Vegas Blues: Hit the Road and Go
You can't get there from here.
Detective John Sheppard mulled over the words as he stared at the bleak landscape in front of him. Hands gripping the steering wheel of his battered red car as he scanned the dry desert. For once it wasn't blazing hot but cool. Cloudy. Swirls of dirt were dancing around the stalled equipment of construction, thrown up by the winds racing down from the distant mountains. A black mass was forming on the horizon. An ominous cloud bank that dulled the sunlight, turned daylight to a moody grayish gloom. A few tumbleweeds rolled past the silent CATs and solemn bulldozers.
John wasn't here to view the delayed construction. He was staring at the bleak desert sands trying to remember. At the crater in the earth, the hole created by an enormous explosion he could only half-remember. Nothing else came. Even the brief, tantalizing flashes of memory had stopped. As if his brain had given up trying to piece together the scattered fragments. As if whatever had happened to him six months ago wasn't worth remembering. Even the headaches had disappeared. He hadn't resorted to illegal prescription meds in a few days now.
Maybe he should just let it go and move on. But to where?
Scowling he started the car. Drove back into the city. The storm was in his rearview mirror now, chasing after him like some phantom menace. It was his day off. He found himself at a loss as to what to do, so he fell back into his old, familiar habits. Ate lunch at a local diner. Popped into a strip club for a drink and little feminine entertainment, at least of the visual kind. Then down the Strip to choose a casino for a little recreational gambling.
The vibration of his phone interrupted. He frowned, set down his cards on the felt table. It wasn't a winning hand so he was almost thankful for the interruption. He pulled the phone out of his back pocket, shifting on the chair. "Yeah?"
"Detective Sheppard? It's Moira. Moira O'Meara. Is this a bad time?"
John smiled at the sound of her voice. "It's always a bad time, O'Meara. What do you want?"
"You."
John straightened in the chair. Ignored the irritated stares of the men waiting to continue the game. "About time, baby. I can be there in five."
"Funny, Sheppard. I need to see you. I found something. I think, well, I'm not sure but I think it could belong to you."
"What is it?"
"I'd rather not say over the phone. Can you come to my place now?"
"Now? Oh, I can come..." he paused, letting the innuendo hang in the air, "at your place."
"To my place," she corrected. "Now."
He smiled as she ended the call. Imagining her annoyance. Curious at what she had to show him. He slid his phone back into his pocket, standing. "Deal me out, guys. Sorry."
"Hey! Aren't you going to stay and try to win back what you've lost?"
"You're leaving a perfectly good game on account of a broad?"
John merely smiled. Left the table. Left the casino, not caring about his losses. More curious at this summons from Moira.
The wind was picking up, gusting at times. Sighing mournfully in the trees. Stirring the wind chimes hanging along various porches into a melodic mess of high and low tones. The street was called Wind Chime Lane after all, so it was appropriate. John smiled at that.
He sat a moment after parking the car. Staring at the modest ranch house. Then got out of the vehicle. Strolled to the door. Brushed off his clothes, suddenly self-conscious about his appearance. He rang the bell. Ran a hand through his hair. Waited. Turned around to view the street. Looking for anything, anyone suspicious. A habit that would never leave him.
The door opened and he turned back round to see Moira O'Meara eying him up and down like a lab specimen. He took in her loose, flowing hair. The dark green t-shirt, the blue jeans, sneakers before he met her studious gaze. Moira had been staring. He appeared sloppy, slightly dangerous, even. A line of stubble shadowing his jaw line. A black jacket, under which he wore a white shirt open at his chest, half-tucked into a pair of black jeans. Scuffed shoes.
She met his gaze. "Hope I didn't interrupt any pressing...business, detective."
John smiled at her acerbic tone. "Did I pass inspection, then, doctor? And no, just a card game. This time. Are you going to invite me in or are we going to stand here all day?"
"You're waiting for an invitation this time? Wow. Please." She gestured, stepping aside. He entered the house. Paused as she moved past him after closing the door. She moved to the other side of the table. Stood staring at the vase of roses upon it. Red, vivid blossoms that lent a sweetness to the cool air. She knew he had sent them. Knew it could be no one else. Although the flowers had come with no signature on the card. Just one word.
Sorry.
She looked at John. She was nervous, seeing him. Inviting him after throwing him out of her house. Those fateful words scribbled on a piece of paper. Middlegate Hills. Moira had decided to give him a second chance, at least the chance of an explanation. So she waited. Expectant. But he was silent. Assessing. Stubborn. They stood frozen a moment, a tableau of hesitancy and obstinancy.
John was looking at the flowers too. The uncharacteristic, romantic gesture embarrassing. Then he met her gaze, searching for any sign of forgiveness. But she offered none. Waited for him to speak. He shrugged. "Sorry," he finally said, voice low. Gruff. Hating this kind of thing. "I didn't mean what you thought I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" she asked. Voice guarded. Gaze suspicious.
"It's where the ship went down." He thought a moment. "The dart. McKay called it a dart. There were three. This one they couldn't find. The virus spread from it, along with a, a creature. A Drone, they called it. It's the source of origin. For the virus. Anyway, that's all taken care of now. Done. Case closed. I just wanted you to know that it had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with you. What I wrote, that is. Okay?"
She seemed to consider, chewing on her lower lip for a moment. "Okay. Have a seat. Let me show you what I found."
"That's it? We're okay now? Moira?"
"Yes, John. Sorry. I overreacted." It was her turn to feel embarrassment.
"Oh. Well, I know where you're coming from, Moira. Believe me." He could tell she didn't. The way she turned away from him, entered the kitchen. He sighed. Too tired to explain further, to get into all the sordid details. Even obliquely. He sauntered to the couch and plopped down on it He waited, looking round as she moved into the kitchen. Returned with two cans of Coke. Set them onto the glass table and sat near him.
"Got anything stronger?" he asked, leaning to reach for the can. He popped it open, took a long swallow.
"No, sorry. This is as strong as it gets." She opened hers, sipped. They set their cans down at the same time.
"What did you want to show me?" he asked, finding a more neutral topic.
"Oh. This." She fished around in her jeans pocket, suddenly nervous. "I found it at the second excavation site. The one you took me to, remember? The one where you said you got shot, and, and, and died. Somehow it survived the sorting machine. Don't ask me how I know but I just do know. That it belongs to you, maybe. I'm not sure. I mean, who else was out there?"
His brow furrowed at her rambling speech. The motions of her hand digging, digging round the pocket of her jeans as she shifted on the couch, knee brushing his as she thrust her hips off the cushions. It was distracting him, as her t-shirt lifted to give him a flash of flesh. The motion of her lower body. But she suddenly stilled, finding what she sought. "What is it?" he asked. Reaching for another sip of Coke but refraining.
Moira pulled it from her pocket. Held it up for him to see. A silver chain from which dangled a small silver cross. It caught the light, softly glinting. A small piece. Almost insubstantial. A silver chain. A silver cross. Delicate in its simplicity and size.
"No. I don't think I ever had a..." The last word died in his throat as the cross twirled, twirled. Reflecting the light into his eyes. Shining silver. Opening a yawning chasm in his mind that was abruptly filled. And suddenly it happened. Everything filled his brain. The memories crashing over him, into him like a tidal wave.
John remembered.
