Epilogue to TARGET: A COP
WARNING -- SPOILERS --
Night Music
by gm & dm
December 1976
Uncertain of the source of
moisture, Steve McGarrett’s sub-conscience mind wondered at the sensation,
instinctively aware his cheek should not be wet. The cloying, sickly sweet scent of lingering
pesticide filled his nostrils and tickled his inner nerves until he nearly
sneezed. Pushing from the nether-land of
sleep, knowing this was more real than a strange dream, he now noted an odd
rattling sound.
Emerging to wakefulness, he
groaned, shifting the snores from his throat.
Automatically he wiped the crusty drool from his face. The movement stirred painful sensations at
the side of his head; his shoulders, back and
hip. The shift moved a weight from his
chest, the clatter of his guitar snapping his eyes open.
Chagrined at his unflattering
position, he was embarrassed he had fallen asleep on the floor, woken by his
snoring and drooling! Hardly in keeping
with the image of the head of Five-0.
That thought brought out a rueful sigh.
Many outside his unit thought he was hardly human. This morning’s undignified state would prove
that abundantly false. Rubbing his face
to stimulate some circulation, he scratched his itchy cheek, feeling the
imprint of the carpet on his skin.
Concerned mostly for his
Ramirez guitar, one of his few indulgent luxuries, he slowly shifted up,
protectively holding his instrument so as not to sustain further damage. It looked fine, he assessed, studying the
glossy finish, noting a few smudged fingerprints on the fine-grained wood.
Last night he had fallen
asleep, lying on the floor, fingering the last piece, Prelude in A Minor. Not one to give in to depression, he had sought
out the solace of his music -- translated through the richly toned classical
guitar, to settle his emotions and nerves.
He had played the tune over and over, slower and slower. He allowed the last note on a large open
string to resonate as long as it could while getting lost in the tone. With his left hand limp on the floor, he
brushed the last single note with the side of his right thumb again and again,
each time listening to the change of tone as the sound decayed as if into the
distance. He envisioned matching the
timing of the note with the far-away sound of surf in his mind. The imaginary waves rolled over his
consciousness and allowed him the escape to sleep.
Still remembering the tune
from last night, he played the short piece through once quickly with his eyes
shut, as though to make it a proper finish from the night before, even though
the strings were out of tune. He cut the
last note a little short, now realizing he needed to mobilize.
Carefully leaning the guitar
against the couch, he gradually worked his way to a sitting position. Leaning his head back on the arm of the sofa,
he noted both the glass lanai doors were open -- the one overlooking the Ala
Wai, and the one facing
The breeze blowing in off the
ocean filled the room with fresh, sea-misted air, edged with floral
fragrances. It helped clear his muddled
mind. That same on-shore wind drifted
the morning clouds shrouding the mountains.
From here, he could see to his left, those clouds were still dark, spraying
their rain on the shadowed, green fluted Koolaus behind the city. Through the open door he heard light traffic
coursing along the not yet busy boulevard.
Determined not to sit here
all morning, he methodically came to his feet and slowly trudged over to the
This spot was the highest
selling point of the place when he bought this condo. The view, the lanai, the sense of freedom and
freshness. Not for the first time, he
wondered why he didn’t spend more time here.
It was a seclusion amid the bustle of
Ignoring his desires to
indulge in the comfort of the moment, he turned back into the apartment. Pausing at the kitchen, he first smelled,
then viewed the stale coffee and old meatloaf he had left on the counter last
night. The sour taste of morning-mouth
reminded him of his night on the floor and he poured some water from a refrigerated
pitcher. The liquid was refreshing and
cold, re-hydrating his tongue and throat.
Like a dry, firm sponge, the inner cells inflated to normal.
So atypical
to leave a mess. A certain sign of his dismay last night. Leaning on the counter, McGarrett stretched,
thinking of his distress yesterday. The
frustrated disturbance escalated through the evening, and as usual, he had
stayed late at the office. The habitual
drive had pushed aside his thought of the shooting, but the reactions had been
buried, not resolved.
By the time he came home his
nerves still resonated the taut unrest of the last few days. Of the culminating climax of the cop serial
killer whom he had fatally shot yesterday (Episode
- Target: A Cop).
