A/N: Well, this was supposed to be the last chapter before the epilogue, but it got too long, so I guess it's the second to last (penultimate, to our British friends), unless the one I'm in the middle of runs longer than I expect.
When I started this story, I expected to have it finished before the third season started. Now I'm finally putting it to bed after the season's ended. Guess it just goes to show that life really is what happens while you're making other plans.
Thank you to everyone who had the patience to stick with me all the way through it. It is definitely time to bring it to a close, so I can start on another. And Patty, you never nag. I always look forward to hearing what you have to say.
Chapter 34
This time they were all there - the faint rustle of birds and wind, the smell of grass, real, honest-to-goodness air that hadn't been pumped and filtered through a hundred systems. And even more than that - the miracle of it all - he was alone. For the time being anyway. He paged through his speed dial numbers until he found the one he wanted and hit "send". The phone trilled three times and he prepared himself for voicemail, composing a message in his head, then the phone picked up after all.
"He-ey! If it ain't the ghost of Christmas Past!"
Don grinned and slid lower in the Adirondack chair pulled close to the koi pond. "Well, ghost at least. Almost, anyway. Megan tell you everything?"
"She told me Soames had plans for our next meeting to be somewhere in the hereafter. Somewhere toasty, if I was a betting man, unless you think we actually rate a coupla harps."
"You and me? Smart money's on the other place, but looks like there's no need to pack your hot weather gear just yet."
"Yeah. Heard you came pretty close to making the trip, though. You haven't figured out how to choke that guy out yet?"
"Oh, nice - the only reason he came for me first was because I was easier to track down."
"Keep telling you, man - Fugitive Recovery - it can save your life."
"If you can call that a life. Besides, he was planning to flush you out with my funeral. You tryin' to tell me he would have been disappointed?"
There was a pause, and Coop's voice sounded different this time. "He said that?"
"That was the plan."
A longer pause. "They say where they took him? Cause I'd like to stop by and kick his ass."
Don laughed without any real humor. "Yeah, you and what three other guys? San Quentin, for now. California claimed jurisdiction under the circumstances." He didn't mention that he'd been calling there once a day, ever since he'd gotten his phone back, just to make absolutely sure Soames was still in custody. That was too embarrassing to admit even to a friend he'd shared as much with as Coop.
"San Q, huh? Well, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. How bout you? Hear you had a close encounter with the wrong end of a baseball bat. How that turn out?"
Don tilted his head against the high back of the chair and squinted at the sky. "I'm okay. Doing some time of my own at my dad's - Charlie's, I guess I mean."
"Yeah? You never were any good without me there to watch your back. Maybe I can shake a few days free and come check out the damage for myself."
"Still suffering from delusions of grandeur, huh? Come on down - I'll be here for a while. I'm not much company, though - can't do jack yet. Except sleep. If they gave out Olympic golds in that, I'd have it in the bag."
"Captive audience. Sounds perfect. I'll give you a buzz and let you know for sure. Gotta thank your friend Megan for fillin' me in, too. Oh, and Don - about that - "
Don waited.
"What is it with you and workin' with the babes, anyway? Guess I know why you ditched me. How'd you get so lucky?"
Don closed his eyes and breathed a laugh. "Good karma, pal - I earned it with all the beatings I took for you."
"Me, nothing. You just never learned how to duck. With any luck, I'll see you soon."
"Look forward to it. And just to show how much I care, I won't let on to Megan that you called her a 'babe'. That's one beating I'm not taking for you."
Coop's laugh rang over the line. "I'll save that message to deliver myself. Hey - and, Don?" There was a pause, and Don waited. "Stay small, right?"
"Back at ya, man." Don heard the line click off and hit "end", before letting the phone drop into his lap. Good. It was good to hear Coop's voice, even though he'd known Soames hadn't gotten to him. He had a couple of more calls he needed to make, but he'd take a break. He closed his eyes. Take a break. From a couple of lousy phone calls. Sheesh. But these past few days he'd embarrassed himself more than once by falling asleep without warning - sitting, standing, mid-sentence - didn't seem to matter. Worse was that Charlie and his Dad seemed to find it hilarious.
