Chapter 6

Chris narrowly avoided colliding with Buck as they both raced for the den where Vin had been napping on the sofa. Now he was curled over, his injured hand cradled in his lap, his forehead pressed to his knees. As Chris drew closer he saw that Vin's white t-shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and he was breathing in short, harsh pants.

Despite his headlong rush, Chris hesitated, and he saw his indecision mirrored on Buck's face. The shudder that vibrated through Vin's body got him moving, circling the couch so that he wasn't approaching his friend from the back.

"Hey. Are you all right?"

Though he deliberately lowered his voice, Vin jumped as if he'd screamed in his ear. He lifted his ashen face and looked blankly at them. "What?"

"Sorry." Chris eased onto the end of the couch, feeling as if he were dealing with a skittish colt. "Didn't mean to startle you. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

Vin gave him another thousand-yard stare before answering. "No. I mean...uh, yeah. Water'd be good."

"I've got it," Buck said, gesturing for Chris to stay put.

Chris eyed Vin surreptitiously as they both listened to the sounds of Buck moving about the kitchen. The silence between them felt heavy and awkward, but Chris found himself at a loss for words.

"Don't look at me like that," Vin finally rasped, dropping his head onto his knees so that his face was once again hidden from view.

"I don't know what you mean." Except he did. He just couldn't seem to stop.

"Ever since I woke up in the hospital, folks've been lookin' at me like I might bust into little pieces any minute. I'm damn tired of it."

"Can't hardly blame us for that," Buck said from the doorway. "Hate to say it, but you look like ten miles of bad road." He placed a glass of water into Vin's good hand, keeping his fingers curled around Vin's until the ice cubes stopped clinking.

Vin downed half the glass, then uncurled enough to set it on the coffee table, each movement tight and stiff. "If that's all it was I wouldn't give a rat's ass."

"What do you think it is?" Chris asked.

With a soft grunt, Vin leaned back against the cushions. "Y'all think I'm damaged, and you don't know how to fix me."

Since he couldn't deny Vin's assessment, Chris didn't try. "What is it you want from us?"

"To stop treatin' me like a victim." When Buck snorted, Vin pinned him with a glare. "What?"

"Those boys tied you to a chair, beat the shit outta you, and tortured you. Like it or not, you are a victim, Junior."

Here we go, thought Chris, expecting Vin to bite Buck's head off. Though he was normally long on patience, his friend tended to react sharply to anything that threatened his autonomy. But to Chris's surprise, Vin closed his eyes, his face crumpling.

"At least it's over. For me." He pulled his injured hand closer to his chest.

Recognizing the protective gesture, Chris narrowed his eyes. "That was more than a nightmare. You remembered something."

Vin's throat made a dry click as he swallowed. "Just...flashes."

"Such as?" When he didn't answer right away, Chris pressed. "Give me something, Vin. Anything."

"Chris--"

"Spencer's breathing fire, Buck. Travis can only hold him off so long."

"I'm just sayin' you should ease off, give him a little space."

"You think I like pressing him? I wish to hell he didn't have to remember, but we both know--"

"I'll tell you, all right? Just shut the fuck up." Vin ground the heel of one hand into his eye, and Chris felt a surge of guilt, remembering Lorenzo's admonition to see that he rest.

This time he didn't break the silence, keeping a tight rein on his impatience. When Vin did speak his expression was flat and devoid of emotion.

"The first finger..." His voice cracked and he took a deep breath. "They--he didn't even ask any questions. Just bent it back 'til..." Sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he swallowed hard.

"You going to be sick?" Chris asked quietly.

Despite the fact that he looked distinctly green, Vin shook his head. "The muscle-bound guy that had me in the chair--"

"Al Westin. He's a free agent."

One corner of Vin's mouth turned up. "Bastard's good." That shred of animation quickly faded. "Enjoys his work, too. Told me the first finger was just to be sure I knew what the next few were gonna feel like."

"Son of a bitch," Buck said in a strangled growl.

"Don't know which is worse," Vin said. "The pain or the snappin' sound the bone makes right before it hits."

Chris frowned at the emotionless, almost dreamy tone. Vin was distancing himself, he realized grimly. Going to a safe place in his head where he could remain detached from the trauma unearthed by the memory. It wouldn't be the first time.

His friend hadn't talked much about his difficult childhood. But once, after a particularly difficult case, a few too many beers had lowered Vin's guard and loosened his tongue.

