Shouts and Whispers
Chapter 2
Okay, I lied again. There'll be one more chapter because posting two that were five-thousand words long made more sense than posting one that was ten-thousand long. Just think of it as having been saved from the chores of contacting the post office to suspend mail delivery and finding someone to feed the cat, dog, kids, whatever, while you slogged your way through it. Thank you all so much for the comments, follows and favorites. I think I've gotten back to you all but if I haven't I apologize.
Errors may abound because Imaginary Beta split before completing her mission. Something about squirrels.
Disclaimer: I know I don't get paid for this but I'm hoping someone will at least chuck me a few chocolate coated peanuts. Actually, chocolate coated anything. I'm easy.
*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*
The Darkest of Waters
As the darkness began to recede he realized he was lying on damp earth. Its pungent smell filled his nostrils as he listened to approaching footsteps. It must be shock that chilled him as though he was lying on frozen tundra rather than on the composted soil of a rainforest. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.
They were getting closer.
….
She'd stolen back to the house in the dusty village on the outskirts of a larger town.
Dust motes floated through sunlight spearing through tattered curtains. This dwelling had been strafed with gunfire more than once during fierce battles between villagers and Taliban. Bullet holes pockmarked both the exterior and interior of the two foot thick walls made of mud hardened like concrete. Adobe is a construction material that has been in use for centuries. While not prestigious, the masonry is nearly bulletproof and provides fairly efficient insulation from both heat and cold.
The bloodstains that had remained on its surface despite repeated scrubbings were almost completely faded now.
…
Though chances were slim, if he could be still enough and give no indication there remained any life in his body maybe they'd conclude he was dead. Hopefully, no one would take it upon themselves to pull out a pistola and put an insurance round into his head.
Footsteps came to a stop beside him. Despite lying face down he could smell tobacco as whoever it is knelt down to check him more closely for signs of life. His inspector leaned in close enough that his breath could be felt on the back of his neck. Suddenly, he was rolled onto his back. Managing to keep his eyes closed and his body slack despite the pain, he struggled to hold his breath. Thankfully the guy did a visual only and didn't check for a pulse.
He heard a soft grunt of confirmation or maybe it was just part of the effort the man used to back to his feet. When footsteps began to retreat he thought he may actually have succeeded in playing possum and the enemy now considered him history.
"El esta muerto" (He's dead.) he heard from several feet away.
Yes!
"Cercioarse!" (Make sure!) Was the reply from an even greater distance.
Shit.
The man, grumbling under his breath, approached once again.
Footsteps once again came to a stop next to where he lay and, after a brief pause, he was kicked experimentally. A boot thudded into his left side close enough to his wound that the pain he'd been suppressing ignited into flame. He gasped and cried out.
"Él todavía está vivo!" (He's still alive!) The foiler of his plan yelled to his companions. The guy sounded disappointed or perhaps worried he would be chastised for not being thorough enough earlier.
Eyes squeezed shut in agony, he curled in on himself; gasping for air between groans. His groans quickly turned to coughs that did nothing to clear his lungs. Every breath was a wet wheeze as the pain in his head nearly outdid the pain in his chest.
Though he couldn't see who approached he heard several sets of feet now trampling through vegetation. He had no idea how many there were. During the firefight several of their number had been killed and they would surely hold it against him when considering his fate. All he could do now was try to keep air moving in and out of his lungs. Any reserves he could call on to raise his eyelids, (or jump up and beat the shit out of the guy who'd kicked him) had been exhausted by the effort required to breathe.
He was pushed roughly onto his back once again as one of the group slapped the sides of his face and barked, "Abre los ojos hijo de puta!"
He knew he'd been ordered to open his eyes. He also knew that 'Hijo de puta', literally translated, meant son of a whore though 'motherfucker' was its colloquial meaning. He tried really hard to get out the words 'Go to hell' but they were lost in a soggy cough that produced an alarming amount of blood. Intending to try again he turned his face to spit it out but the movement made his head spin and he may have blacked out for a brief moment.