For days, every cop in
In the end
the killer was dead. No more danger from
that psycho. In the aftermath of the
peril, the risk seemed worthy.
Emotionally, it left him cognizant of the foolhardy jeopardy he had
created for his friend and himself.
Shaking off the residual
dismay, he moved back to the living room.
With self-irritation, he viewed the unusual display of untidiness
reflecting the inner trauma from the night before. His unlaced shoes underneath, the coffee
table was cluttered with his pocket contents; change, wallet, badge, shoulder holster,
gun, belt, jacket, tie. All shed before
he sat on the floor. Later sinking to
lie down.
Pacing to the mauka lanai, he
watched the ever-undulating clouds drift against the misted cliffs, felt the
tactile moisture in the air, the brush of thick humidity on his skin. The traffic below was busier now, the
groaning of engines wafting up on the wings of the breeze. Breathing deeply, he allowed the natural
elements to enter his lungs and senses; absorbing,
cleansing and at one with the ethereal particles of paradise.
The dangers and decisions of
yesterday faded into a settled perspective.
He would leave the deep philosophy for another time. Today he was alive. Danno was alive. Both had survived to enjoy another perfect
day in
Stretching on the rail, he groaned, every muscle and many bones reminding him he was
too old for the late nights. Far too old
for the disconcerting slumber on the floor.
He needed to jog out the kinks before he tackled the day.
Heedless of the early hour,
he crossed to the phone. The receiver
was cold against his ear, knocking him into a fuller level of wakefulness. He dialed the familiar number, the first ring
loud to his sluggish senses. But with each succeeding ring his mood lightened and his
smile grew. For some twisted reason -- probably his control-freak nature -- he
delighted in rousting his friend at obscene hours. Today, he sought companionship in affirmation
that with this new day came renewed appreciation of
life. A gratitude that the danger of
yesterday was over.
“Uh- -- Hello -- Williams.” Finally, the
bleary greeting.
“Danno. We’re going
jogging. I’ll be there in twenty
minutes.”
“What?! What day is this?”
“A day to
enjoy paradise. Rise and shine.” He hung up, chuckling. He felt better already.
On the way to the bedroom, he
picked up his guitar and strummed a few bars, adjusting the tuning this
time. The strings resonating comfort
through his fingertips. The smooth wood
projecting solace and familiarity with the touch. He played a few bars of his own personal
bright and lively version of Malaguena.
Last night, the instrument had reflected his moody anxieties. As music always did, it connected to his
spirituality -- to emotions he could not vocalize or define. Leaving him enriched, relaxed, and ready to
face whatever the day might bring.
*****
The first blare from the
phone startled Dan Williams to instant wakefulness. Catching his breath, the echo of the loud and
abrupt ring had not yet died when the persistent intrusion continued with a
second buzz.
Suffering from grogginess due
to a restless night, Williams blinked his eyes open, dismayed there was only
faint light beyond his open window. The
air was warm and the Trade winds clean, carrying the faint scent of ocean and Pikake. Distantly,
waves crashed against the nearby reef.
Aside from the background rhythm, all was quiet in the pre-dawn morning.
Ring.
Except for that, he
winced. Reaching over, he grabbed for
the phone, fumbling the instrument with a crash onto the table. Already braced for an emergency, he felt
unprepared for whatever bad news always accompanied an early wake up call.
Voice horse, throat dry from
the short hours of slumbering inactivity, he croaked out a greeting. No surprise, the person on the other end was
of course his boss. Jogging
in twenty minutes? Before he
could respond yea or nay, the connection broke.
Jogging!
Well, it beat a few games of tennis.
Ever since Dan pushed Steve into learning to play tennis, Steve was a
maniac about the game -- two mornings a week!
Maybe Dan should give in and go golfing with Steve! Golfing had to be easier to face at this
hour.
Tossing the receiver back on
the cradle, he plopped onto an elbow, leaning close to the edge of the bed with
a huge sigh of a groan, immediately followed by a wide yawn. Longingly, he weakly punched the fluffy, soft
pillow, the comfortably padded mattress, and nearly succumbed to the temptation
of falling back to steal a few more precious moments of sleep
. . . .
