CHAPTER SEVENTEEN                                              Four weeks later . . .           Dressed casually in a pair of faded blue jeans, sneakers, and a sleeveless yellow shirt, Dominic Luca wandered aimlessly around his mother�s house trying to find something to do.  Doctor Windom had declared him fit and healthy, and tomorrow he would be returning to his own apartment.  Mama had protested his desire to return to his own place, urging him to remain with her another week or two, but he knew she had accepted his need to be independent, for she was making a large pan of homemade lasagna for supper and she had promised to wrap up the left-overs for him to take home to his freezer.           It would be good to get back home with his own television, his own stereo, his own books, and his own bed.  It had been nice staying with Mama, but it was time to ease back into his own routine.  That is not to say there were no feelings of guilt that he was leaving.  As the youngest in the family, it had been difficult to leave home the first time, for he had left his widowed mother alone in the house, but it seemed worse this time.  This time, she had nearly lost him to a gang member�s bullet, and he knew there would probably be tears from both of them.           It was early evening, and the smells coming from the kitchen were enough to make his stomach come alive with yearning.  As he passed the kitchen door, where Mama was checking the progress of the meal, the mouthwatering aromas of pasta, homemade marina, and Mama�s own blend of Italian cheeses grew stronger from the open door of the oven, and he brushed his hand across his grumbling abdomen as if to sooth it.           Glancing out the large kitchen window toward the back yard, his eyes came to rest on the tree house that was nestled securely in the branches of the sprawling oak tree.  It wasn�t very big, considering the number of kids that had played in it, but Pop had made it sturdy, and it would probably last many more years.           Intrigued, he entered the kitchen and walked toward the back door.           Mariana closed the oven door and turned around.  �Going outside?� she asked.           �Yes.�           �You stay out of that tree house,� she cautioned, anticipating his intentions.  He wasn�t sure if it was her sixth sense that gave her such insight, or if it was a seventh or eighth sense unique to mothers.  In any case, she somehow always knew what he was going to do, especially if it was something he didn�t particularly want her to know about.  �You might fall and break open that wound!� she continued, unaware of his inner amazement at her ability to read his mind.  �You�re just now back on your feet.  I don�t want you in the hospital again.�           �Mama, I�ve been on my feet for four weeks now, and I�ll be careful.  I promise.�           �You never listen to me,� she complained as she transferred the extra marinara sauce from the pot to a jar for later use.  �He never listens to me.�           �I listen to you, Mama,� he assured her.  �I just don�t always do what you say.�  With a smile, he opened the door and stepped outside in the fresh air.           Like the day he had come home from the hospital, it was a beautiful day with plenty of sunshine and a mild breeze.  The grass needed mowing, but Mama wouldn�t allow him to do it for her, citing the fact that he had not been released for such activities by the doctor yet.  He knew she was right, but it was getting boring, just hanging around the house all the time.           Trotting down the steps, he made his way across the yard, surprisingly spacious for crowded Southern California, toward the huge old oak tree that held the small structure nestled in its branches, and he tipped his head back to look at it.  It was an impressive tree house complete with a small porch, walls, a roof, and a tattered flap of a curtain in the window.  Pop had been gifted with the knowledge of how to build things, and he had constructed the little house for his children many years ago.           The pain of his father�s loss was still with him, and he recalled that he had retreated to this very tree house when his father had passed away.  It was within those carefully crafted walls that he had grieved in private, for he had felt closer to him there than anywhere else.  For some reason, he felt the need to be there again.           Moving forward, he grasped the ladder in his hands, checking the rungs for weaknesses before proceeding.  It seemed sturdy, so he climbed all the way up, knowing that his mother was probably watching from the window, expecting him to fall.  She had argued vehemently against building the tree house, fearful that one of her children would hurt themselves, but Pop had stood his ground.  Tree houses were as American as apple pie and football, and he had been proud to become an American citizen.           