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“Why is it always me who finds you when you’re hurt, matey?” The unconscious Morse made no comment. Figures. “You got stabbed, you got shot, you got beat up. The office should start a betting pool on what next you’ll get. Could start a bingo board.” Strange heaved Morse’s body further up his back. The man was complete dead weight. Fortunately, only in a metaphorical sense. The slight groans when Strange jostled the injuries served as proof of life.
Strange didn’t know why he was talking. His breath should be saved for the trip back to his car—talking and carrying a full grown man should be two separate activities, not conjoined—but perhaps he needed a small semblance of normality.
“Why’d you come all the way out here then, huh? Couldn’t have gotten yourself shot closer to civilization? You’re not exactly easy to carry through the woods.” Morse had always been thin, but it seemed lately as though he were shrinking into himself. Probably the last few cases he worked. This current one, Strange had no idea what was going on. He heard bits and pieces through the office grapevine, but was preoccupied with other duties instead. It was pure chance he was here at all. He’d been called out to a domestic a few miles down the road, and once that settled, decided to pop over and assist Morse. Strange was used to seemingly random and often contradictory commands from Thursday or Bright that could only come from one of Morse’s brilliantly mad theories. He was always amazed to hear just how Morse arrived at his conclusions, and knew with certainty that Morse must be a little nutty himself. How else could he do it?
Stumbling onto the attempted murder of his friend in the woods was not what he’d had in mind when deciding to pop by, but far better an attempted murder than a completed one. If he’d been another minute or two longer, then he would not be tripping about in the dark, his friend slung over his shoulder like a sack of wet flour. He’d be back in his car looking for a telephone to fetch the evidence retrieval boys. Instead, he was breaking his back for the most troublesome officer in the city. Perhaps the country. The man had no shortage of nerve. Who knew what important family or politician he’d piss off next. Policing was just as much playing the game as solving the crimes, but Morse refused to conform.
He staggered up a gentle slope and knew he needed a break. A man was liable to throw out his back for the next month the way he was carrying on. He, as gently as possible, placed Morse on the ground. In other words, he lowered Morse as much as he could stand, then let gravity do the rest. Strange was in good shape, but this was one hell of an endurance test. He pressed his hands to his back, groaning. “I don’t suppose you’ll be paying my chiropractic bill once we’re out of the bloody trees, matey?” Morse still hadn’t woken up yet. Strange may only be a police officer, but he didn’t need any sort of medical training to know that was a problem. The night was too dark to assess the damage done, but even a blind man would notice the head wound.
When Strange first arrived at the house, he parked his car down on the road next to Morse’s. There was no driveway and the yard was much too muddy to risk driving up closer. He made it halfway to the house when he noticed raised voices and thought it was a good thing he decided to come. Morse was a trouble magnet and if Strange could help him diffuse whatever situation he had gotten himself into now, then he would. Always have a friend’s back. He could hear the argument happening in the woods to the side of the house, so he altered his course, moving briskly towards the voices. He reached the edge of the trees when a gunshot split the night. He stopped short, adrenaline suddenly coursing. Morse didn’t carry a gun, neither of them did, which could only mean one thing: Morse was in grave danger. Running now, he could make out two figures still fighting. He burst into a small clearing in time to see a man crack a crowbar on Morse’s head. Morse stumbled but didn’t go down, and the man cracked him a second time. Morse dropped. The man was poised to bring the crowbar down a third time when Strange shouted, “Police! Drop your weapon!” The man dropped the crowbar and bolted.
Strange had to make a decision that some officers face and all officers dread: secure the attacker and leave the victim prone, or let the attacker flee and secure the victim. It wasn’t even a choice. Strange dropped to his knees next to Morse and jabbed two fingers against his throat. The man wasn’t moving at all, his head was practically a faucet, and Strange didn’t know if the gunshot hit Morse. Strange was there for the immediate aftermath of the two previous times Morse had been seriously injured in the line of duty: the opera killer case and the professor’s wife. Morse tried his best to not let on how much pain they caused him, but little vocalizations of the hurt slipped out anyway.
Morse was completely silent.
Strange’s hands shook as he searched for signs of life. “You bastard, Thursday will kill me if you die.” If he kept talking, then perhaps Morse would respond. There! A pulse. Strange’s breath let out in a rush and he sat back on his heels. Morse was alive, then. Strange patted him down to try and check if he was bleeding anywhere besides his head, but the ground was too muddy and the light too dark. The wet splotching on Morse’s clothes could equally be just mud or a bleeding fatal wound. If Morse had been hit by the gunshot, then he would just have to hold on until Strange could get him to a hospital.
Strange judged his back recovered enough to continue this unplanned rescue. “No time like the present.” He grimaced and heaved Morse off the ground. There was still a dangerous criminal on the loose; if the man ran, then Strange could drag Morse to the house, phone an ambulance, and give the injured officer some first aid. If the man was any sort of clever, he’d hide at the house and shoot the two once he saw them. No, the safest bet was to go to the car and get out of here. They would stick to the shadows and make their way to the car without getting noticed. Neither of the officers carried a gun. Should they be caught in another confrontation with the attacker, their only weapon would be Strange’s own two fists.
Strange thanked each and every one of his lucky stars that he paid attention to his dad’s sporadic camping advice. Strange could find his way using the night sky as a map. This far in the country, the stars shone brightly. With Morse potentially grievously injured, getting lost could mean a fatality. He went as quickly as he could, each step a balancing act between rushing to the car and staying hidden.
