Chapter Nine









The ICU staff had kept Face sedated for two days after that. Renee hadn't returned to the unit since. Murdock didn't know about the rest of the team, but he, personally, wished that she would come back. She had felt like a stabilizing element in this whole fiasco, a familiar face. He'd seen few people who could stand up to Hannibal like that. The other nurses-especially what's-her-name (Susie? Sarah? Sharon? Whatever)-seemed too bright and bouncy, almost irritating, and much too young to be there. He'd asked one of the others about Renee, and was told only that she was "on vacation."

Still, Face had been moved out of the ICU yesterday, and to another floor. That was a good sign. They'd also reduced his sedation. BA said that Face had been less groggy-more alert-last shift. Alert enough to realize that the nurse on duty (what WAS her name?) was young and attractive. BA had sounded grouchy when he related this to Murdock, but the captain had recognized the relief in the other's voice.

Murdock drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. The staff had evicted him from Face's room almost as soon as he had relieved BA. It was the usual procedure-being sent out of the room while they did . . . whatever it was they did. He hated going to the waiting room; he'd spent too much time in there already. Besides, they never had cartoons on the TV there, not the good ones. So he hung around the nurse's desk, trying to stay out of the way, and not quite succeeding.

He watched the room, barely seeing it as his mind wandered. Hannibal had gone the rounds with Stockwell again last night. The general was pushing for the team to get back to work. And while he knew the inactivity bothered Hannibal, the colonel was holding Stockwell to his assurance that they would be off until Face recovered. And no "or else," his mind added in satisfaction. Frankie was back to being Frankie. BA had practically ripped the van apart and put it back together in the last couple of days. The big guy always felt better when he was working with his hands, he thought, 'Member when we tried to talk him into being on the chopper crew and . . . His mind closed off that thought, reluctant to follow where it would inevitably lead.

The nurse stepped out of the room. She nodded to Murdock as she passed by, moving behind the desk. Murdock nodded back, and heading for Face's room.

Face was sitting up in bed. He was still pale, but not as bad as he had been in the restaurant. He smiled at Murdock-a shadow of his usual smile-then grimaced as he shifted in bed.

"You okay, Face-man?" Murdock asked, "Hey, you're supposed to be using that pillow when you move." He moved to the side of the bed and pulled one of the pillows from behind Face.

"I can't move and hold a damn pillow," Face said, irritably. The abrupt movement of the pillow caused him to wince. "I don't have that many hands."

"Well, you're gonna split them stitches," said Murdock, "And then the big guy is gonna sit on you for doing it. Let me help."

"I don't need help, Murdock."

"Sure you don't," Murdock agreed. He assisted Face to a different position, ignoring the mutterings from the other. "Don't be so pig-headed, Face."

Much as he hated to admit it, Face needed the help. Since transferring to the medical-surgical area of the hospital, he had blacked out a few times-usually from moving too quickly. And although he'd been instructed and cautioned to use a pillow to splint his side when he moved, he became impatient and "forgot" most of the time.

"Thanks, Murdock," Face said, grudgingly.

Murdock grinned. For all his liking to be pampered, Face was a lousy patient. But then, Murdock had to agree, I'd be just as impatient if our positions were reversed. He watched as Face shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position.

It wasn't just the pain, and the narrow hospital bed. Since regaining awareness of where he was and what had happened, Face had felt like a microscope specimen. Not just from the hospital staff, but the rest of the team as well. It had been a long time since the team had been slapped with their own mortality, and the thought was not sitting well with any of them.

He glanced covertly at Murdock. Knowing him, he's been sitting here longer than the rest combined. Not to cut down the others on the team, but that was just Murdock. He'd been that way as long as Face had known him.

Projecting as much as of his usual cockiness in his voice as he could manage, he said, "Murdock, I really have enough babysitters. Why don't you go, uh, take Billy for a walk?"

The captain looked at him with an inscrutable expression. "You okay, Face?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Face lied. "I just . . I'm just gonna rest a bit." He squirmed a bit against the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Murdock watched him for a few moments, considering. Then he shrugged and walked out the door.











The Congressional Cemetery was only a few blocks from DC General. It was less well-known than its famous cousin across the Potomac, which meant less tourists and traffic. Murdock passed through the front gate, heading along his usual route of past the chapel and toward the Anacostia River.

He paused by the public vault, long enough to run his hand over the sun-warmed stone, with a brief thought of the three presidents and two first ladies that lay there. Then he turned and walked south, a part of his mind counting gravestones and roads as one would count rosary beads. Crossing Ingle Street, he headed toward a section of family vaults.

He wasn't aware of conscious thoughts. They simply drifted and eddied in his mind. Now and then one would pause long enough to either bring a smile to his face, or a pain to his soul. Occasionally a name from the past would flicker across a monument. There, there are names that belong to the graves in Delaware. And the marker like that one in Wisconsin. That thought brought a stabbing reminder of the remains laying in the Vietnamese jungle. It had always bothered Murdock that there had been no burial and no grave there. He mentally stamped that thought down. Then there were the peter pilots, who had moved on to their own birds and out of his memories. And the nameless troops carried out and back.

His thoughts distracted him enough that he tripped over a smaller gravestone, sprawling alongside it. A child's grave, from the looks of it. Murdock stood, brushing the grass clippings from himself. He looked ahead to the family vaults, then shook his head, collecting his thoughts. He turned, and walked back to the entrance.









Hannibal called the next day, to tell him that Stockwell had arranged for Face to be released from the hospital. While the colonel had held Stockwell to the agreement of no missions until Face had recovered, that was probably chafing the general. Besides, inactivity didn't sit well with Hannibal either. Hannibal and BA were picking up Face later that afternoon, and bringing him back to Langley.

Murdock hung up the phone. Sal had given him time off, considering the circumstances. But he knew he couldn't go back to the restaurant, not to work anyway. There'd be too many memories. His leaving wouldn't cause too much of a problem for Sal. The restaurant's business had picked up, and Sal had had to hire more staff anyway. He was even thinking of expanding the place.

Murdock checked his watch, then grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote out a resignation note. He pulled on his jacket, stuffing the note into his pocket, and picked up his cap. Then he headed out the door.











TBC