.

Most of the L.A.P.D. had raced to the airport to head off the Frog's escape. Hondo's team had caught sight of a small jet's descent into the downtown area, where, unbelievably, the hotshot pilot had managed a landing on the Sixth Street Bridge.

Only Gamble could have the balls for a stunt like that . . . if you don't have a clear shot, just shoot straight through the hostage! And when he had offered Street that option, shielding himself with the cowering wife of the jet owner, Gamble had obviously known that Street would never attempt it.

Quick action -- and Hondo's wild driving -- had foiled the attempt of the bad guys to get their Lear Jet back into the air. So Gamble was forced to go to Plan B and try to run. Street had waited and followed, staying true to form by sticking to and making sure the hostage was safe first.

Fasten the rope. Take a deep breath. Bend your knees and jump.

And he had jumped. Out into the night, dropping from light to dark, rappelling into his own unknown future.

A future without Brian Gamble?

Gamble had chosen for himself. He had been the one who walked away -- who walked out. He had left the police force. He had left Jim Street. He had picked up a gun and turned it on his friend. Brian Gamble was the bad guy. It was Gamble's fault, not Jim Street's. So why was Street forced to carry the scars?

Putting distance between himself and the bank where he had encountered Maybella Evans, Jim Street now found himself in the hills above Covina; he had driven without thinking of his destination, speeding away from the memories now threatening to overtake him. How many months had he managed to outrun the thoughts of Brian Gamble and their encounter on the train tracks?

Why didn't you kill me when you had me helpless on that flatcar, Jim wondered, picturing Brian Gamble's familiar, expressive face. Why didn't you shoot the two or three times you had the chance? What did you think would happen in the end?

What had happened, exactly?

Their final encounter, battering at one another with fists and feet, had been brutal and bloody. Street, too, had decided to forego his chance to take a clear shot when he had it, and instead had rejoined the hand-to-hand fray, tackling Gamble with enthusiasm bordering on passion. The two had crashed together like two bugling elk locking antlers during the rutting season, rolling and pummeling and tossing one another around the dangerous tracks.

When the end came, Gamble made one indescribable sound.

It wasn't really a scream, and it couldn't be called a moan. It was a sound of surprise and finality as he simply ceased to be, struck by a passing train, bleeding out on the tracks.

Jim Street had fallen to his knees, lowering his forehead to touch the ground, sucking air through a bloodied mouth. The events of the past year had suddenly been outlined by harsh reality in that horrible moment of realization that there was no longer any turning back. Street had gone down and stayed down, waiting for an interminable time to wake up from his nightmare; and when the scene didn't shift and the darkness didn't lift, he whimpered once, then struggled to his feet and decided to keep on moving until it did.

And now, having taken Highway 10 east toward San Bernadino, he had somehow managed to find the Via Verde exit and head up the hill to Forest Lawn Cemetery. It was 4:00 p.m., nearly closing time according to the posted signs. Street had never been here, but he must have known the way, must have at some point mapped out the drive.

Sometime between the encounter with Maybella Evans and the Covina city limits, Jim Street woke up from his nightmare -- the nightmare of denial that had covered his feelings with scar tissue.

"You look like you need a Band-Aid," Hondo had said when Street rejoined the team after his final encounter with Brian Gamble.

"Somebody else needs a body bag downstairs," he answered in a voice devoid of caring. He noticed one was already being loaded into a nearby ambulance, covered by a S.W.A.T. vest inscribed with 'McCabe.' He learned later that T.J. McCabe had blown his brains out when faced with inevitable capture. Hondo had watched him die.

How many cops took this escape route every year, every month, every week? It didn't take disgrace and dishonor for an officer to decide to eat his gun; in fact, some old soldiers actually considered it the honorable way out, unless a family and pension were involved.

But knowing he would never see T.J. McCabe's cocky smile or hear his blustering rap about his sexual conquests and his get-rich schemes again was something Street didn't want to consider, any more than he wanted to relive his countless memories of Brian Gamble and their shared experiences, training, laughing, sweating, weeping, partying, bleeding and even shitting together.

He didn't wait to see Gamble's remains retrieved. He never heard about a service, and he didn't remember who had told him where his ex-partner was buried.

But he must have known.

Brian Gamble had no family that Street knew of. It could have been assumed that his remains had been claimed by the Los Angeles County Coroner and held for the appropriate time before being cremated and shelved with the hundreds of others that die unclaimed every year in the City of Angels. Every two or three years close to 2,000 metal boxes of ashes are dumped into a communal grave in the Los Angeles County Cemetery in East L.A. marked only with the year.