Stepping off the ladder, he ducked his head and stepped through the small doorway into the interior.  It was bright and cheerful, with large windows and a small bench, and Luca sat down on the window sill, willing himself to feel his father�s presence, as he had felt it in the hospital when he had nearly died.  But he felt nothing except the warmth and the gentle breeze.           He did not know how long he had been there when he heard a gruff, rather muffled voice, calling, "You're surrounded!  Come out with your hands up!"           Rising from the window sill, Dom poked his head out the window, surprised to see T. J. standing at the base of the tree looking up at him.  Obliging his friend's joke, he put his hands up in the air.  "I surrender!"           They laughed together, then T. J. said, "I hope you don't mind my dropping by unannounced."           "No, not at all."  He gave a beckoning gesture with his arm.  "Come on up.  Unless you�re afraid of heights," he added.           T. J.'s job as sharpshooter had placed him in many high points in the line of duty, but he rarely had the opportunity to climb a tree just for the fun of it.  He grasped the ladder, and ascended into the tree.  Dom was waiting inside the doorway when he reached the small narrow porch.  "I haven't been in a tree house since I was a kid," T. J. said.           "Really?  Did you build it yourself?"           "No.  My cousins had one."  The doorway was so low that they had to duck their heads to avoid bumping them as they entered the small room, but once inside they were able to stand upright.  T. J. tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans as he looked around the interior.  "This one is a lot nicer than theirs, though," he added, noticing the hand-hewn wooden benches against the walls.  �Someone put a lot of work into the construction.�           "Pop helped us build it when we were kids.  My sisters made the curtains in exchange for user privileges.  They also insisted on a flower box that they kept filled with impatiens, until they realized that they had to water them.  It wasn�t easy carrying buckets of water up the ladder.  We ended up tying a rope to the handle and pulling it up.  It was fun the first few times, then it got old.  We spent a lot of time up here, though.  Mama keeps it around for the grandkids to play in when they visit.  She worries about them, though, just like she always worried about us, but I guess that's her job."           �Yeah, when she was leading me through the house, she was saying that the tree house has been a menace ever since it was built, and that she has always worried that one of the kids would fall out of it.�  He was quiet for a moment, then asked. �Did anyone ever fall out of it?�           �Nope,� Luca answered.  �I nearly pushed one of my brothers out of it once, but I knew Pop would ear me out, so I decided I had better not.�           T. J. laughed.  �Why did you want to push him?�           A pensive frown flickered across Luca�s brow as he thought back to that long ago day.  �I can�t remember.  Whatever it was, it made me mad.�           �Obviously,� T. J. joked, amused, then suddenly remembered the purpose of his visit.  �Oh, the reason I came was this.�  Reaching back, he pulled a crumpled envelope from his back pocket and held it out to Luca.  �This came to the station for you.  Sorry it�s a bit wrinkled.  I sat on it.�           He reached out to take it, and glanced at the envelope.  It was addressed to Officer Luca, c/o Olympic Police Station.  He shifted his gaze to the return address and saw that it was from Cassie Edwards, Bartlett Rehab Center.  �It�s from Cassie!� he exclaimed, ripping it open.           �Who�s Cassie?� T. J. asked.  He was trying to sound casual, but Luca could tell he was dying of curiosity about who would be writing to him from a rehab center.           �She�s a girl I met in the hospital, a junkie.  The amazing thing is, she�s the girlfriend of Michael, the gang member who intended to murder that student.�           �You�re kidding.�           �I kid you not.�  He sat down again on the window sill as he pulled the letter from the envelope and a smile formed as he began to read.  �She says she�s dried out, and they�re going to let her go home for a visit in a few more weeks.  She has to stay there a while longer, but she knows she�s going to be okay.  That�s wonderful news,� he said as he finished the letter.           �Think she really will be okay?� T. J. asked rather skeptically.  �I�ve heard it�s hard to get off that stuff and even harder to stay off it.�           �This one has a loving family to help keep her on track.  Yeah, I think she�ll be fine.�           "So, I heard you passed your Psychological Evaluation," T. J. said, sinking down on one of the benches.  It was a little undersized, built specifically for children, but reasonably comfortable.           "Mm-hm," Dom replied.  "Doc Windom says I can go back to work on the desk in a couple of weeks.  He's set me up with a physical therapist, so I should be able to pass the physical exam soon, and then I can get back in the field."           "Are you okay with that?"           Dom was suddenly suspicious of the motivation behind T. J.'s visit, and a frown creased his brow.  "Did Harrelson send you out here to quiz me on my mental state?"           "No, no, he didn't," T. J. replied.  "I'm here on my own, and anything we talk about is between us; I promise.  I know it's kind of hard facing the bullets again after you've been shot.  Remember, I was shot a couple of times, too.  I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, if you need to talk about anything."           Dom nodded, recalling the two occasions when T. J. had been felled by bullets from the weapons of the people they were attempting to arrest.  "I appreciate that, Teej, but I'm not afraid to go back."           "Not at all?"           "Nope.  Let's just say I'm smarter than I was before.  I took the vest for granted.  That won't happen again.  I'm not any good at just sitting around reading magazines or watching soap operas and game shows while Mama waits on me.  I'd go back right now, if they'd let me."           T. J. nodded, satisfied.           Dom cocked his head, curiously.  "Were you nervous about going back on duty?"           "A little," he confessed.  "Being shot out of that tree was the worst."           "You joked about it," Dom recalled.  "Something to the effect that the first step was a killer."           "Yeah.  It was easy to joke about it at the time, but the first time I went up to a high point afterward, I have to admit, my stomach tightened up a bit.  You see on TV and in the movies all the time where the guy who gets shot says something like, 'Aw, it's just a flesh wound.'  Let me tell you, flesh wounds hurt like hell."           "Tell me about it," Dom agreed.  He paused, briefly.  He had been unable to discuss his shooting with his family members for fear of upsetting them, but he knew that T. J. would understand what he was going through.  "I couldn't talk about that with any of my family, especially Mama and my sisters.  I didn't even realize I had been hit at first.  I had heard that in intense situations like that, the adrenaline takes over and blocks out everything except what you're doing, and I guess it's true because I didn't feel it.  It knocked me off my feet, and I still didn't feel it.  After it was over, and things started to calm down, I started realizing that something was wrong.  I felt so weak, and my hands were shaking.  I looked down and saw the blood and realized that I was in trouble.  That's when I finally started to feel it.  I figured I was probably dying."           "There was one time when Dr. Windom said they almost lost you," T. J. remembered.           He nodded, slowly.  "I tell you one thing; I don�t ever want to go through something like that again!  And yet I know that I could.�           "Yeah, I know," T. J. replied, softly.  �We�re in a dangerous line of work.�           Dom nodded.  �Yeah.  Mama thinks we should think about doing something else.�           �What could two retired SWAT officers do?� T. J. asked, shaking off that melancholy feeling that had settled over them during the more serious discussion.  �I don�t think I could stand sitting behind a desk all day long.  Maybe we could open a private detective business, or something along those lines."           �I can see the etching on our door,� Luca said, jokingly.  �Luca and McCabe, Private Investigators.�           They both paused to think about it, then grinned at each other.  �Nah,� they chimed together.            Laughing, Luca said, �Mama made some fresh lemonade.  Wha'd'ya say we go get a glass?"            "Sounds good."           �And you will stay for supper, I hope.  Mama made lasagna, and she makes enough to feed Cox�s army.�           �She�s already asked, and yes, I�d love to.�           Together, the two friends climbed out of the tree house and made their way back to the kitchen.                                                                -()-           Two weeks later, Dominic Luca stood before the mirror on his dresser, gazing critically at his own reflection as he tied his uniform necktie.  Deciding that he looked quite handsome, if he did say so himself, he finished the task of dressing by attaching the tie clip in the appropriate place, and adjusting it so that it was straight.           He was returning to the job for the first time since the shooting that had sidelined him for the past six weeks, and he was forced to admit, at least to himself, that he was rather nervous about returning to duty.  He wasn't sure exactly why.  As he had told T. J., he was not nervous about facing the bad guys again.  