His assailant, annoyed by the delay, had renewed his efforts. His exhortations became angrier and louder and were accompanied by slaps that had become even more vigorous.
"Dije abre los ojos! Despertarse!" (I said open your eyes! Wake up dammit!)
He lay stubbornly unforthcoming as the blows and angry barks continued. His thought just before losing consciousness was I'm really fucked, or, in the language of his captors, 'Estoy realmente jodido' . . . big time.
…
Sakina had survived the deaths of her husband, her two oldest sons and most of her adult male relatives. She had lived here in this village among members of a loving family her entire life. Most of them were gone now. Many had been killed and many others had fled. She'd stayed on.
She'd also managed to defiantly maintain an internet connection despite the danger in doing so. Now that she'd sent Furhan and his sister Azadah to relatives living in a safer part of the country, she was even more adamant about maintaining a link to a world where women had no fear of speaking their minds.
She could never give in to men who, under the guise of religion, murdered those who disagreed with them and viewed women as chattel to be used in any way they saw fit. She'd die before allowing anyone to force her to live as less that a whole person. She knew it may yet come to that . . . her death at the hands of those who sought to go backward in time. Till then, she'd stay and try to make a difference.
Awaiting the email she'd checked her account several times that morning. When it had finally appeared in her in-box, she sent the old man to tell her it was here.
Hafizah should be arriving any moment now. Meaning guardian or protector the name is apt. It was unwise to use a western name should it slip out in an unguarded moment. Her friend had been using the name she, Sakina, had given her rather than the one given by her parents . . . Catherine.
She owed the American woman. There was no way to repay her for finding and returning Furhan her youngest and only surviving son to her. There were not enough riches in the world to settle such a profound debt. Though it wasn't much she was most happy to share whatever she had with the brave rescuer of her son.
She heated water for tea and set out her only unbroken china cup, the one with roses and doves painted on it. Hafizah liked that one.
Minutes later there was a knock on the door and a familiar voice called out. As she went to welcome her in, Sakina said a brief prayer that the emailed document conveyed only happiness.
….
Simply breathing was a painful and arduous task. His head was killing him as well. He vaguely remembered being clipped high over his right ear; a bullet burning a trail across his scalp.
They wanted information about his mission - the one that could cause an international incident if discovered. They demanded he tell them why American soldiers were in their country.
In his mind he'd responded to their latest demands with a furious, You can all go fuck yourselves!
But from the derisive chuckle heard from one of his captors perhaps he'd actually said the words aloud. The guy who thought him so funny translated it for his companions and several more joined in on the hilarity.
The disturbance in his equilibrium continued and, with each hit to his face, became worse. In another minute he'd be throwing-up. Maybe he could aim for the boots that continued to thud intermittently into his ribs as he lay on the loamy ground.
Reluctantly coming to the conclusion it may be best to play along for the moment to keep from being kicked or bitch-slapped to death, and needing time to figure a way to escape, he raised his lids. As light hit his retinas fierce pain immediately shot through his head. He gagged and slammed his eyes shut. Puking right now is a bad, bad, very bad idea.
"Open your eyes cabron!" ordered one of the blurry blobs he'd glimpsed only briefly. This voice belonged to the translator of his earlier very clever reply. Though he understood what was being said, he wasn't sure if the words were in English or Spanish. The circuits required for language processing had apparently been fried by the fireworks exploding in his brain.
"Open your eyes or I will kill you where you are!" declared the translator, his voice quieter this time - more like the hiss of a snake.
He cautiously blinked his eyes open once again. There were no fireworks this time but he was able to discern only vague human-like shapes surrounding him. He'd have to assume the wonky vision was due to a pretty serious concussion.