A branch snapped somewhere to his right. Strange went motionless. The house was little more than a stone’s throw, but there were enough trees that Strange thought they were blocked from view. He watched, still as a statue, as the man broke from the trees not even twenty paces from them and stealthily headed for the house. Of course, Morse chose that exact moment to let out a groan. Strange didn’t move, though he desperately wanted to slap a hand over Morse’s mouth. Figures that the man’s mouth was still getting him in trouble even while unconscious. The man stopped, head cocked, obviously trying to listen for it again. Two minutes passed in unbearable tension before he swiveled his head back to the house and snuck indoors.
Strange needed to get Morse to the car. The sound of the engine starting would immediately give away their position, but they would be far enough from the house that they should be out of range. He continued creeping towards the road, watching both the house and his feet carefully. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they made it. Strange quietly opened the door and shoved Morse in. Getting out quickly was a higher priority than comfort. He got in, buckled—in case he had an unfortunate road accident and ran the bastard over—and started the car. Another gunshot rang out from the house; Strange could see the man sprinting across the lawn. Gravel skittered across the road and the breaks squealed as Strange spun the car around and floored it down the road.
The nearest hospital was only ten kilometers away, near enough that stopping to report or adjust the loose-limbed officer in the back could wait. He flicked on the police lights and sped all the way, heart pounding. Strange only saw Morse’s car parked by the house, but that didn’t mean the man couldn’t follow them. The entire drive, he kept a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, a vigilant eye out for any pursuit, and an ear out for Morse. Each groan was reassurance that he had gotten there in time.
He pulled into the emergency entrance, lights flashing and siren wailing. Nurses whisked Morse away to the doctor and Strange was shown the waiting room. Now that the situation was well and truly out of his hands, he became aware of his back protesting vehemently against the abuse it suffered this evening. He mentally told it to knock it off, and went to make his report.
He rattled off the address and was assured that the man would be behind bars tonight. When he asked about D.I. Thursday, he was told that Thursday would be personally handling the manhunt. Satisfied that the cavalry was coming, he hobbled to the unfairly uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room and settled down. He stubbornly refused to speculate on what was happening in the examination room. Morse had more rough turns recently than any other member of the force, and he always pulled through. No reason to think that this time would be any different. He leaned his head against the wall, resolved not to leave until he knew what would become of Morse.
“Up and at ‘em, officer.” Strange startled awake, his back once again protesting the movement. Thursday stood in front of him, as grim a face as always. His clothes were dirty and rumpled, mud caked on his shoes. He’d obviously just come from the house.
“Any news?”
“None, sir. I brought him in and haven’t seen him since.” He checked the clock, and was satisfied to know that he’d only dozed off for an hour or so. Not enough time for anything to happen.
“Morse said he was going to investigate a lead on his own. How was it you were there?” Thursday’s face was unreadable. Strange sat up straighter and unclenched his hands. It did no one any good to have a higher ranking officer mad at you—especially not one as respected and feared as Thursday.
“Chance, sir. I’d been called to a domestic down the road and thought I’d pop by.” He shook his head. “If I’d known what I was getting into, I would have brought my gun.” He eyed the mud on Thursday’s shoes. “Did you catch him?”
“Oh yes. He’ll be behind bars for the foreseeable future. Judges don’t take kindly to those who attack coppers.”
Strange was relieved that the man was apprehended, but wished he could have been the one to take the bastard in. No one got away with roughing up one of Oxford’s finest. No sense in telling anyone, though. Morse may not have many friends on the force, but he was still one of their own. Any officer worth his salt would be itching to take the criminal in. The two officers settled down to wait for news on their misfortune-prone colleague.
In total, Strange only had to wait two hours for a doctor to come out, calling “Morse?” Both Strange and Thursday stood. The doctor gave them a run down. He was hit in the head by a blunt instrument and thereby suffering from a moderate concussion, he was dehydrated and too thin, but he would survive. Apparently, he was running himself ragged over this case and the not eating, drinking, or presumably sleeping contributed to his extended unconsciousness. He had been knocked unconscious by the blows, but was currently just deeply asleep.
“So he wasn’t shot.”
The doctor gave him a weary look, and said slowly, “No. His only injury was sustained to the head.” Thursday pulled his mouth into an even grimmer line. The doctor continued to give them a brief description of the medications and rest that Morse would need in the next week. Barring any complications, Morse would be able to return to work shortly. Because of the lack of serious injury, Morse could be discharged immediately and sent home—under supervision for the concussion. Thursday took the prescriptions and signed the release forms, and together they went to fetch Morse.
Morse was still asleep, head wrapped in gauze and bruises blooming on his face. He looked calm in a way that rarely happened while awake.
“It’s always him, isn’t it.”
“Sir?”
Thursday didn’t respond, seemingly content to just keep looking at his young colleague. Morse really had been put through the ringer since coming to Oxford, and Strange carried a small burden of responsibility for him. They started off on the wrong foot, but since become friends. Strange knew he was one of Morse’s only friends on the force, and seeing how the man was a complete workaholic, it wouldn’t surprise him if he was one of Morse’s only friends in general.
“He’ll be alright. He’s got us looking out for him, don’t he.”
Thursday shot him a considering look, and turned back to the battered figure. “Right you are.”