He had done that many times without bodily harm, but it was more of an emotional situation that he had not expected to face.  Life on the force had gone on without him, and he wondered how everyone would react to him being there again.  Would they make an unnecessary fuss over him?  Or would they totally ignore him?  Either would be equally uncomfortable.           Shrugging aside those peculiar thoughts and feelings, he picked up his gun belt and fastened it around his trim waist.  In spite of Mama�s cooking, he was still a little thinner than he had been before, and he found that it was necessary to take the belt up one notch.  The holster was adjusted so that it was comfortably positioned at his right hip.  Ready for his first day of work, he grabbed his car keys and drove to the police station.           When he walked through the main door, he paused briefly at the front desk.  The desk sergeant was on the telephone, and barely glanced at him as he passed.  A slight wave of his hand was the only acknowledgment he received.  Dom raised his hand in reply and proceeded.           As he walked through the station toward the stairs that led down to the SWAT room, his presence received little attention.  It was still very early; the sun was barely up, and the evening shift had not yet returned from patrol.  Only a few of the day shift had arrived, and most of them were gathering in the briefing room, so with hardly any recognition of his return to duty by the regular force, Dom trotted down the wooden staircase into the basement room.           He paused near the bottom of the stairs to gaze fondly into the room in which he had spent so much time as a police officer, and noticed immediately that several rather large stacks of paperwork had been placed on his desk.  He felt his resolve weaken slightly.  Apparently, they intended to use him for combination secretary, filing clerk, answering machine, and anything else involving paper and telephones.  I'll sure be glad when the doctor gives the okay to return to the field!           Seated at his desk, Deacon Kay looked up when he saw his young subordinate standing on the stairs leaning over the rail.  "Luca, there are some reports on your desk that need to be completed before the day is out."  Then he returned to his own paperwork.           Dom stared at him, shocked.  There had been no "Welcome back" or "Glad to see you".  Not even a handshake.  "Okay," he responded, too bewildered to say anything else.  He completed his trek down the steps, and saw Lieutenant Harrelson emerge from the arsenal room.           Harrelson was going over an inventory sheet with a typical scowl on his face, and he looked up when he neared the younger officer.  "Luca, your tie clasp is crooked.  Straighten it out.  Then I need you to double check this ammunition inventory.  We didn't get a chance to do that after our last run."           Dom gaped at him for a startled moment, then dropped his eyes to his tie clasp.  It was indeed slightly off the perfectly horizontal position, but hardly enough to be noticed.  He made the expected adjustment, and then accepted the inventory sheet that Harrelson had thrust at him as he passed.  He did not see the discreet wink that was exchanged between the lieutenant and the sergeant.           "Oh, Luca," Harrelson said, turning back to face him.           Dom looked up, expectantly, his eyebrows lifting in a quizzical fashion as his tongue slid between his lips.  Surely the lieutenant was going to offer a welcome back.           "I need that before lunch."           Disappointed, Dom glanced quickly at his desk, piled with file folders and stacks of paper, suddenly feeling very abused and neglected.  He would have thought his return would have generated more interest than simply shoving all the paperwork off on him!  "Yes, sir," he responded.  With a barely audible sigh, he pulled out his chair and sat down at the desk to begin working on the mountains of reports.           Harrelson watched with an unusual twinkle in his blue eyes, then he turned and walked into the back corridor, which led to the SWAT van.           Waiting out of sight in the corridor, T. J., Jim, Hilda, and Sam the driver were making the final preparations by tying balloons to the handles of the metal tray cart on which sat a huge sheet cake.  They all looked up when the lieutenant entered.           "He's here," Harrelson said quietly.  "We've barely acknowledge his presence, and I think he's feeling pretty dejected about now, so unless we want to extend the torture, let's get this cart out there!"           Wearing large grins, they quietly pushed the metal cart into the SWAT room, and stopped it near the lieutenant's office door, almost behind their unsuspecting victim, who had already begun work on his reports and remained unaware of their presence.  Deke quietly rose from his chair and joined them.           "SURPRISE!"           