Gradually, the conversation
with his boss repeated through his mental lethargy and his eyes blinked open
with a little more cognizance both visually and mentally. First, the longing to stay in the comfort of
the bed predominated his thoughts, then the strident commends of McGarrett grew
louder in his brain until the inevitability of it drove out the lingering
vestiges of sleep and personal priorities.
Lastly, came the resigned acknowledgement that
he was on a deadline and he surrendered to the injustice.
With a moan of physical
discomfort; a body and mind lacking proper rest, he
angled up to sit on the side of the bed.
Toes, then feet touched the Oriental rug as he yawned deeply, groaning
aloud. Rubbing his face with his hands,
he paused there for a moment, preparing for the finale of relaxation for
probably a long time. Hitting the deck
running was not an idle phrase with McGarrett around -- it was a way of life.
Rotating his shoulders, he
considered maybe after work calling up Kiko, his Japanese masseuse . . . . After work. That
might not be until
The jog -- what he
anticipated as punishment for his unprepared body, was dreaded for more than
one reason. A call this early from
Steve, demanding an unscheduled and gruelingly early run, meant McGarrett was
distressed about yesterday. That made
two of them.
Dan had hoped this morning
would bring with the bright new day a fresh perspective of the dangerous game
played out yesterday afternoon.
Considering his restless night and the heaviness
he still felt inside this morning -- and Steve’s obvious anxiety -- that was
not to be achieved so easily. They were
not going to be able to ignore what they went through the last few days. The near miss from death and danger was not
going to easily go away for either of them.
Attitude and retrospection
now altering, his kinks and aches dissolved, replaced by resolute purpose. They were going to have to deal with the
sniper and the shooting. Easier said
than done, he knew from bitter experience.
Committed to a cause, now, though, he crossed to his dresser and grabbed
his jogging clothes, already working on an approach for the difficult discussion
ahead.
*****
McGarrett barely paused to
turn around in the driveway of the apartment building when Dan ran out to meet
him. With a wave and amused grin, he
greeted his colleague, then set the pace for a brisk
jog. They coursed along
“I guess I didn’t wake you
too early after all,” he quipped.
“No,” Dan smiled, belaying
the red rimmed eyes and the faint trace of dark circles.
McGarrett just smiled,
reveling in the power of his feet pounding on the pavement, the scent of
ginger, plumeria and hibiscus mingled with the salty air. “Come on then,” he challenged as he set a
steady rhythm, turning toward the sea.’’
As beads of sweat slid from
his forehead, down the side of his face, along his neck to drench his t-shirt
collar, he let each breath cleanse him.
He imagined the fresh morning as a combination cocktail of elements; crashing waves, sea mist, clean wind, tactile aromas of
flowers in his lungs. The heady
concoction of sense and imagery coalesced into a metaphor of his time and place
and space in this paradise island world.
When they hit the beach, the
texture beneath his tennis shoes changed to the cushioning sand. His joints eased from the hard pounding on
concrete, and his traction increased while his muscles worked harder pumping on
the mushy sand. Then they hit the
hard-packed beach where wet surf made a line along
To Steve’s amused delight,
Williams proved -- as he usually did -- that he was up to the early morning
challenge. Barely light -- the sun still
captured behind the looming hulk of
As they coursed around the
few, slower kamaaina and malihini, they dodged the
lapping waves and hotel workers preparing the famous beach for the rigorous
influx expected later in the day. Not
only did Dan keep pace, but actually edged ahead several times, energy
excelling his own.
Reaching the breakwater at
the boundary of
A few places were open for
early breakfast, and the scent of fresh fruits and bacon, toast and baking
breads assaulted them as they passed various doorways. More Malihini gathered now as the day
advanced. Strolling or stopping to read
menus, the newcomers wafted of coco butter -- lathered up to cook in the tropic
Hawaiian sun so they could show off their stunning tourist-tan from paradise
when they went back at the end of their week in
Workers were sweeping the
sidewalks in front of International Marketplace, brushing away the leaves and
debris from the overnight showers. Dan’s
stomach growled as they passed Duke’s where the scent
of fresh-baked homemade macadamia nut muffins assaulted them on a sensory
level.