Then, without anticipation, hands grabbed him and pulled him roughly into a sitting position and held him there. The pain in his chest rose to a level that sent black spots sailing across his already limited vision. They threatened to merge with the blurry blobs of his captors. Like a carnival ride, the ground seemed to rumple and tilt beneath him. Nausea accompanied its movement.
"Levántese y camine, maldita sea! Yo no voy a llevar a usted pendejo!" (Get up and walk dammit! I'm not going to carry you, asshole!) Things were improving though. He could at least recognize he was being dissed in Spanish.
They want me to get up and walk? Hell, I can barely breathe.
The elephant on his chest still refused to give up its seat and every inhale and exhale still made that sort of bubbling sound. Any attempt to clear his lungs brought up an alarming amount of blood and increased the pain in his head by tenfold. Coughing only succeeded in making him want to puke.
So, avoid coughing if at all possible. Got it.
They suddenly jerked him upward and he cried out once again in agony.
"Shut up pendejo. We're going for a walk." said the translator mostly in English
Standing there swaying; their hands tightly gripping his arms to keep him upright, he realized that at some point they'd bandaged his wound. It was very probably soaked through because he could feel the cloth loosen and sag.
Expecting him to miraculously be able stand on his own, the blobs let go their hold. There was no way his legs would support him and he immediately crumpled to the ground. He didn't even feel it when he landed on his face.
….
The team stood at the smart table going over the latest findings in a case they'd been slogging through for days. The heart had been taken out of them. Without Steve to provide the spark; the fire that drove Five-0 would never reignite.
These days they were only going through the motions.
Kono had been putting out feelers trying to get some momentum going as a surf instructor. She was tired of pretending this mattered anymore. Without Steve, none of it mattered. Try as she might to conjure the idea of being okay with someone filling that hauntingly empty office, she failed. Her leader, friend, and mentor would never sit behind that desk again or chase down and tackle a suspect. She'd never again see that lopsided grin or hear him chuckle at her enthusiasm for kicking ass. She'd loved being part of Five-0 and loved her teammates but it was just too painful to do this without him. Steve is gone. It's time to leave.
Though there'd remained a cloud of suspicion even after being cleared of any wrongdoing, Chin was contemplating going back to HPD. Five-0's track record may help get him get past any initial reluctance by his brothers in blue. But beside holding onto their attitude toward him, some still held a grudge against its late leader. Steve, without causing any fatalities, had taken out several of HPD's finest in a bid for freedom when he'd been wrongly accused of murder. The chief had been beside himself and there'd been some ass kissing to be done but Steve remained unapologetic to anyone but those he'd actually harmed. Chin smiled wistfully at the memory of it. The man had been a pistol.
No mistaking, Danny is an excellent leader. Different in style and maybe a bit less stressful to work for than the SEAL whose adrenaline fueled approach to police work kept them all on their toes. Danny worked differently. Though not nearly as uptight as he'd been in the past regarding proper procedure, (spending time with Steve could do that to a guy), the Jersey detective's approach to the job was more in the vein of traditional police work. It didn't solve cases any faster but they didn't worry nearly as much about buying it in a hail of gunfire. Still, Chin knew he'd have followed Steve McGarrett to the ends of the earth. Staying here only produced memories that continued to break his heart. His request for transfer was already written. He just had to sign and date it.
Danny had no idea what to do. The world had lost its color. He no longer had his best friend to keep him from being victim to his own pessimistic nature. Steve had always somehow, by word or just by example, kept him from wallowing in his own cynicism.
He glanced again at the glass-walled space that had been Steve's office. It seemed to mock him with its emptiness. He hadn't had the heart to finish boxing up the nautical tchotchkes; most of which were placed there by the decorator hired by the late and unlamented Governor Jameson. He knew Steve thought most of the décor ostentatious but their current governor was actually the one who'd talked him into leaving it intact. Denning had been adamant that the leader of The Governor's Special Task Force needed an office that wasn't just a place to store extra ammo. It should reflect the image of an accomplished and effective state agency, (and in turn make the Governor himself appear that way as well). Steve had only grudgingly conceded. Over time, he'd even added a few things. Items like photos of ohana, comrades from his past, and the glass case filled with his dad's and his grandfather's medals and combat ribbons.