Chris had hauled his stumbling friend up four flights of stairs to his apartment and poured him onto his couch. When Vin nearly toppled to the floor trying to remove his boots, he'd sat on the coffee table, pulling first one foot and then the other into his lap while his friend squirmed and snickered that he was ticklish. By the time Chris had made coffee, however, he'd slipped back into the black mood that had prompted his uncharacteristic drinking.

"What's gonna happen to her?" he'd asked Chris, referring to the gunrunner's obviously battered 8-year-old daughter.

"Social services was trying to track down the grandmother," Chris had said, handing his friend a mug of coffee. "Otherwise..."

"Foster care." Vin had pronounced it like a dirty word.

"She's a tough little thing," Chris had observed, shaking his head, "holding up under those conditions."

Vin had huffed with a humorless smile. "There's ways to get through just about anythin'. Don't mean you're okay."

Knowing he was walking a tightrope, Chris had kept his gaze fixed on his own cup. "That what you did? Found a way?"

After a moment's stiffness, Vin had sighed. "Guess you could say I went someplace safe, even if it was only in my mind. He could knock my body around, lock me in the closet. But he couldn't touch me."

He'd said it so calmly, but Chris's stomach had twisted queasily. Dissociation, his training had whispered. Bet that never came up during the psych eval. "Where'd you go?" he'd asked, working hard to keep his voice steady.

And Vin had smiled that beautiful, heart-melting smile he'd come to see more often since his friend had joined Team 7. "My ma's kitchen. Even though I was just a little feller, she used to let me help her make cookies, bake bread and pies. If I close my eyes, I can still smell cinnamon and apples."

He'd yawned, sliding sideways to curl up on the cushions. "'M pretty beat, Cowboy. Think you can let yourself out?"

He had, rocked by Vin's unexpected revelation. The next day Vin had been his normal, if slightly hungover, self.

Chris suspected he didn't remember the conversation. If he did, he'd never mentioned it.

"Vin," he said, risking a hand to his friend's shoulder. "Where was Sean?"

Vin startled, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Chris's face. "I don't know."

"Don't answer right away. Think about it."

"I told you--I don't know! Everything's in...in pieces and...and full of holes."

From the corner of his eye, Chris saw Buck lean forward. He pinned his old friend with a warning glare and a sharp shake of his head. Though clearly unhappy, Buck subsided.

"Don't worry about the gaps," Chris coaxed, turning his full attention back on Vin. "Just concentrate on the fragment you remembered."

"You think I haven't been tryin'?" His face twisted with distress, Vin looked away. "You sound like Spencer."

Chris flinched. Ignoring the weight of Buck's gaze was difficult, but facing the pain in Vin's accusation was agony. Congratulations, Larabee. You've managed to shake him out of that protective cocoon, all right. Hope it's worth it.

"I think you've probably been trying too hard." He squeezed Vin's shoulder; the muscles felt like iron under his grip. "You see things differently than most of us--hell, you pick up on crime scene details I miss."

"What do you want, Chris?"

Chris ached at the bone-weary sound of Vin's voice. I want to rewind the past five days, he thought. I want none of this to have happened.

"Close your eyes and try to relax," he said. "See if you can visualize the chair, the room... Westin."

Vin stared at him for a long moment before doing as Chris asked. His breathing was ragged and small tremors shivered through his body. Chris slid his hand to cup the back of Vin's neck in silent reassurance.

"He... I think..." Vin licked his lips. "It was just me and Westin. We...we were alone in that room."

"Good. That's good, Cowboy. Westin had two partners. They weren't there?"

"Not when... Not when he was..."

"It's okay, Junior. We get it," Buck said, his voice tight.

"Easy," Chris soothed. "Can you see anything of Sean? Any sign he was there earlier?"

Vin frowned. "No. But I..." His eyes flew open and he twisted toward Chris, oblivious to his injured ribs. "God, Chris, he was there, somewhere, in another room."

"You saw him?"

"I heard him." Vin pressed his uninjured hand to his stomach, looking as if he was fighting the urge to vomit. "He was screamin'."

"Okay, that's about enough." Buck scooped up the water glass, pressing it into Vin's hand as he sat opposite Chris. "Breathe slowly, in through your nose and out through your mouth. And see if you can drink some more of this water." He scowled at Chris, daring him to object.

"'M okay." But the glass shook in Vin's hand and his voice didn't hold much conviction.

"You did real good," Chris said, rubbing at the knots in Vin's neck before dropping his hand.

A faint snort told him Vin was regaining a bit of his fire. "How do you figure? Hearin' him scream doesn't tell us jack."

