Title: Missing Scene – Penance, part 1 of 2
Author: Tipper
Disclaimer: The Magnificent Seven and Penance are owned by lots of good people, namely MGM, CBS, TNN, John Watson, Mirsch/Trilogy and many others I don't know (including the wonderful people who wrote the episode). Quite obviously, I will remain just as debt ridden after this is posted as I am now, as no money will ever be made except in my dreams. As before, I also know I borrowed some things from other fan fiction writers, I just can't recall now who. As many have acknowledged, Chaucer is Kristen's creation, Silace (the undertaker) is also someone else's (maybe Kelly's or NotTasha's? Sorry, I just can't remember), and Yosemite is, well, Yosemite's. Any other names I borrowed, well, you'll figure out who you are and thank you.
Notes: Ezra's reaction in Penance always bothered me a bit, so I made this up to take place on the same day as Irene's body is found. The gold band on his wedding finger is another puzzle, so I had a bit of fun. The Lady Heather, well, she's all mine.
Spoilers: Penance and Manhunt. Also, there are bits in this that refer to other stories of mine that I haven't posted yet, but they shouldn't effect it.
Description: Some missing scenes from Penance, to explain Ezra's reaction to Irene at the undertaker's, and to explain where the heck Ezra and Buck disappeared to when everyone else was rallying around Josiah. In two parts.
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Missing Scenes – Penance, Part One
He gripped the bridge of his nose tightly, focusing his attention on keeping the pressure between his forefinger and thumb constant in a vain attempt to prevent himself from keeling over. The smell of her dried blood assaulted his equilibrium, and he was only barely aware of the murmuring of the crowd around him. His eyes, normally open and bright, were shut firmly closed, his mind afraid of what he would see. Already his traitorous memory had conjured up images of Heather, and he couldn't trust his vision to not place her face over that of the woman lying before him.
In the background, he became aware that Chris's voice had joined the others, its tense inflections rising above the harsh wind and dust. He heard Nathan tell the gunslinger that the murdered woman's name was Irene Dunlap, the local seamstress, and Vin added that JD had gone to tell her folks. Grasping onto the professional tone of Nathan's and Vin's responses to Chris's questions, he gathered his mind to him and tried to imitate their posture. A question floated down to where he knelt by the body, and he answered it.
"Those silver dollars?" Chris asked.
"They appear to be freshly minted, but the dates on them say they're six years old. Seems he saved them for just such an occasion." Silently, Ezra applauding himself for his poise. However, opening his eyes again to look down at the coins covering her eyes had indeed been a mistake. The world began to spin around him. In the background he heard Mary's sad voice asking if they shouldn't get the poor girl off the street, and he seized the opportunity like Tantalus seizing the apple.
"I'll see to it," he said abruptly, jumping up quickly, almost running in his need to get away. He dove through the crowd, never hearing the arrival of the Pinkerton detective as the newcomer ordered the others to back away from the body.
By the time he reached Silace's, his steps were more even and his balance returned. The undertaker was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his face a mask of professionalism.
"You need a box?" the old man asked quietly, his voice as aged as old paper.
Ezra nodded, and followed the man inside. He was only vaguely aware as Buck and some of the other townsfolk joined him to help. Silace pointed to a box in the corner, and Ezra immediately went to grab a handle, his eyes deliberately avoiding looking at the knives and other implements of Silace's trade that hung about the black room, glittering brightly in the lamplight. Meanwhile, Silace moved to put on his black top hat and undertaker's jacket, and proceeded to brush the clothes down with a handy wire brush. Not that it mattered, the wind outside was preventing anyone from being clean.
When they returned to the scene, Ezra yelled out for the gawkers to step aside, his anger at their morbid curiosity burning away some of the sickness he felt. As they pushed through, he did not look around at the blur of faces, his subconscious only cataloguing who they were on the basis of a handful of trademark accessories. Vaguely, his green eyes caught the glint of Mary's magnifying glass where it hung from her neck, the thick long brown hair and beard of Yosemite blowing in the breeze where he helped to make room for the pall bearers, the black of Chris's clothes as the gunslinger stood over them, his presence always making him appear taller in moments like this.
