Freefall

Part 3


He looked so happy.  Brian Wheeler ran his thumb across the glass that covered the image of his brother standing in front of an airplane.  Steve was never happier when he was in the air.  Whether he was drifting along the air currents in a glider, floating from the sky on a parachute, or doing loops and rolls in the old biplane he had restored, Steve had found his joy in the skies. 

A tear slid down his face and Brian didn't bother to brush it away; he wasn't ashamed to cry over the loss of his brother.  They had always been close, especially during the last few years when they had shared their love of flight by running the business together.  Brian sniffed.  He was going to miss him terribly. 

A soft cough intruded upon the silence of the morning.  Brian looked away from the photograph.  Two men stood at the door to his office.

"Mr. Wheeler?" the short, dark-haired man inquired.

"Yes?" Brian acknowledged.

"Detective Mitchell from Denver PD, and this is Detective Rourke."  The two men each reached over and shook Brian's hand.  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a few questions."

"Of course," Brian said.  "Please have a seat."

The man and his taller companion seated themselves in the two guest chairs that stood before the desk.

"What did you need?"

"We received a list of the passengers from the... er, skydiving flight from the FAA, in order to contact the next-of-kin," Mitchell stated.  "Unfortunately, we were unable to contact anyone with regards to Mr. Stewart.  The phone number listed was disconnected, and we've been unable to find information on anyone by that name in Denver."

"We were hoping you could help us find him," Rourke added.  "What can you tell us about him?"

"Evan?"  Brian scratched his chin.  "He started coming out here last summer.  Said he had just moved into the area from the east coast."

"Do you know where?" Mitchell asked.

Brian shrugged.  "He didn't say, but he did mention being in Atlanta once or twice.  He had a southern accent, so I assumed he was from that area."

"Did he ever say where he worked?"  Rourke asked.

"Not by name," Brian answered.  "All I know is that he worked for some investment firm in Denver.  I figure he must have been doing pretty well for himself to be able to afford that fancy car."

"Car?"  Mitchell inquired sharply.

"Yeah," Brian said.  "That black Jag out there in the parking lot."

Mitchell and Rourke looked at one another as if to say, "Why didn't we think of that?"

"Hey, can't you just look up his license plate or something?" Brian said, coming to the same conclusion as the two detectives.

Rourke nodded at his partner and jogged out the door, returning a few minutes later with his cell phone pressed to his ear.  His eyebrows lifted in surprise and he turned to his partner, nodding.  "Right, I got it." Using his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear, he scribbled something into his notebook.  "Thanks."  He clicked off the phone.

"What?" Mitchell asked, curious at the odd expression on his partner's face.

"Well, his name's not Evan Stewart," Rourke replied.

"Oh, really?" Mitchell said.  "What is it?"

"Standish, Ezra P.," Rourke answered.  "They're running it as we speak."

Brian furrowed his brow in confusion.  "Why would he lie about his name?"  He felt oddly hurt that his friend – and he had considered Evan to be a friend – would have lied to him about something as basic as his name. 

"That's what we're going to find out," Mitchell said.

"It's possible our friend might have had something to hide," Rourke suggested.

"Was there anything strange about him?" Mitchell asked.

"No," Brian said, shaking his head vigorously.  "He was a nice guy.  Got along great with everyone."  He ran a hand through his short hair.  "Hell, he even helped me out once by flying a charter one weekend when Steve was sick."

"He was a pilot?" Rourke asked.

"Yep," Brian said.  "A damn good one, too."

"Interesting," Rourke remarked.

His cell phone rang then and he answered without delay.  "Yeah?"  He listened for a minute, a look of surprise crossing his face again.  "Thanks, Rob."  He shut the phone off.

"Well?" Mitchell asked impatiently.

"Ezra Standish was an agent with the ATF," he stated simply.  "One of Larabee's men."

"Oh shit," Mitchell said with a groan.

"He was a Fed?"  Brian said disbelievingly.  "I never would have guessed."

"You want to call Larabee?" Rourke asked hopefully.