“We’ll have to come back this
way for breakfast,” he decided, hoping an innocuous line like that would open
up the silently pensive McGarrett.
“Yeah, sounds good,” Steve
replied, obviously preoccupied.
The sun was still not visible
beyond the high rises, but the reflected rays cast an ever-brightening glow
into the cobalt, cloud-draped sky visible overhead. Little arcs of rainbows appeared and
disappeared as the clouds shifted and the tone of the heavens altered with the
angle of the sunlight and the breeze-altered wisps of sky-traveling white and
grey. The sidewalks and streets were
damp from the recent misty rains during the night and their sneakers splashed
in puddles, accentuating the freshness of the day with the sound of the water.
At an intersection, they
paused as a bus turned into a driveway.
Dan yawned, then coughed from the strong fumes
clogging the air.
“I DID wake you up too
early,” Steve smirked, not repentant in the least.
“I just didn’t sleep
well.” Aside from being the truth, it
was an opening to their unspoken preoccupation.
“Kind of unsettled after yesterday.”
He cast a sideways glance at
his tall friend and almost held his breath, hoping Steve would take the
bait. What could he add to the
incredible understatement? Unsettling. Yeah, to
have Steve and him don patrol uniforms and act as
targets for a cop killer. Insane was a
more apt description of the stunt. That
the top two officers of Five-0 would literally put their lives on the front
line as bait -- it was nuts!
Characteristic of McGarrett
to offer himself -- and Williams -- as the marks -- to be
expected of the all-too-courageous boss to offer himself up on the tip
of the sword. That he knew Dan would go
with him was not even discussed. Nor did Dan offer any arguments -- well, he wouldn’t in front of Chief Charles of HPD. He would never disagree
with McGarrett in front of others.
In the locker room, when they
changed into HPD uniforms, it had hit home to Williams how vulnerable they
would be as open targets. As a beat cop,
he had never felt so alone and under the gun.
Years later, donning the uniform again, he was all too aware of the
cross hairs that could be trained on his back, or Steve’s,
without them ever knowing. Steve
had never been a cop before Five-0 and had never worn a uniform as a cop. This was so different from Five-0. It was a crazy stunt! And he let Steve
know his objections:
‘There’s no reason we
need to do this, Steve. We can set up a
trap --‘
‘I meant what I said
to the chief, Danno. We came up with the
trap, we’re going to be the bait.’
‘You don’t know what
it’s like out there, Steve --‘
‘This is our chance to
end the killing, Danno, and I’m not going to pass it by.’
‘Then we should wear
vests.’
‘Our sniper would spot
them. He’s
smart. No, we go in like a normal HPD
patrol team.’ He smiled at the
apprehension. ‘I know it’s
dangerous. I’m
not worried. You’re watching my back.’
‘I hope that’s
enough.’
To make it even worse, Steve
wanted them to split up when they reached the apartment building. Countering, Williams thought the plan too
risky, but as usual, his objections were ignored. Dan had gone in the back with his shotgun
ready. Steve had gone in alone to the
underground parking area. In hindsight,
after they discovered who the sniper was, Dan realized
-- in the sleepless hours of last night -- that he had barely -- terrifyingly
close -- saved Steve’s life by coming in the back door when he did.
Timing, and Steve’s Irish
luck, was with McGarrett. Dan saved his
life when he came in the back and surprised the killer. Then, Steve saved Dan’s life by pushing him
out of the way when the killer was discovered and turned on
them. Whether it was his bullet
or Steve’s that took the wheelchair-assassin down they did not know. They had come out of it alive, saving each
other, watching each other’s back as Steve had
predicted.
So where did they sort it all
out today? Obviously, they were still
both upset about the events. Did he
thank Steve again? Criticize
him for the blatant heroism that McGarrett continually seemed to seek out? Just keep silent and let it blow over? No, he couldn’t do
that this time as he did so often when cases were concluded in an
unsatisfactory manner. The cop killer was dead, yeah, but at what price?
