Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.
A/N: This is a continuation of "It's A Long Journey Home". If you have not read that one, much of the back-story will not make sense. I happily respond to all reviews and PMs, so let me know what you think.
Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
Journeys' End
Journeys end in lovers' meeting
So says the poet and the song.
In summer's sighs and winter's greeting
Along the road friends travel on.
Though bends will twist and turn them back,
Though hills may rise and slow the way,
Still staunch companions they'll not lack
And endless night will turn to day.
For when the road seems oh so long
And home seems still a life away,
Again the poet sings that song
And lovers their sweet homage pay
To journey's start and journey's end
And strength of heart and love of friend.
SMT, April 1, 2007
Chapter 1: Beginning Again
"Oh, God, Mac…"
"Lindsay, is that you? Are you all right?"
"He shot him, Mac."
"Lindsay, I can't hear you. What's wrong?"
"It's Danny. He's been shot."
"Mac? Are you there? Did you hear me?"
"What happened, Lindsay? "
"Ross Adams. He shot Danny. He's just come out of surgery."
"Danny has? Danny was in surgery?"
"Yes. Adams shot him in the back. Just like he shot Tricia. And Mark. He just shot him and Danny went down and I thought he was dead and I knew Adams was coming to get me but I thought I could get him to talk and he did; he told me what he had done, and then he was going to kill me but I shot him instead and he's dead and then Danny … Danny…"
"Lindsay, breathe. It's okay; just take a deep breath for me. Is there someone with you? Someone else I can talk to?"
"No, I'm sorry, Mac. I wanted to be the one who told you. I'm sorry, Mac. I'm so sorry…"
"Detective Taylor?"
"Agent Monroe. Thank God. What's going on?"
"Lindsay insisted on speaking to you, sir. What's that, Lindsay?"
"She said, 'Don't call him sir,' I'll bet."
"In fact, that's exactly what she said. Okay, Detective. Here's the story as far as we have. Ross Adams has been confirmed as the second shooter. He was also the step-son of former Sheriff Aaron Graham in Bozeman. Graham married his mother after the 'hunting accident' of her husband Rick Adams, a pretty bad guy from all accounts. There is strong suspicion that either Ross or Graham were involved in that accident."
"Nothing like keeping it in the family."
"Detective Evans saw Ross Adams, wearing the Drizabone coat, at the scene, but was persuaded by Sheriff Graham to ignore it. Evans was one of the officers shooting at Forbes; he may have felt pressure to support the shooting as justified. Anyway, Forbes pleaded guilty to all the shootings, so there was no trial."
"Then Forbes claimed to get his memory back."
"Right. Fast forward thirteen years. Forbes goes public with the claim that he wasn't alone. Adams has been working in the lab and feels pretty invulnerable."
"Until Lindsay comes back."
"And starts digging around, challenging the original evidence which he had carefully disordered."
"So that's the old case. How did my detective get shot after you promised me he was safe?"
A quick sigh over the phone line, "Just bad timing, Taylor. We got the story from Evans and Olafsen, using the help given by Dr. Hawkes at your end, and we went after Adams. Unfortunately, John McKim had gone after him first. I don't know whether they talked, or McKim just spooked him, but Adams pulled another hit and run. This time, he did it better."
"McKim?"
"In a coma, not expected to recover."
"I'm sorry, Agent Monroe. I know he was a friend of yours."
"Lindsay was more affected: they had been partners. He helped train her."
"What happened to Detective Messer?"
"Adams figured out where we'd stashed them. We didn't plan security for someone with his kind of computer access. He skied in; he was a biathlete, trained under McKim for a while. He caught Messer outside starting the truck; Lindsay had figured everything out. They were coming in when the bastard shot him in the back."
"What injuries?"
"Through and through, no vital organs hit, lots of blood loss. It would have been worse, but Messer hit the snow. The cold slowed down the bleeding. He … crawled to the cabin from where he fell."
"Yeah, that's Danny. Takes something to put him down and keep him down."
"In the mean time, Lindsay had set up Adams. She saw Messer get shot, assumed the worst, and found her tape recorder. She managed to keep Adams talking long enough to get a confession. Then he raised his rifle on her, and she shot him."
This time, the sigh was from New York, "She okay?"
"Not any more physically hurt than before we hid her. Luckily, we'd commandeered a chopper, landed just as she shot. For a minute …"
"Close call."