This had not been Gamble's fate for some reason. Someone had seen to it that he had a resting place of his own, and Street wondered vaguely if that someone might be a guilty Captain Fuller or their old team leader, Sergeant Howard or maybe Lt. Velasquez -- or perhaps some combination of the three men who had all participated in ending Gamble's S.W.A.T. career.

Street pulled into the entry to the expansive grounds and rounded the drive to the parking lot, his body and mind once more on automatic.

Park the car. Find the office and the desk marked "Inquiries." Smile at the well dressed woman and flash the badge. Show the appropriate amount of gratitude before backing out of the building. Unlock the metal box in the back of the car, then follow the signposts to the spot.

It was now 4:30 in the afternoon, and it was uncomfortably warm. Street walked to the newest section of the cemetery, ironically named the 'Garden of Family Love,' squinting at the blue sky butted up against the San Gabriel Mountains. The view was incredible, definitely acceptable if someone had to be forced to look away from the sea.

Street could read the stone before he reached it.

Brian Gamble. 1973-2003.

Under the name was carved the lines of a familiar poem: "I never dreamed it would be me, My name for all eternity, Recorded here at this hallowed place. Alas, my name, no more my face."

It was the first stanza of a poem most career cops knew, 'The Monument,' written by a retired L.A.P.D. sergeant to decorate a statue in the state capital honoring police officers who had died in the line of duty.

Street smiled bitterly. If he needed any further proof that Gamble's interment was not the act of anyone in the department, this was it. Gamble had turned rogue; this begrudging honor was not something Fuller or Howard or even Velasquez would have allowed.

It had never occurred to him that Maybella Evans would care enough about the officer that shot her to pony up the nearly $5,000 to buy him a burial plot, much less whatever the marble stone had cost. Ironic that the City's settlement money had made it full circle to benefit one of their former white knights. The cemetery staffer Lucie Jenkins had been happy to let him know the name of Gamble's benefactor once she saw his L.A.P.D. identification. Were the dried remains of a small bouquet something Evans had left on a recent visit? Or did Gamble have someone else who regretted his passing or remembered him for something other than his final crimes?

Who else cared?

Jim Street did.

"I tear my heart open,
I sew myself shut.
My weakness is
That I care too much.
Our scars remind us
That the past is real.
I tear myself open
Just to feel."

He had loved Brian Gamble once. They had called each other "brother" and meant it. They had played together, supported each other when they indulged in too much drink and nursed one another when they were sick or injured or just dead tired; they had shared jokes and opinions, secrets and fears, elation and disgrace.

They had never swapped spit or shared a hand job, but they had done something far more intimate. They had killed together.

It wasn't by accident that the relationship between partners was sometimes referred to as a "marriage." There were few bonds as strong as the one forged by danger and the trust for the person that shared it.

Jim Street and Brian Gamble hadn't broken up. They had divorced. And the result was ugly, finally destroying both of them.

Street went down on his knees, just as he had when Gamble died. He brushed the dried blossoms away from the marble surface and pressed his palm against Gamble's gravestone, staring at the livid scar on the back of his hand, the scar left by Brian Gamble's knife.

Scars are just roadmaps traced on skin, the visible signposts of life's memorable moments. The worst injuries are often invisible. Jim Street's internal scars were by far more significant and more disfiguring. He no longer wanted his feelings to be obscured by a covering of scar tissue. He wanted to feel.

Looking around the cemetery, Street assured himself he was alone. He reached back and pulled his handgun from the waist of his jeans, then released the safety, knowing there was one bullet in the chamber. He studied the shining weapon for a minute, then gazed at the panoramic view, wondering what came next.

"We both fucked up, partner," he said aloud. "You let me down and I let you down."

He stared at Gamble's name on the stone and then mutely re-read the lines of the poem. "Alas, my name, no more my face."

He could see Gamble clearly in his mind, the curved mouth, the wide, expressive eyes. He could no longer shut out that face with either stubborn denial or too much tequila.

"I'm sorry, Brian," he whispered, waiting for several minutes for the eventual relief of tears, a relief denied him for these long months. When they didn't come, he spoke again. "We should have obeyed the hold, partner," he said. "We both ended up dying in that bank."

The words were spoken as dispassionately as always. They hovered there in the late afternoon air as though waiting for an answer from either the grave below or heaven above.

Silence.

Forced to finally acknowledge that the pain was still buried beneath the surface of his chest, somewhere deep in his scarred heart, Street knew if he wanted to really feel it -- to feel anything -- it was time to tear himself open, just like the song said. It was the only way he would ever be free to feel.

He hoped Sanchez would make a good home for Chopper. His longtime canine buddy deserved one, and Sanchez' young daughter would give the dog all the affection he could possibly need. He allowed himself one short second to picture Chopper's shining, sympathetic eyes.

Then, taking a deep breath and squinting out toward the San Gabriel Mountains, Jim Street put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The End





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