Participants:
| Scene Title | Or One Day You'll Be Gone. |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Another message is delivered. |
| Date | March 13, 2021 |
NYPD 18th Precinct, Manhattan
It's not the long, flowing dress that you're in
Or the light coming off of your skin
The fragile heart you protected for so long
Or the mercy in your sense of right and wrong
Abigail sits at her desk, staring at the phone. She's long since changed into gym clothing kept in a duffle bag under her desk and she's washed herself of blood. Her own clothes sitting in an evidence bag somewhere. Sat recounting for her co-workers what's happened from the moment they left the bar to the moment they all came pouring out. Somewhere in Brooklyn, James's body is laying and waiting to be picked up by whatever mortuary that Abby will inevitably choose to work with.
She's staring at the wedding ring on her finger and the tiny speck of blood that's managed to not be clean off of it. It's just under the center diamond, in a crevice. She can see it. She can't unsee it. She's been staring at it for the better part of twenty minutes now as her mind focuses on something other than the memory of James when he died. Her hands are on her desk, fingers spread and she looks at the blotter underneath them. Filled with meetings in the coming weeks, appointments for the kids, toddler gymnastics. Interviews with witnesses and court dates. In the margins of it, notes, phone numbers, names, notes to herself. Her eyes settle on one. Plans for the fall to fly to Spain. The cost of the tickets and note about the hotel to get reservations at.
It's not your hands searching slow in the dark
Or your nails leaving love's watermark
It's not the way you talk me off the roof
Your questions like directions to the truth
She's not going to Spain. It's a dead eye gaze at the desk top as she's gathering willpower to her. A fellow officer hangs at the door keeping an eye on her. She'll be driven to her home soon enough once they've done what they need. There's already an officer at her house just in case this wasn't some isolated thing. No doubt the officer there is already being plied with a hot drink or a cold one in the dead of the night by the older version of herself while they wait.
He's dead.
She stares at the blotter. At the faint trace of red. Spain and dentists appointments. For a moment she stops breathing, her chest tightens and she makes some sort of noise that draws the other officer in just in case she's needed but Abby spots the movement and shakes her head. She doesn't want to be touched right now, comforted, voices are still sounding like the adults in the peanut cartoons she was allowed to watch as a kid.
It's knowing that this can't go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we'll get forty years together
But one day I'll be gone
Or one day you'll be gone
How the fuck do you tell a three year old and a one year old that their father isn't coming home. They went to bed a whole and hale family and in the morning they'll wake up with a quarter of them gone. Will they remember him? At all?
Abby lifts her hands finally and shifts, looking to the purse that rests on the desk to the side. She has to draw out her little notebook from it and flips through the pages till she finds what she's looking for. The string of numbers that was exchanged with a secretary. There's other numbers she's sure that she could call to warn them that their employee has passed and will not be coming in but this involves Isa as well.
If we were vampires and death was a joke
We'd go out on the sidewalk and smoke
And laugh at all the lovers and their plans
I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand
Picking up the receiver to the phone on her desk, she punches in the 9 then the other numbers, cradling it between her ear and her shoulder then holds her breath and waits. Hoping for an answering service, a message box and not a live person. Relief and gratitude when it's to voicemail. She doesn't know that she could actually talk to someone at this moment. At the beep though, she manages to pull things together just enough. A voice coming through the line that's near monotone in spite of the accent and she has to breath deep and just do it.
Maybe time running out is a gift
I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift
And give you every second I can find
And hope it isn't me who's left behind
"I apologize Senator Faulkner for the late hour that I'm leaving this message." She swallows hard. "I regret to inform you that James won't be coming into work in the morning. He was shot this evening outside The Breaking Pint as we were leaving. He didn't survive. I'll get in contact with your secretary when I have more information regarding a funeral and wake." There's a pause. It's a long pause and he might think she's hung up but then she's speaking again. "Detective Khan was kidnapped by someone at the same time. She's missing. The shooter before they left, said that John Logan sent his regards." She sounds like she might say something else but instead she reaches over and presses the switchhook and the line cuts out. Her finger stays depressed before she lifts it and dials another number. Her voicemail connects and a few presses of a button and soon enough James voice is coming through the earpiece loud enough for only her to hear.
"Abigail-" Comes the voice of the officer who had been sitting in the room with her. It startles her and she hands up the phone quickly, letting out a long breath. "Lets get you home. There's nothing else much to do till the morning proper." He offers, holding up a jacket scrounged from somewhere for her.
It's knowing that this can't go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we'll get forty years together
But one day I'll be gone
Or one day you'll be gone
She looks up and over at the man, hand coming up to scratch at her brow before she pushes her chair back and stands. There's a faint nod of her head and she leans over the desk for the jacket. He's right. There's nothing else much that she can do. "Sure. Uhh, Allen's on duty yeah? Can you get him to drive me?" She rubs at her forehead again. He won't talk at her. He won't fill the car up with chatter for the sake of chatter. She grabs her wallet and phone, keys, drops them into a tote and looks at the phone again.
It's knowing that this can't go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we'll get forty years together
But one day I'll be gone
Or one day you'll be gone