Mitchell cringed.  "No, but I guess I'd better."

"Who's Larabee?" Brian was curious about what had caused the pained expression on the detective's face.

"Larabee is the head of the best ATF team this side of the Mississippi," Mitchell said with a sigh.  "He's a tough bastard and a hell of a good cop."

"Yeah," Rourke agreed.  "He's the kind of guy you don't want on your bad side."

"And you get to break the bad news to him," Brian said soberly, understanding the man's reluctance. 

Mitchell sighed.  "Well, we'd better get going."  He shook Brian's hand again.  "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Wheeler."

"No problem," Brian said.  "Everyone needs someone to mourn their passing.  I'm just glad I was able to help."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Rourke said as he bid farewell.

Brian watched them go, shaking his head sadly.  He didn't envy the two men their task. 


His pencil was tapping out a staccato beat against the notepad in front of him, but Chris didn't notice.  Instead, his attention was focused on the empty desk in the outer office.  For the second day in a row, there was no sign of his undercover agent, and the dread he was feeling had turned into an ache deep in his gut that he couldn't shake.  He was watching the rest of his team as well, taking note of the surreptitious glances being sent in the direction of the missing agent's desk.  Despite the arguments of the previous day, he could tell they were beginning to worry.  He sighed, wishing for the sound of the annoying southerner's large vocabulary.  His wish was granted by the ringing of the telephone instead.

"Larabee," he answered gruffly.  His lips tightened into a thin, white line.  "Are you sure?"  The pencil in his hand snapped in two.  "Thank you," he said hoarsely, hanging up the phone with deliberate care.  Slowly, he rose from his seat and walked to the door.  He stood, staring at Ezra's desk, a blank look on his face.


Buck was the first to notice him.  "Chris?"

At his voice, the others turned their heads toward their leader.

"What's up, pard?" Buck continued, his voice heavy with concern as he stood and walked toward his friend. 

Chris didn't answer, didn't move.  He just stared at the empty desk.

After exchanging glances with the others, Vin stood, joining Buck beside his friend.  "Chris?"  He put his hand on Chris's shoulder.  "What's wrong, cowboy?"

Chris turned his head, meeting their questioning eyes with his own anguished gaze.  "Ezra's dead," he said simply.

"What?!" The uproar was instantaneous as the rest of the team gathered around him, clamoring for an explanation.

Chris lifted his hand to silence them.  "I got a call from Denver PD.  He was killed in a plane crash on Saturday."  He looked at his stricken men.  "He was one of those skydivers in the plane that started the forest fire."

The men of Team Seven stared at him silently as they digested the news.

"No," JD whispered quietly.  "It couldn't have been him.  Ez would never go skydiving." He turned pleading eyes to the rest of the group.  "He wouldn't, would he?"

Buck moved to comfort his young roommate.  "It's hard to tell anything about Ezra, kid.  He was real good at keeping secrets."

"How come we're just hearing about it now?" Josiah asked, swiping angrily at his suddenly tear-filled eyes. 

Chris shook his head.  "He didn't use his own name.  They ended up tracing him through the Jag."

"Damn," Vin said quietly, moving back to his desk and dropping his head onto his folded arms to hide the raging emotions on his face.  "Damn."

"Someone should call Maude," Nathan said quietly, a stunned look on his face.

"I'll take care of it," Chris said in a voice that was rough with emotion.

Their eyes all turned to the desk that would not be occupied by the unique man that was Ezra Standish ever again, and they realized the magnitude of their loss. 


Ezra coughed, wrapping his hands around his ribs.  The smoke had thickened again overnight, despite the brief rain of the day before, and it was making his throat hurt and his eyes water as he limped through the forest.  The arduous trek was beginning to take its toll.  His muscles ached and his feet were blistered from the long hours of hiking in sneakers that were not designed for that kind of activity.  Earlier that day, his legs had become entangled in some brush and he had stumbled, twisting his ankle and smashing his knee on a fallen log.  It wasn't one of his better days.