The gambler dropped the box next to her body, and heard himself telling the others to "watch it, be careful with the poor thing, go easy now," and various other throw away remarks, as if they could possibly damage her further. Once she was laid down inside, he reached to take the handle again, but felt another's hand on his. Looking up, he found Nathan looking at him, his large brown eyes appearing to look directly into his soul.
"I got it," the healer whispered kindly, taking the handle and lifting. Ezra hung his head, hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat. Clearly, he was not hiding his discomfort as well as he would have liked. Moving slowly, he followed the others as they carried the box away, unable to focus on anything except the need to keep moving.
The street seemed to quiet down as the body was taken away, and while people continued to stare, the expressions no longer betrayed that awful curiosity, only sadness. Ezra nodded at them as he walked past though he didn't make eye contact, and they nodded back just as perfunctorily.
When they reached the undertaker's, he watched as the other men placed Irene's body on the central table in that cold room, Silace's knives and saws hanging above her body like a mobile over a baby's crib. He was abruptly reminded of the time he'd placed the missionary's daughter Claire on that table six months ago, and it made him shiver slightly. He hadn't been able to look at anyone in the face that time either, knowing that every emotion he felt was visible for the world too see.
The other men stepped away, Buck briefly grasping Ezra's arm in his hand as he headed out. Only Nathan remained, the healer staring down at the body quietly, his brown eyes calm and clear. The black man was obviously searching the body for clues as to what had happened, his medical skills affording him a level of detachment. Ezra moved to stand on the other side of the table, forcing himself to look down at her, berating himself for his weakness.
She was just another death, something this town saw often enough, something that Ezra himself made a living from. Both as a lawmen and as a gambler, he'd been party to the death of so many, and he rarely felt any remorse or guilt at their deaths. The guns he wore were testament to the sort of man he was – hell, he carried more weapons on his person than any of the others, except possible Nathan, whose arsenal of knives would put Silace's collection to shame.
But this was different. It always was when the victim was both innocent…and a woman.
Heather.
He took off his hat, running the brim around in his fingers, and realized he was barely holding on. How could anyone do this?
Suddenly, Silace was there, running the measuring tape across her shoulders to measure her for a casket. The action was so cold that Ezra found himself lashing out with his hand, roughly pushing the man back.
"Do you mind?" He said curtly, forcing Silace back. The undertaker simply raised an eyebrow in his direction and shrugged, then looked askance at Nathan before walking away. Looking over at the healer himself, Ezra noted the questioning look, and attempted to cover up the myriad of emotions crossing his face.
"Vulture," he said, looking back down at Irene. Why were they all so desirous to simply put her in the ground and forget about her? She deserved more than that, surely. Just as Heather had deserved more.
"Just doing his job," Nathan responded quietly.
"Yeah, well, he could…could show a little respect." Came the tense reply.
Nathan nodded, not understanding why Ezra was still here. He could see that the man was not dealing well with this girl's death. In fact, her couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Ezra looking so…pained. He felt it better to just agree with the gambler's opinion, and perhaps try in some way to offer Ezra a bit of the same detachment he felt. He sighed.
"Yeah…" He said, leaning over the body, and indicated to the slit on her throat with his fingers like a teacher pointing out a math problem to a child. Ezra's eyes followed the movement as he gripped his hat in his hands, his fingers nervously playing with the brim.
"We got a strong hand," Nathan began slowly ignoring Ezra's nervous twitching, "sharp blade…a single cut from right to left. Could be our man's, uh…."
"Left-handed," agreed a voice from the door. "I see you're a student of pathology."
"I learn as I go," Nathan replied slowly, turning to the intruder. Ezra looked up, slightly confused. Who was this? He vaguely remembered someone in the crowd yelling at them to be careful as they moved the body, because "he would want to examine the body later." Was this that same man?
The newcomer stepped forward and removed his hat, and Nathan's deference to him made Ezra realize that this was probably some sort of lawman or detective. But there was something odd about the man's eyes….They did not appear simply detached from the gruesome scene before him, as Nathan's were, rather they seemed almost… disembodied.
"Can we turn her over please? There may be some bruises from where he grabbed her." The man continued, looking down at Irene. Ezra looked to Nathan for guidance, and the healer nodded back at him, telling him it was okay.
"Yeah. Could tell us the size of the hands."
Swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, the gambler told himself to stop being silly and do his job. He placed his hat on the ground and leaned over to grab Irene about the shoulders in order to lift her and reveal her back. Nathan crouched down to look at the marks. Just then, an audible gasp filled the room, causing everyone to look up. Nathan's jaw fell.
"Raine?"
"Nathan….They said you were here. I'm…sorry….I did not realize." The pretty girl backed away from the sight of the murdered woman, and pushing the curtains aside roughly, dashed back outside.
Ezra swallowed harshly as he straightened up, and looked across at Nathan as they gently dropped Irene back down. "Isn't that your charming paramour from the Seminole Village?" He asked weakly. "She's a long way from home."
Nathan just looked back at him, the shock still plain on his face. Then, without a word, the healer spun around and dashed outside after the girl, calling her name.
Ezra watched him go, his heart begging the man to stay, but unable to utter such a childish plea. And it was childish. Infantile. He gritted his teeth, and turned his gaze to the newcomer. The detective, if that was what he was, approached the table and returned the gaze calmly.
"I take it from the clothes you wear that you are not the undertaker," the man said slowly.
Ezra inclined his head, "Quite right, sir. I am, uh, a member of the law here."
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "Really. Well then, may I ask your name?"
"Standish, and yours?"
"Poplar, Cyrus Poplar, of the Pinkerton Agency….So, Mr. Standish, can we turn her over?"
Ezra grimaced, and looked back down at the woman. With Nathan gone, he saw no reason to further punish himself. "Actually, Mr. Poplar, I think that Silace may be the best one to help you out." He called loudly for the undertaker before Poplar could disagree, and the man in question quickly scuttled back into the room just as Ezra bent down to retrieve his hat.
"You finished now?" Silace asked, a sarcastic tone edging his voice.
Ezra just tensed his jaw, not answering. Looking back at Poplar, he once more shuddered at the blank expression in the man's ice blue eyes, but put the feeling to one side. He was obviously not thinking clearly, and was likely reading hidden meanings where they did not exist. The detective nodded at him, telling him his departure was fine, dismissing him. Ezra nodded back, and stepped away from the table and over to the door, brushing Silace's arm rudely as he squeezed past the undertaker.
"Mr. Standish, a moment!" Poplar called, stopping the gambler and causing him to turn around. The detective licked his dry lips. "Is Mr. Sanchez a friend of yours?"
Ezra frowned at the non sequitur. "Josiah? I suppose. Why?"
Poplar shrugged. "Oh nothing. Just curious. Know him well, do you?"
Ezra's eyes narrowed, his own discomfort momentarily forgotten. "I'm afraid I do not understand the purpose of your questioning, Mr. Poplar. If, for some strange reason, you have arrived at the obviously erroneous impression that Mr. Sanchez may have had something to do with this…this…" He waved at the dead woman and paused, suddenly aware that Silace had tipped her head to the side so that she seemed to be listening to Ezra's words, though her eyes were still closed. In that moment, the horrible nature of her death came crashing into him once again. His jaw shook slightly, and when he looked back at Poplar, all the assurance he'd felt a moment before had faded from his eyes.
"Please…excuse me, sir. I am afraid that I not going to be of much help to you at the moment." With a brief nod, he left, unable to spend another second in that place.
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BANG! BANG! BANG!
The loud knock on his bedroom door a couple of hours later startled Ezra so badly that he nearly lost control of the half empty bottle of Red Eye he was holding. Gripping it tighter to his chest, he silently hoped that the person, whoever they were, would go away. He closed his eyes as he anticipated the next round of knocking, his body shaking slightly. He started to count seconds, just as one would between a lightening bolt and its accompanying sound of thunder.
One, one thousand…
Two, one thousand…
Three, one…
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANGABANGABANG!…..BANG!
Go away! He begged silently. Please, just go away!
A couple of seconds later, he cocked an eye open. Maybe, just maybe…
BANGABANGABANGABANGABANGABANG!
"DAMNIT EZRA! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR OR I'M GONNA BREAK IT DOWN, HEAR?"
"How could I not, Buck," Ezra whispered, dropping his head forward onto the bed. He'd been sitting cross-legged with his back to the headboard, a bottle of Red Eye in his lap and a deck of cards fully laid out in front of him, face down. Now, after putting his head forward, he looked like he was bowing to the door before him.