“Steve, yesterday . . . . it was a close call,” was all he could come up with. The image was hardly a breath away -- them staring at the wheelchair bound killer, who in that
microcosm of frozen time had turned on them with a gun. They recognized his threat as he realized
their vulnerability. It was a frozen
moment of destiny where they narrowly averted tragedy. “We just about ended up as dead bait.”
Stopping, McGarrett stared at
him and it seemed he could see all the way through him with those acute blue
eyes. They pierced through, targeting
his soul. “We got our man.”
“Yeah, but not before he took
out too many good cops,” Dan quietly countered.
“Not before he nearly took us out.”
McGarrett grew
introspectively silent for a moment. “Yeah. And your timing was great.
I think you saved me from a shot in the back when you showed up.”
“And you pushed me out of the
way. You rolled the opposite way of
protection because you were getting me out of the way. I should be thanking you --“
“You did.”
“And I’m grateful. But, it was all a crazy stunt -- showing up
in uniforms as bait --“
“It worked.”
A bit irritated about the whole perilous affair, he shook his head. “This time the bottom line is not what’s so
important, Steve,” he adamantly rejected.
“Okay, we got the bad guy. We
stopped him from killing more cops,” he built up, warming to an old and sore
point between them. “You took -- you
take -- too many risks with your life, Steve.
You’re the head of Five-0!”
The responding expression and
tone were tough. “Part
of the job.” The taller man sped up, a motion-move that indicated his side of the discussion
was finished.
Williams shook his head,
knowing it was futile to get McGarrett to see the danger he placed himself in
all too often. And
he knew, unfortunately, all too soon they would have this same argument
again. He hoped someday he could win,
before Steve’s risks made it a moot point.
*****
It was late and well past
dark when McGarrett entered the quiet sanctuary of his apartment and flipped on
the light. Wearily, he crossed the
comfortably furnished living room. The
soft carpet felt good on his tired feet.
Tempted to pause here on one of the rarely used plush sofas (unlike last
night, he ruefully snickered) edged by tasteful end tables of native wood,
decorated with a few artistic and elegant sculptures, he nevertheless forged on
to the lanai doors. He opened the mauka
side first, then the
The thoughts pounded against
the refuge of his tactile senses and he opened his eyes, searching for a plane
in the sky or a speck of interest in
Danno had been right -- as he
usually was. It had been a foolish,
reckless risk to offer up himself and his colleague as bait for a cop
killer. It had seemed only fair and
right when he suggested it. Justified because it WAS a Five-0 case. Their responsibility. The shortest, quickest path
to the shooter. And the most dangerous.
The peril seemed
insignificant to him at the time. When
he expanded it to automatically include the friend
whom he knew would volunteer with him, it HAD given him a few seconds of
pause. But
weighed against the chance to catch their killer it was right. More than right, it was necessary for him to
do it. They had to get the madman off
the streets. Who knew how many more cops
could be killed if he was left at large.
Maybe Five-0 cops.
As expected, privately, Danno
had objected and Steve overrode his anxieties.
Danno was always his most staunch supporter, his most valued ally and
adamant protector. And,
always the first and strongest to go against him if he felt the reasoning
justified.
Returning to his living room,
he removed his jacket, shoes and tie, then rewarded himself
by plopping down on a sofa. Picking up
his guitar, he plucked out a lethargic rendition of his own little composition
that he never seemed to play for more than a few bars. Never
seemed to finish. It seemed an
apt metaphor to his own situation. Plaintive notes resonating
on the wind. The
product of an unsettled mind.
Why did he drive himself so
relentlessly into danger? He did not
have a death wish. It was his need to
succeed at any cost, he supposed.
Certain in his skill, determination and drive
that he would win the day. So far, he
had. His conscience, however, could not
escape Danno’s comments. As always, his
cautionary points were as accurate as his shooting skills and had perfectly targeted
Steve’s motivations and flaws. As he
often was, Danno was right. It had been
a perilous stunt.
Flicking the strings with
desultory indifference, leaning his head back on the sofa, he closed his eyes,
wondered if he would ever change . . . .