In addition, he was feeling weak from lack of food and his head was pounding in rhythm with his hobbling steps.  Ezra kept moving, though, knowing that it was the only chance he had of actually making out of this godforsaken wilderness.  He longed for a hot bath, a good meal, and the comfort of his soft mattress – not necessarily in that order – and the only way to accomplish that was to keep going.

By now, Ezra figured his associates would either be furious with him, or worried as hell.  Or maybe both. They were good people, after all, and it was in their natures to be concerned about their teammates.  He almost dreaded facing them... provided he ever got out of this miserable place. 

"Damn," Ezra whispered hoarsely.  It was another good incentive for him to get his aching body back to civilization.  His teammates did hold some affection for him and he knew they would probably be upset over his disappearance.  He hated the idea of causing them any distress and resolved to do everything in his power to get back home in one piece.


The silence in the office was broken only by the sporadic sound of typing as the men of Team Seven attempted to do their work.  Orrin Travis entered the office and frowned at the unusual tranquility.  His men were behaving in a decidedly odd manner.  JD had his head in his arms on his desk, Josiah was staring off into space with a sad expression on his face, and Vin was focusing intently on the paper he was tearing into tiny bits.  Nathan and Buck seemed to be the only ones working, but he noticed that both of them seemed to be having trouble concentrating and that Buck's eyes were suspiciously bright, as though he was about to cry.  

Something was definitely wrong, since his best team was not known for working so quietly.  He gave the oblivious men one last glance before he continued toward Larabee's door, not sure he wanted to discover what was causing such aberrant behavior.  After knocking firmly on the closed door, he entered the office, stopping short at the sight of the unflappable team leader staring vacantly out the window.

"Agent Larabee?"

Chris turned to face his superior.  "Sir."

"You paged me?"

"Yes," Chris said, dropping his eyes to his desk, where he picked up a pencil and began rolling between  his thumb and forefinger.

"What's wrong?"  Travis felt a stirring of alarm.  Larabee was not usually one to fidget or hesitate.

"Ezra's dead," he said flatly, meeting the older man's startled gaze.

"What?!  How?"  Travis was flabbergasted.  He had been out of the office all morning, meeting with some state officials, and was unaware of this development.

Chris filled him in, his voice not betraying the emotions that stormed within him.  Travis could see it in his eyes, though.  The younger man was barely hanging on to his composure. 

"Jesus," Travis said softly after Chris had finished.  He now understood the subdued atmosphere in the outer office.  It told him just how far Standish had progressed. 

He had been skeptical when Chris had brought Standish into the team.  The man was arrogant, annoying, and unpredictable, and Travis had doubted that he would work well with the rest of the men.  Over the past year, though, he had been proven wrong.  It hadn't been a smooth road, but Standish had become an integral part of one of the most successful and unusual teams in the ATF.  His death was apparently quite a blow to this close-knit group of men.  He himself was feeling a surprising sense of loss, and he realized he would truly miss the smart-mouthed agent and the verbal sparring matches in which they often engaged.

"Chris, why don't you and the boys take the rest of the day off," Travis said sympathetically.  "The reports can wait.  You're not going to be any good to me like this." 

Chris opened his mouth to protest, but then nodded his head in reluctant capitulation.  He knew his boss was right.  They had only been going through the motions since they had received the news of Ezra's death.

"How did his mother take the news?"

"We weren't able to find her," Chris said with a frown.  "The number in his files was bogus."

Travis lifted his eyebrows in surprise.  "Really?  I wonder why he would do that?"

"You've never met her, have you?" Chris replied with a faint smirk.

Travis shook his head.

"They didn't exactly get along," Chris explained.  "She didn't think much of his job."

Travis sighed.  "Well, I know Evie's going to be upset.  She had a real soft spot for that young man."

Chris nodded.  "I wasn't able to reach Mary.  She was off at a press conference or something."  He shook his head.  "She liked Ez, too.  He had a real way with the ladies... except for his mother."

"I think it was that southern charm," Travis said, smiling fondly at the memory of the elegant young southerner and his polished manners.

"Hell," Chris said roughly.  "I'm gonna miss that son of a bitch."