"EZRA…" Buck's voice warned, "You make me break this down and I ain't gonna pay for it."
"ITS OPEN!" Ezra yelled back, sitting up once more, and quietly added, "you rat infested sack of manure."
"Oh," Buck turned the knob and entered the dark room, a sheepish grin on his face. "So it is."
He quickly noted that, though the windows were cracked open slightly, Ezra had his shades pulled down. The wind howled through the slits, giving the room a haunted quality. Grimacing, Buck immediately walked to the window facing the street, shutting it and pulling up the blinds. Ezra didn't protest, though he squinted slightly at the sudden increase of light. Buck followed through with the two windows facing the alley.
"That's better," the ladies man grinned into the air, heading over to the bed. Ezra watched him approach warily, like a caged animal. Ignoring the black look, Buck simply pulled the rocking chair over away from the alley window and brought it next to the bed.
"Whatcha doin?" He asked innocently, looking at the cards all laid out. He noticed Ezra had them in eight rows, alternating six and seven cards per row. Several cards had been displaced and put aside, leaving random holes in the pattern.
Ezra's jaw tensed, and his voice was strained as he answered. "A child's game, Mr. Wilmington, to tax the memory."
Buck's eyes narrowed slightly, and he pursed his lips. "How's it work?"
Sighing heavily, Ezra opened his left hand to reveal two dice. "I roll the dice for a number between one and fourteen…"
"fourteen?" Buck interrupted.
"Two to ten for the number cards. Eleven to fourteen for the face cards."
"Oh."
"As I was saying…."
"But two dice. How can you get a number higher than twelve?"
Ezra gritted his teeth before replying. "If I roll a number I have already played, Mr. Wilmington, then I treat that as thirteen. The next time, I treat it as fourteen. And, before you ask, the time after that, I simply roll again." He paused, exhaling loudly as he took a swig of Red Eye. "Now, as I was saying, in order to play the game, I roll the dice for a number, then attempt to recall where those cards lay in the pattern before me. They are randomly arranged. I only looked at them once before I put them face down."
Buck nodded. "Sounds like fun. Can I play?"
Ezra glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "I wouldn't recommend it."
"Oh, come on. I reckon my memory's pretty good."
"Mr. Wilmington, you can barely remember the name of the woman you slept with last night."
Buck glared at him. "Not that its any of your business, but it was Cherise. But that ain't here nor there. C'mon, let me have a go."
Ezra watched him for a moment, his face a mask of forced indifference. "Mr. Wilmington, shall I show you why you will fail?"
"Huh?"
"Pick a number. Any number. Except eight and three, as I have already picked those out."
Buck screwed up his face, and his voice took on a suspicious quality. "Well, I ain't gonna say eleven, twelve or thirteen, cause the face cards are too easy."
Ezra rolled his eyes, but shrugged. Buck thought for a moment, then grinned.
"Six." He said decisively.
Ezra nodded, and looked at the cards before him. He placed the dice on the bedspread to free his left hand (the right was still firmly gripping the neck of the Red Eye), and ran it once above the cards. Then, it rapid succession, he turned over four cards…every one of them a six. Buck whistled as Ezra pulled them out and placed them on the discard pile.
"Not bad. How 'bout two?"
Ezra didn't reply, simply repeated the motion, except, this time, he hesitated on the last card. His hand shook as he considered two cards next to each other. Finally, he upturned the one on the left…to reveal a ten.
"HELL!" the gambler yelled, banging the bedspread next to his knee with his fist. Buck recoiled slightly from the extreme reaction, then reached over to turn up the other card. It was the last two. He pulled it out and turned the ten back over.
"Shoulda gone with your first instinct," he suggested quietly.
"Why don't you just f--k off!" Ezra shouted in response, turning bloodshot eyes on the ladies man. Buck sat back and returned the stare guilelessly, clearly not going anywhere. After a moment, Ezra turned away and closed his eyes, taking another swig of the Red Eye. Holding the bottle close to him, the gambler soon had his breathing back under control. Buck quietly admired the effort, knowing he himself could rarely keep his rage that much in check, especially not with almost a full bottle of rat gut whiskey inside of him. Ezra's green eyes opened again, and he stared down at the cards. His left hand picked up the dice, and he started to shake them.