Those things, Steve's own personal stuff, had been carefully packed into the boxes that remained neatly stacked next to his desk. His second in command had taken it upon himself to sort and box things up but had stopped before the task was complete. He'd discovered a medal still in its case that had been shoved into the back of a drawer. It was one that had been awarded for valor under fire when Steve, though wounded himself, had run back to rescue one of his men who'd been cut down during a fierce firefight. Both of them bleeding heavily, he'd managed to carry his wounded teammate to the chopper that awaited them at the pick-up point.
Of course, he'd never heard that story directly from Steve. It only came to light when one of his friend's fellow SEALs, the recovered man himself, had stopped by the office one evening and they'd gone out for drinks.
The former Lieutenant, now Lieutenant Commander David Guerra, had a couple days left of his leave between deployments and they'd all gone to Sidestreet to party. Guerra was scheduled to ship out the next afternoon. His friend's former teammate had regaled them with the harrowing tale of his rescue; the one that had earned Steve the medal.
That star that lay in its velvet lined box was symbol of a man who would leave no one behind no matter the cost to himself. But Danny knew that, to Steve, it only symbolized his failure. He'd failed to bring Freddy back alive instead of in a flag-draped coffin two years after he'd been killed. The medal had been stashed behind one of the procedure manuals given to him by a frustrated former Jersey detective.
Danny had held it in his hand for several minutes contemplating its significance. Finally, he placed it reverently into the carton with the other items; photos of brothers-in-arms, (some still living, some dead), along with the case of ribbons. Eyes spilling over, he closed the corrugated flaps and sealed the container of memories with packing tape.
…..
As Catherine logged-in, she knew her use of the link had to be brief because if discovered, it could get her friend killed.
Luckily today, the power had stayed on. She sat totally focused on the screen of the battered laptop as she navigated to the in-box. Clicking on the file to open it she recognized the form of the document Danny had scanned and sent. It was a letter . . . in Steve's handwriting. Pausing for a moment to take a deep breath and steel herself; she began to read. In her head, his deep soft voice spoke the words on the page. Words so full of hurt it made her physically ache.
I thought you did love me. You said you did.
She pulled the scarf off her head and twisted its ends in her fingers.
I guess I just can't get my head around the fact that you chose to be there instead of here - with me.
Sakina quietly set a cup of tea beside her but it went unnoticed.
It just hurts more than I ever thought it would but I understand.
"Of course he would say that he understands" she whispered to the now empty room. Blinking to clear blurring eyesight she read on.
I've always loved you even if it took me way too many years to tell you.
She'd always known he loved her and, despite her abandonment, she knows he'd loved her still as she made a life away from him halfway across the world.
Fierce and unshakable love had allowed him to encourage her pursuit of the ultimately ill-fated venture with Billy Harrington. Love was knowing she and Billy had a history yet trusting her without question. When he'd said, 'Cath, we're good', he'd taken her breath away with the conviction with which he'd said it.
It hadn't been just physical; though when he'd looked at her through his long lashes and his pupils dilated to black pools, her heart had nearly beat out of her chest.
It was love and trust and . . . she'd destroyed it.
He loved her. She'd known that fact surely as she knew the sun would rise but what she hadn't known was that he would be so devastated by her leaving. Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett had always been a man so strong and so confident he could overcome any obstacle if he just put mind and body to it. He was tough, even hard at times. Maybe being around his ohana had softened those sharp edges more than she'd known.
With sudden disgust, she realized she was only trying to make herself feel better. She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
…
Once again he woke to yelling but this time he kept his eyes closed. Opening them would only mean another trip on the carnival ride.