"Me too," Travis agreed sadly.  "Me too."


Inez shot a worried glance toward the group of men at the corner table while she wiped down the bar.  It had surprised her when the agents had walked through the door in the middle of the afternoon.  At first, she thought they might be celebrating something, but one look at their somber faces told her otherwise.  Tears stung her eyes as she remembered the reason they had spent the day drinking heavily.

They had lost one of their own and had come to the Saloon to drown their sorrows.  Throughout the evening, other agents had come and gone, sharing drinks with the six grieving men and toasting their missing member.  Inez sniffed and brushed a tear from her cheek.  She would miss the handsome southerner and the way his beautiful green eyes sparkled with humor when he had befuddled one of his teammates with his erudite speech.  The world would seem less bright without the boyish grin that had been all too infrequent during his early days with the team, or the charming way he had always kissed her hand, as if she were some sort of princess.  Inez bit her lip and attacked the bar furiously with her dishrag.

It was disheartening to see these strong men attempting to chase their grief away with alcohol, but she could hardly blame them.  In Ezra's honor, they had nearly cleaned out her limited stock of  Balvenie Scotch, his favorite 'libation'.  She had even joined them in a toast or two in an attempt to soothe her own loss.  It was closing time now, and they had drunk themselves into oblivion, lying in various states of inebriation around the table.  Inez breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the men from Team Eight make their way to the table to assist their friends.  She smiled her thanks to them as they hauled their fellow agents out the door.  The smile faded as she thought sadly of the man who completed their number... and the empty chair that had taken his place this night.


God, he was tired.  Ezra's head drooped as he trudged wearily through the trees.  He was starving and dehydrated, and was steadily growing weaker.  He didn't know how long he would be able to keep going, but he was determined to keep moving until he dropped.  Everyone always told him he was stubborn, and he figured the least he could do was live up to his reputation. 

It was nearing sunset when his body decided it had had enough.  Ezra's leg suddenly gave out and he sprawled in the dirt, sucking in a smoke-laden breath at the pain that rocketed through him.  He lay there, breathing heavily for a few minutes, before gamely pushing himself to his feet.  There was still enough light to see where he was going and he was determined to make the most of it, even if he had to crawl. 

Pushing onward, he stared down at his feet, watching for anything that might trip him up as he limped along.  Because his attention was focused on the ground, it took him a minute to realize that the terrain had changed.  Lifting his head, Ezra blinked at the sight of the flat expanse of grass that stretched before him.  A grin split his dirty, stubbled face and he let out a whoop when he caught a glimpse of a truck moving in the distance.  With renewed vigor, Ezra hobbled across the field as fast as he was able.  The presence of a vehicle meant there was a road ahead, and that meant he was almost home. 

It was dark by the time he reached the road, and if it hadn't been such a painful maneuver, he would have gotten on his hands and knees and kissed the pavement.  Instead, he turned and kept walking along the side of the thoroughfare, hoping a good samaritan might stop and give him a ride.  As he stood by the road with his thumb out, he chuckled at what his mother would say if she saw him now. 

"Gentleman don't hitchhike," he said aloud, mimicking the disapproving tone Maude would doubtless employ in such a situation.  Well, he hardly looked like a gentleman in his present condition, and he could care less what his mother might think. 

A battered pickup truck badly in need of a paint job passed him, then slowed and pulled over.  Ezra smiled and limped toward the vehicle.  If it would get him closer to home, he didn't care if it was the biggest piece of junk that ever rolled down the road. 

"You look like you need a lift, son," the elderly man in the truck said when Ezra looked in the open window.

"You could say that," Ezra said with a tired smile. 

"Well, hop on in," the man offered.

"Thank you, sir," Ezra replied.  "You have no idea how much I appreciate this."

The man chuckled.  "From the looks of you, I think I can hazard a pretty good guess."

Ezra grinned at him, then offered his hand.  "Ezra Standish."

"Charlie Taylor."  He took the offered hand then pulled the truck back onto the road.  "Where you headed?"