"Why are you here?" He asked, his voice now at a more controlled level as he loosed the dice onto the bedspread. A six and a five.
Buck shrugged. "Inez said you had two bottles of Red Eye up here. Thought I'd just help you drink them." He watched as Ezra reached out and plucked all four jacks out with ease.
Ezra squinted, then gave a short laugh, before taking another swig. "I am not amused, Mr. Wilmington." He picked the dice up again.
"For Christ's sake, Ezra, this 'Mr. Wilmington' stuff it is getting old. You address me proper, or I'm going to have to shoot you."
"Fine…Buck….Now get the hell out of my room." He loosed the dice once more. A six and a four.
"I know where one of the tens is," Buck smiled, trying to lighten the mood as he pointed to the card. Ezra gave a short laugh, and turned over the one next to it. Buck jumped slightly as he realized he'd made a mistake.
"How the…? Hell, I coulda sworn…"
"I memorize cards for a living, Mr. Wilmington, and have had a lifetime of practice. Don't worry about it." The gambler replied quietly. Buck smiled crookedly and shook his head. He looked up at Ezra, and noted that the gambler was now staring out the window, the dice forgotten in his hand. Buck swallowed.
"But I do worry, Ez, its in my nature." His smile fell as watched the younger man drink again from the bottle, finishing it. Ezra dropped the empty bottle onto the floor, and reached down to pick up the other one, his actions so smooth that the cards on the bedspread barely moved. Buck took in a deep breath, and Ezra tensed slightly, knowing what was coming.
"Listen, Ezra…I came because I saw how you reacted to Miss Irene's death. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
Ezra didn't reply, just turned to stare calmly at Buck with dull green eyes. The ladies man continued, his own eyes narrowing slightly at the other's subterfuge.
"Look, when Claire Mosely was murdered, I was there with you, remember? I remember the way you looked when they brought her in, and the way you couldn't look at anyone for hours afterwards, hiding in the saloon during the funeral procession. And I remember the fury which filled you when I suggested we go and track down Chanu ourselves. I should have seen it, the way you were so willing to follow my lead, practically reveling in the idea…. I was too angry at the whole mess myself to notice how out of character you were acting; you, who so rarely reacts strongly to anything, preferring your poker face to betraying emotion…you were acting just as blood thirsty as I." He paused, and licked his lips. Ezra just stared at him, his face unreadable. Buck continued, leaning forward in the rocking chair.
"But seeing you today, well, I think I got a better idea. I've never see you so easy to read before…even Nathan saw it." Ezra flinched slightly at the admission, the first sign that he was actually listening to what Buck was saying.
"What exactly are you attempting to suggest, Mr. Wilmington?" Ezra asked evenly.
"I'm saying that I think you got two bottles of Red Eye up here cause that girl's death reminded you of something…something that you've kept hid for a long time. Claire brought it out some, but Miss Irene's murder was even worse…maybe cause her throat was slit?" The ladies man stopped, his eyes still narrowed as he awaited a response.
Ezra frowned. After a moment, he looked back down at the cards, and his left hand started to shake the dice again. Instantly, Buck reached out and placed a large, callused hand over the gambler's smooth one.
"It'll help to talk about it, Ez. It always does. I know you think that you'll be fine again in a few hours, after you've drunken yourself into a stupor, but it only means the pain'll come back two-fold next time. Trust me, I know."
"You think I don't?" Ezra hissed. Buck didn't answer, just stared at the gambler's fist held in his own. Ezra's green eyes darkened, and he shook his head. Roughly, he drew his hand away, and loosed the dice, only vaguely glancing at the total they revealed. In his mind, he was thinking venomous thoughts. How dare this idiotic man think he knew what going in his mind? Well, fine. He wanted to know? Fine. He drew again on the bottle, part of him recognizing that the alcohol was probably spurring this decision.
Buck sighed, thinking Ezra was withdrawing further. "Ez, please…I know its hard…"
"Ever wondered why I wear a wedding ring, Buck?" Ezra interrupted, his voice sharp. He waggled his left hand in front of Buck, the sunlight glinting off the simple gold band.
Continued in Part Two