"You know it. We were able to transport Messer right away. The docs fixed him up, doped him good. Didn't stop him from trying to get up to go to Montana, though." For the first time, there was the hint of a laugh in John Monroe's voice.
"Like I said, takes a lot to keep him down."
"We'll get them home to you, Mac. A little rattled, a little worse for wear, but they both are coming home."
"Thank you, Monroe. Tell Lindsay we're thinking about her, would you?"
"Will do."
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-
"Mom."
"Lindsay, honey, he's okay. I talked to Chris; he's coming in to talk to you."
"It's my fault, Mom. I should have seen; I should have known. How could I let this happen?"
"Lindsay, listen to yourself. When were you supposed to know this? When you were sixteen, with a concussion, traumatized, terrified? Or now, when every piece of evidence had been tainted or ignored?"
"I should have known. I looked him in the eyes, Mom. He asked me."
"Who asked you what?"
"Ross. He asked me why I didn't know it was him. I saw his eyes in my dreams for thirteen years. How could I have thought he was Forbes? He was shorter, slighter. Those eyes. What kind of detective am I?"
"Lindsay. I will say this one more time and then I will never say it again, so listen up and listen good. You were sixteen years old. You watched four people get shot in front of you. You thought you were going to be killed next. Everyone around you conspired to keep the truth from coming out, whether they knew it or not. How dare you take responsibility for this?"
"Mom…"
"No. I can't listen to this any more, Lindsay. You know I love you. I would do anything to change this, anything to have kept this from happening. But you just keep putting yourself in the middle of this. You did nothing wrong. You had nothing to do with this. You were just there, Lindsay. You were just there."
"Listen to your mom, Montana."
"Danny!"
"Hey, Diane."
"Hey, Detective. Looks like you've had a bad day."
"Wakin' up to two beautiful women in my room? How bad could that be?"
"Amazing - they say the eyesight is the first to go. I think it's the sense of humour, myself. Let's get you something to drink; your throat is sore from the intubation. You'll need to cough: just be careful."
"Hey, Montana, you not talking?"
"Danny, I'm so sorry…"
"Didn't I tell you to listen to your mom? You have nothing to be sorry about. Adams?"
"Dead."
"She had no choice, Danny. She got him on tape, though, didn't you, Linds? So Forbes' story goes up in flames as well."
"Good."
"Go back to sleep, Danny. I'm not going anywhere."
"Make sure she gets some sleep and something to eat, Diane? She'll cripple herself in that chair."
"Go back to sleep, Detective Messer, and stop trying to charm the staff. I can look after my daughter for now."
Diane walked out of Danny's hospital room, looking for Ted. After nearly four decades together, she depended on him to keep her balanced. Her hands were clenched with the desire to tear something into small pieces: Ross Adams for choice.
"Too late," she reminded herself. "Lindsay took care of it. And John took care of Lindsay and now it is over. As over as it can be."
She knew it wasn't true. She had seen the nightmares lying dormant in Lindsay's eyes. But just for a minute. Just for a moment, she needed to believe that their lives could start again.
She walked into the waiting room and straight into Ted's comforting embrace, holding on to him, breathing in the rough scent of him: animals overlaid with soap. She breathed in the peace he offered, before turning to her sons.
"Thanks for being here, boys." She smiled a little wearily at her three sons. They always surprised her by their height, their age, their sheer presence. How, she sometimes wondered, could she have possibly caused their existence?
She sat down in the chair Jamie pulled out for her: her oldest, the one who took responsibility for everyone else. She put her hand on his cheek soothingly; he looked exhausted and worried. He had been the one to gather everyone together, picking up Ted at his office, finding Mick and bringing him to the hospital, driving out to the ranch to find clothes for Lindsay to change into when she was ready, offering to phone the New York office and explain why their detective was lying in the operating room.
Diane's eyes moved to John, the second child. He looked, as he so often did, withdrawn, even cold. He had politely refused to let Jamie phone Mac Taylor in New York: it was his job and he took it, as he did everything, seriously. He had efficiently done all that was required of him and more, gentling only when it came to Lindsay, standing with her when she insisting on talking to Detective Taylor herself, then taking the phone from her and interfering only when it became clear that she could speak no more. There was an anger burning deep in his eyes; only the people who loved him best would recognize it.