He reached up and ran a finger delicately along the seam of fresh scarring behind his left ear. Stitches just out, and hair was starting to grow back over it already. He was lucky - he knew guys who were still waiting for hair to grow back over old head wound scar tissue years later.
Lucky. He rolled the word around in his head. Charlie had said something like that. Not those words, but…something about the odds of still being here, of the series of circumstances that had been responsible for it. Lucky. He could live with that. Unlike Charlie, he believed in luck - counted on it some days, cursed it others, but always tried to stack the cards in his sides' favor. Luck, he found, often responded to a little push. What was that saying, "fortune favors the brave"?Personally, he found that fortune favored the prepared.
Ironic, actually, because prepared was exactly what he hadn't been. He flattened a hand lightly over his ribcage on one side. He had gotten a first look at that two days ago, when he had finally been allowed to shower unattended (okay, so he couldn't help but notice that there had seemed to be an unusual amount of traffic in the hall outside the bathroom for the duration, but he gave points for effort) and had let out a low whistle at the sight. Impressive. There were colors there he couldn't even name, and…he'd traced a fading boot print with one fingertip to where it blended into a round yellowish starburst with a grape-colored center…it actually still showed tread. No wonder going up the stairs was like climbing Mount Everest. He hoped Megan took good pictures.
It was hard to tell under the mottled bruises, but he thought his ribcage still looked fairly symmetrical. One eye was still ringed with darkness, but they were both open. One hand still functioned as little more than a lobster claw, but time and a little PT would take care of that. He'd fingered the green/brown blotch that discolored one cheekbone and shifted his left shoulder, stiff and achy from days of the enforced inactivity of the sling. Not pretty, of course, but…no lasting damage.
Lucky indeed.
Someone had told him once…Nikki, maybe? Or Kim…about a patron saint of law enforcement. The guy with the sword. St…Michael? Maybe. Maybe he owed St. Michael something. At the very least, a thanks. He swallowed a yawn. He should call in - at least see how things were going. He hadn't done that yet today.
His team had stopped by the day after he got home from the hospital to tell him it was nice to see him in clothes again and that the crime scene tape was down on his apartment. They had done a marathon cleaning and painting session with Joan Gretski's team, and they assured him that all signs of the incident were gone.
He had blinked at them, touched, but a little more overwhelmed by their combined noise and energy than he was willing to admit. "There was a big hole in the bedroom wall," he'd protested.
"David took care of that," Colby interjected. "Never know it was there."
Don raised his eyebrows at David. "I never took you for the Bob Vila type."
"Not me," David smiled. "But repairing bullet holes in apartment walls? Had a lot of experience at that growing up. I gotta warn you, though - Joan Gretski insisted on picking the paint colors."
Don groaned theatrically. "Oh, man - you guys know I got a lease, right?"
"She framed and hung one of your photos, too - as a momento," Megan had added brightly.
Don shuddered at the memory. Maybe staying here wasn't such a bad idea. Heaven only knew what awaited him at home. Still…no more bloodstains, no more bullet holes…not quite so easy to paint over his memories, but it was a start. Looked like he owed his team and Gretski's some kind of thanks, too. The list for that was looking pretty long.
He was almost asleep again when he became aware of…something…behind him and to his left. His mouth turned up faintly at the corners and he didn't even bother to open his eyes. "You know, I think I've got enough to bring charges for stalking at this point."
"Not sure you can make that stick since I'm legitimately on the premises. I was hoping you were asleep."
"Why? You haven't had a laugh yet today?"
"There's always room for another good laugh."
He heard the muted thud of a glass on the broad chair arm and held out a hand automatically. Two small cylinders rolled into his palm and he tossed them back and dry swallowed them without looking.
"That's disgusting. At least have some of the juice. Or those things will burn a hole in your stomach."
Don obediently opened his eyes and picked up the glass, draining half of it. "Thanks," he said when he put it down again.
"No problem. What are you doing out here all alone?"
Don gave his father a sideways glance, trying to remember if his cell phone was in full view or not. "Feeding the koi."
"I see." He heard another chair drag across the grass until it was next to his. "You know what really helps with that? Bringing the koi food."