"It tells us he was brought to the warehouse along with you," Chris replied.

"And that he was still alive," Buck added. "It means something, kiddo."

Vin didn't reply, just sipped at the water, his eyes little more than slits.

"What time is it?" Chris asked Buck, annoyed that he'd somehow neglected to wear his watch.

"Just after four." Buck, as usual, knew right where he was headed. "Pills are in the bag with the pharmacy stuff. I'll get 'em."

The fact that Vin didn't protest the idea of more drugs--didn't even seem to notice--spoke volumes about how much pain he was in. When the glass wobbled precariously in his hand, Chris rescued it and set it aside. His friend barely noticed. He pressed his fingers into the flesh above his right eye, rocking in an unconscious effort to ease the discomfort.

"I'm sorry."

Vin squinted at him. "You're not the one did this."

"That's not what I mean. I'm sorry for just now, for pushing."

Vin huffed, then winced as if the movement intensified the headache. "Hell, Chris, you been pushin' me since the day we met. Why should a little thing like a concussion make a difference?"

The weary words blindsided him in a way only Vin could. He pulled back, sucker-punched, struggling for a response in the same way a physical blow would have made him fight for air.

Then Buck returned and the moment was swallowed up by the more imminent concerns of helping Vin down the pills and some crackers, supporting him as he hobbled to the bathroom, and convincing him to stretch out on the bed in the darkened guest room.

Once Vin was covered with a light quilt to ward off the chill, his hand cradled on a pillow, Buck headed out to feed the horses. Chris hovered in the doorway, uncertain whether to remain or go.

"Chris. Stay a minute." The strong painkillers had kicked in--Vin was sprawled bonelessly on the mattress, his pupils so dilated only a ring of blue remained.

Chris pulled up a chair and sat. "You need to sleep, Pard. Doctor's orders." He felt a fresh stab of guilt. Which I've pretty much shot to hell by interrogating you like a suspect.

"I didn't mean it like that."

The remorse in Vin's voice caught his attention before the words. "What?"

"What I said, about pushin'--it didn't come out right."

Chris shrugged, clasping his hands loosely between his knees though his body felt coiled with tension. "No big deal."

"It ain't that you push, exactly, it's--"

"Sure I do." Chris twitched his lips at Vin's startled expression. "Come on. They don't call me 'Badass Larabee' for nothing." He shook his head. "I demand a lot from people. Maybe too much. It hasn't always made me the most popular guy in the room."

"Chris..." Vin trailed off, biting his lip. "Growin' up... Folks either tried to crush me under the heel of their boot, or just plain forgot I existed. What you call pushin'..." One corner of his mouth turned up. "It don't bother me."

Chris cleared his throat but the lump wouldn't go away. "You going to tell me if it does?"

"Hell, I'll knock you on your ass." Vin's grin dissolved into a yawn.

"Big talk for someone who can barely lift a glass." Chris stood. "Get some sleep."

"You goin'?" The question would have been innocuous but for the flicker of unease in Vin's eyes.

"Don't have to," he replied, lowering himself to the edge of the chair. "Could stay for a bit."

Color rose in Vin's pale cheeks. "Don't want to put you out. It's just... Guess I'm used to the hospital. Feels too quiet."

"No problem. But if you expect me to take your temperature and blood pressure every few hours, you're out of luck."

Vin snickered as his eyes drifted shut. "You ain't nearly cute enough for that job, Cowboy."

Chris stretched out his legs and tipped his head back, soothed by the rhythm of Vin's breathing as it deepened and slowed with sleep. He slid into a doze, a distant corner of his brain registering when Buck returned from the barn and began puttering around in the kitchen.

Sometime later the phone trilled, bringing Chris fully awake, and he was grateful when Buck picked it up on the second ring. Vin slept on, held under by drugs and exhaustion. Chris scrubbed gritty eyes and stood, rolling his shoulders to loosen the kinks. When he turned, Buck was in the doorway, his face pale and grim.

Chris's stomach clenched. Motioning Buck out of the room, he quietly shut the door and led the way to the den. In the final pale threads of daylight, Buck's expression was even more stricken, his blue eyes red-rimmed and his mouth tense.

"The phone call?"

"It was Travis." Buck ran a hand down his face.

"Sean?"

"They found him, Chris. At a construction site about three miles from the warehouse." Buck sucked in a shaky breath. "He'd been shot once in the head, execution style. He's dead."

Continued in Chapter 7