"Danville, ideally," Ezra said, "but I'd settle for someplace where I can get a shower, a hot meal, and a soft bed."

"Looks to me like a hospital wouldn't be out of line either," Charlie said.  "What happened?"

"I met with a bit of misfortune and ended up in the wilderness," Ezra replied, stifling a yawn.

"You a firefighter?" Charlie asked, eyeing Ezra's tattered jumpsuit.

Ezra chuckled.  "Not hardly.  I was a passenger on the unfortunate aircraft that initiated the conflagration."

Charlie gave him a confused look.  "Huh?"

"I was supposed to go skydiving, but the plane had difficulty and crashed." 

"I heard about that," Charlie said, nodding his head.  "Thought everyone was killed?"

"The others were," Ezra said unhappily.  "I was attempting to assist the pilot when I... fell out." Ezra shrugged, then regretted it when pain stabbed through his arm.

Charlie whistled appreciatively. "Damn lucky for you."

"Quite."

"Did a bit of parachuting myself when I was in the army," Charlie said.  "Never liked it much."

"It's an acquired taste," Ezra agreed, coughing hoarsely.

Charlie reached into the bag on the seat next to him.  "Here."  He handed Ezra a bottle of water.

"Thank you," Ezra said as he eagerly grasped the bottle.

"I'm only goin' as far as Hadley, but there's a clinic there that can take care of ya.  Fix that arm right up," Charlie said.

Ezra nodded.  "That would be wonderful."

Half an hour later, they arrived in the small town of Hadley and, as promised, Charlie delivered him to the small clinic.  Ezra reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, removing a twenty.  "Please, let me compensate you for your trouble."

Charlie lifted his hands, shaking his head.  "No, you keep that.  Consider this my good deed for the day."

Ezra nodded, then offered his hand to the kindly man.  "Thank you for your assistance, sir."

"You take care of yourself, now."  Charlie waved as he drove away.

Ezra watched him for a moment, then headed into the clinic.


Ezra awoke with a start, confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, until he remembered what had happened.  He was still in the small clinic in Hadley, with a brand new cast on his left arm and assorted bandages on other parts of his body.  When he had first entered the clinic, he had considered calling his teammates, but decided he was far too weary and sore to deal with the barrage of questions and admonishments he would have to endure as a result.  Instead, he reluctantly submitted to the care of the medical personnel, putting off the inevitable confrontation until he was strong enough to handle it.

He had to admit that he felt immeasurably better, especially after being allowed a hot shower and a shave.  Yawning, Ezra stretched carefully and levered himself off of the bed where he had rested.  Checking his watch, he was shocked to discover that it was nearly six o'clock in the morning.  He didn't remember falling asleep, but suspected that the shot that he had been given before they set his arm had pushed him over the edge of his exhaustion.  His body ached in places he didn't know he had, but he didn't care.  He had someplace else to be.

While he was being tended, Ezra had explained his situation to Dr. Wilson, the attending physician, who had been sympathetic to his plight. Though she would have preferred that he spend a few days in the clinic, she understood his need to return home and had offered him a ride to Danville in the morning, since she passed near it on her way home.  She had also offered the use of the telephone to call his 'loved ones' to let them know what had happened, but he decided against it.  Better to face them in person, where he would be more able to judge their potential hostility.  They would be less likely to make unwarranted assumptions about his absence if they saw him in person, and Ezra reluctantly admitted to himself that he was afraid to find out what those assumptions might be.  He respected these men, more than any others with whom he had worked, and it was painful to consider that they might think ill of him.  What was even more painful was that he even cared about their opinion.

Ezra sighed and finished tying his shoes – an awkward task with only one properly functioning arm.  Dr. Wilson finished her shift at seven, which gave him an hour to get some breakfast before it was time to leave.  His stomach rumbled insistently in agreement and Ezra hurriedly finished dressing, looking forward to a hot meal.  The vending machine sandwich he had eaten last night hadn't even made a dent in the gnawing hunger that had been his constant companion in recent days.  Smiling in anticipation, Ezra headed for the door.


TBC