"Yeah, well, I thought about it…" He managed to disguise another yawn. "Until I tried lifting the bucket. Then I decided all that screaming would probably scare the koi and ruin my tough guy image forever."
"I would have carried it out for you. All you had to do was ask."
"You were busy. I'm trying something more metaphysical - I'm imagining the koi as already full - that their feeding took place earlier on simultaneous, parallel planes. Larry would love it."
"The koi, on the other hand, I suspect, do not. Being less well-versed in theoretical physics and all."
"Less well versed in theoretical physics than me? Hard to believe." It had been his intention, as long as he was mooching his days here at the old homestead, to take care of some little chores around the house, like feeding the koi. So far, his efforts had fallen short, at best - unless you counted leaving imprints on most of the furniture. He brushed his fingers over the ridges under his shirt again, biting his lip against the wasp-like stings of pain that followed their progress. Ribs were so darned slow to heal, and affected so many things - lifting your arms. Lifting your legs. Walking, getting up, lying down.
"Do you want to come inside? Or should I get you the koi food so you can feed them on this dimensional plane?"
Don shook his head. "Feel like I've been cooped up forever. It's nice out here."
"I was just thinking that it was getting a little cold. Wouldn't you like a jacket?"
Don hid a smile. "Wow. You brought me my medication, but no jacket? We really must be on a different dimensional plane."
A huddle of black fabric landed abruptly in his lap. "There you go, smart guy. Need help getting it on?"
"Naw. I'm good." That was a dead-on lie, of course. A lot of tricky arm lifting and maneuvering and shifting went into sliding into a jacket - it felt just a little better than Chinese water torture these days. He spread the jacket out over his lap instead. Good enough.
"Asking for help isn't against the law, you know - it won't actually kill you."
"That just a theory, or you got any real proof of that?"
"Not funny, Donnie."
Don let his head drop against the chair back just a little too hard and winced in response. "You and Charlie. Really need to lighten up."
"Or maybe you need to take a few things more seriously."
Don glanced over at him, then picked at the zipper of his jacket. "I'm not always wrong, you know. You guys just have me outnumbered." He'd meant it as a light remark, but he could tell from his father's face that that wasn't the way it had come out. Rats. He looked back at the zipper, smoothing it flat. Okay - come on - do the lecture thing and get it over with.
"I brought you something else."
Don glanced at him again, curious. He had no idea what to make of his expression.
Alan held out a large, flat book. "I've been going through your mother's old albums since you stopped by that day - looking to see if there were any others you should have. I found this."
Don took it wordlessly, studying the cover. "I don't recognize it - have I ever seen this one?"
"I don't know - maybe not. She was still working on it when she died."
He opened the cover to the front page. Pasted inside was an old photo of his graduating class at Quantico. He closed the cover, frowning, and turned it over to study the spine. It had his name on it, and the date he'd been accepted at the FBI Academy. The other date was open-ended. He opened it again, fanning the pages to glance through. Newspaper clippings, some of the photos he'd sent home, some of his commendations…"She kept an album on my FBI time?"
"Looks like. I can't say I've ever seen it before. Maybe I just wasn't paying attention."
"How did she - ? I mean, I know how you felt. How did she feel about my job with the FBI?"
He was a little surprised to find that he'd actually asked it out loud. That question had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since they'd gone back through his old baseball album - and maybe for years before that.
He'd almost asked Charlie about it once or twice, but always stopped himself in time. Not really fair. If she hadn't been happy about it, Charlie would either blurt that out and then feel bad, or tell some pathetically transparent, uncomfortable lie which would leave them both feeling bad.
He sensed his father's eyes still on him and shifted, glanced up warily. Still that look he couldn't read.
After a minute, Alan dropped his eyes and clapped Don briskly on the knee. He pointed to the album. "Why don't you let her tell you herself? I'll leave you alone with it."
Don watched him stand, grasping the album awkwardly between his palms.
Alan scooped the jacket from Don's lap and held it by the shoulders. "Can you lean forward?"
Big question. Leaning was risky business at best. He hugged the album against his chest and clutched the arm of the chair with his better hand, clenched his jaw and leaned. He felt the jacket settle around his shoulders, followed by a quick squeeze.
"I'll be inside if you need me."
TBC