He heard someone say in disgust, "Déjarlo aquí! Él va a morir de todos modos!" (Leave him here! He's going to die anyway!)
Several other voices joined the first in a noisy squabble that grew more heated by the minute. There were some who seemed to be arguing against his abandonment. Suddenly, a loud popping noise followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground ended the argument.
He was tempted to see what was going but his eyelids refused to budge this time. His head felt strange; as though it belonged on another body; on another man. The one in Hawaii who surfed and drank Longboards and laughed with his ohana. The one who strangely enjoyed listening to the rants of his best friend.
The one that lay skin on skin under the stars with the woman he loved.
Maybe she'd forgotten him. Maybe she'd found another to lie under the stars with. He supposed it didn't matter anyway. He wasn't going to survive this. Strangely, he could hear her voice even over the angry exhortations of his captors . . . Catherine?
The toe of a boot crashed into his side and blinding pain stole what was left of his breath. He didn't even have time to welcome the darkness.
…..
She'd finished reading and closed the lid of the laptop. His words burned into her brain and her soul as though branded.
Those who didn't really know him thought him impervious. It wasn't true. She'd known all along, since nearly their first meeting that the carefully constructed armor hid a tender heart.
That was part of the problem . . . of her problem.
Did I lean on you one too many times? He'd asked.
When she'd read that line, face burning with shame, she had to stop. Had he intuited something about her?
According to his partner, Steve had no skills at all in that area. Tears trailed down her cheeks, but that thought almost made her smile. Though he could at times miss some of the subtleties she'd never thought him insensitive. In fact, she'd loved him all the more for his unique mixture of no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, worldliness tempered by a sweet ingenuousness.
Startled to notice the cooling tea that sat next to the laptop; she picked up the delicate, rose painted, cup in shaking hands. The hurt and self-recrimination in the question was palpable. Did I lean on you one too many times?
It hurt to realize there was truth to it in a roundabout way. She loved Steve with all her heart and felt honored that he'd confided in her but . . . she was frightened. The frantic call from her friend Amir that sent her on this journey provided an excuse for escape.
She'd been handed a heart so strong yet so fragile she was nearly drowned by the responsibility of being its keeper.
She sat contemplating what she'd read as dust motes like bright glitter floated through shafts of sunlight striping the floor of the silent room. She was no better than so many others in his past. She'd broken his trust. Fractured a heart so dear it made her ill to realize the depth of her betrayal
Throat so tight she couldn't swallow the now lukewarm tea; she set the cup back onto the wooden table.
"I'm such a fucking coward!" she sobbed aloud as she drew her scarf upward and buried her face in the rough cloth.
….
They wrapped up their work for the night, congratulated one another on a successfully completed case, and bid each other farewell until it started all over again tomorrow. There were no more case-closed barbeques at the big house on the beach or celebrations at their favorite bar. It just wasn't the same.
He steered the Camaro through the now dark and quiet streets. It still felt strange that he should be driving his own car. Steve always insisted on driving despite the fact the damned car wasn't even his. A few times, much to the amusement of the wonder twins, they'd even gotten into wrestling matches over the keys. He missed it.
The guy was an original alright; tough as leather and harder than tempered steel but at the same time strangely vulnerable.
He had no idea how Steve weathered the shit storms that plagued his life. No idea how his brother had managed not to let the events of his past defeat him. He'd always had the strength and the resilience to keep coming back for more.
His favorite analogy was that the guy just kept bobbing up like a Champagne cork after the Titanic had sunk. Steve had laughed when he'd told him of it.
Now, he wondered bleakly if it was Catherine's leaving that had finally succeeded in sinking his friend beneath the darkest of waters . . . and kept him there.
*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0* Hawaii 5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*5-0*
One more chapter. Honest. Even though most of the final chapter is already written I'm not setting an ETA. We all know how that worked out with this one.
PLEEEEAASSE review. Or at least send chocolate.