Dom nearly shot straight to the ceiling, and his felt-tipped pen left a long, bold line across the face of his report.  With eyes that were large from the shock of their abrupt chorus, he spun around in his chair to face them.  They stood in a row behind him, laughing at his startled reaction.           He leaned back in his chair, his hand spread on his chest as if to calm an alarmed heart.  "You guys could have given me a heart attack!" he admonished them, but he couldn't suppress his wide smile.           "Well, maybe this'll make you feel better," Street said.           They stepped away from the tray cart, revealing the huge cake and the colorful balloons that were tied to the cart�s handles.  Written in large letters on the cake: WELCOME BACK, LUCA!  A creative decorator had managed to paint a miniature replica of the SWAT van out of icing, and it occupied a prominent place on the cake along with representations of other police accouterments.           Dom's smile faded as he looked at the cake through eyes that were suddenly growing a bit misty.  This was more than he had expected.  He rose from his chair, and looked it over with appreciative eyes.  "Wow, this is great," he said, for lack of anything better.           T. J. slapped his arm.  "Welcome back, buddy."           "Thanks, guys."  He turned skeptical eyes to Hilda.  "You didn't make this, did you?"           "No, I didn't make it!" she retorted with mock offense, then stepped forward and drew him into her arms to embrace him with great affection.  "I'm so glad you're back, Flash."           "I'm glad to be back," he said, then cast a woeful glance at the pile of paperwork on his desk.  "At least I think I am!"           They laughed again.           "Don't worry, Luca," Harrelson said, stepping forward to claim one of the stacks of paperwork.  "I had everyone pile their stuff on your desk to make it look like there was more work waiting for you than there really was."           "Oh, that's mean," Hilda scolded.  "How could you do that to him?  Here he is, barely out of the hospital, and you're treating him awful!"           "Yeah," Dom agreed.  "How could you do that to me?"           "We're not taking it all back, Luca," Hondo said with a smile.  "Just part of it.  I do need you to take care of the ammunitions report.  I mean, we wouldn't want you to get bored, would we?"  He picked up his own paperwork and deposited it on his desk, then strode back out of his office.  "Well?  Are we going to cut that cake, or not?"           "I didn't have any breakfast, so this really looks great," Dom said as he picked up the cake knife, and offered it to Hilda.  "Would you do the honors?"           She took it with a smile.  "It would be my pleasure."           Luca watched as the knife bit deep into the soft fluffy cake.  The first piece was deposited on a paper plate, and offered to the Italian Flash.           "This looks so good," he said as he picked up his fork and took a bite.  "Eccellente!" he said.   Smiling happily, he watched as slices of cake were passed around to his friends.           "Oh, Luca, I almost forgot," Harrelson said.  Leaning into his office, he withdrew an envelope from the corner of his desk, and passed it to his young subordinate.  "This came in yesterday for you.  I knew you'd be in today, so I just held it for you."           "What is it?" Luca asked, worriedly, looking at the very official-looking envelope.           "It has your name on it, not mine," Hondo told him with a smile.           "Am I in trouble or something?"           "Open it and find out!"           Dom looked at the return address.  It was the seal of the mayor's office.  "It's from the mayor."           "Open it!" the other said in an impatient chorus.           "Okay, okay!"  Lifting the flap, Luca withdrew the sheet of paper, and his eyes grew misty again.  "It's a letter of commendation," he announced.  "But why?  I didn't do anything that the rest of you have done."           T. J. was leaning over his shoulder, reading.  He pointed to a paragraph.  "It tells you right here -- You 'placed yourself in physical harm without regard for your own personal safety to save the life of a member of the community'."           "Good job, Flash!" Hilda told him.           "Don't let it go to your head!" Jim Street quipped.           Everyone laughed, including Luca.           "Okay, everyone," Hondo said, sternly.  "I hate to break this up, but we have work to do."  Turning, he went back into his office.           Carrying their slices of cake with them, the other officers returned to their desks, and Hilda found an empty chair in which to enjoy hers before returning to her daily chore of peddling her vended goods.           Luca scanned his letter of commendation one last time with a pleased smile, then sat down in his chair again, ready to return to work.                                                     ~ The End ~