Mick, the youngest of the boys, handed her a Styrofoam cup, his easy smile and warmth enveloping her with as much comfort as the strong caffeine-laden kick of the coffee. His hair fell into his laughing brown eyes carelessly; his huge hands nearly obscured the cup. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he watched the world always from behind a grin. He made her think of Puck: "Lord, what fools these mortals be" seemed to be his motto. Of all her children, Diane thought, he was the most casually loving.
She sipped the coffee, and closed her eyes. And Lindsay? Her youngest, always trying to keep up with the boys, always fighting to be on an equal footing. What had she passed over this past thirteen years in her desire to somehow prove she deserved to live when her friends had not? As if, Diane thought, she had to live five lives successfully instead of just her own.
"So how's Danny doing, Ma?" It was Mick who asked, of course.
"He's all right - flying on morphine and worrying about Lindsay at the moment. She's with him; I couldn't get her to leave. She needs to eat."
Jamie got up, "I'll run out and get her something. She won't want hospital food - I'll find her a sub or something."
"Get her chocolate," advise Mick. "She won't care about anything else."
"Such a stereotype. Not all women crave chocolate, you know." Diane scolded.
"No, but we're not talking about all women here. We're talking about Lindsay, aren't we? I'll go with you, Jamie." Mick's grin flashed through the hospital pall and the boys were gone.
"Can't sit still for a minute, either one," Ted grumbled, watching them a little longingly.
"Go," sighed Diane. "Bring me back some stereotypically female comfort food too, would you?"
He disappeared down the hall before she could do more than blow him a kiss.
"John, are you all right?" She turned to her son, focusing on the frown that marred his face.
As if self-conscious, John scrubbed his hands roughly over his cheeks, then put his head back against the wall, sighing. "Pissed off, mostly. If Taylor were a different kind of guy, he'd have torn a strip off me for Messer getting shot."
"It wasn't your fault," Diane flared up in defense of her cub.
"I didn't stop it either. Shit, Mom, I was hanging from a line off the chopper when I heard the shot. I was that close. I dropped the last eight feet because I heard it and all I could think was that I was too late." John's hands had started to shake, and he looked at them in amazement.
Diane said nothing, clasping her own hands tightly together to avoid reaching for her child. He was too old for that kind of comfort.
"Then I get within sight of the cabin and there's Messer, bleeding from who knows what, going through the door, and I think, 'Shit, not him too.' There's a trail of blood following him around the side of the cabin, but he's on his feet and he has his gun out." John swallowed. He had heard the howl of following coyotes over the helicopter engines.
"By the time I got into the cabin, they're wrapped in each other and Adams is stiffening on the couch. And all I can think is, 'It should have been me. She's my sister. I should have protected her.' I was angry, Mom," he looked at her with a worried frown. "I was angry that I hadn't been the one to shoot. Like it made a difference. Like it mattered who protected her. She was alive, unhurt, and I'm mad that it wasn't me who was the hero." He took in a deep breath, letting it out on a laugh.
"Of course, it wasn't Messer either. She did it all by herself."
John leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, eyes closed. Diane watched him for a minute silently.
"When you were a little boy," she paused as he made an impatient gesture, then went on doggedly, "When you were a little boy, about seven years old, Lindsay was about three. Everywhere you went, she would tag along behind you. You used to get so mad, John, so impatient. You'd fly into a rage every time, and I'd tell you to wait: she'd grow up and not want to be with you all the time. We had to walk you to school, do you remember? Because she hated to be left behind that much?"
He nodded, looking down at his hands again.
"When she was a baby, we used to find you sleeping under her crib. You'd ignore her all day, complain when she cried or I needed to look after her. But every night, I'd find you under her crib with your blanket and pillow."
"I don't remember that."
"Do you remember when you boys had to walk her to preschool, and she was being bullied by that kid down the street … what was his name?"
"Martin," his voice was quiet.
"Yes, Martin, that's right. And the three of you decided to teach him a lesson. And what did Lindsay do?"
"Took on all three of us to protect Martin, then once we had left, kicked his ass all around the playground."
"Yes. She fights her own battles, John. Always has. Always will. And you know you're proud of her. And you know you're glad that Danny Messer won't have to protect her either. She would lose a part of herself if she had to depend on other people too much."
John sighed. "It's a good thing I don't have kids. How do you let go?"
Diane smiled at him a little wistfully, listening for her other two sons' voices down the hall.
"You don't. They just get too big for your arms to hold them as close as you want anymore."