Written in the River
A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of these characters.
Author's Note: Well, I went from being shy about writing for you to being anxious to read your comments. I hope you enjoy this next installment. I'll wrap things up in the forthcoming chapter. Please enjoy.
CHAPTER FIVE: AVENGING ANGEL
Subtitle: I-L-U-I-L-U-2
CARTER HAD AN early shift that morning. He woke in the depths of darkness at 4:30 a.m. with Abby in his arms. He had napped on and off for the past few hours, but he was too worried about her to sleep soundly. She had fallen asleep amidst a torrent of tears, but she seemed content curled up next to him now. Her hand still clasped a fistful of his shirt, but her face looked peaceful. Periodically during the night he'd check her breathing, feel her temperature, and put his fingers to her wrist to check her pulse—just to be sure.
Now he tried to slip out of bed without waking her, but they were so entwined it was impossible.
"Where are you going?" she said as soon as he stirred.
"I'm on at 6. I'm covering the shift change for Pratt. I've got to get home to change and shave. Are you going to be OK?"
"Yes, I think so," she said rolling onto her back, one arm covering her eyes.
"You can come home with me, if you want," he said untangling himself from her and swinging his legs onto the floor.
"No, I'm better, thanks."
She sat up on her elbows. He turned to face her.
"I'm sorry about last night," she said. Her voice was hardly above a whisper. Her eyes were barely open. They were swollen from crying and a little crusty around her overused tear ducts. Strings of hair hung sloppily around her face and shoulders, and a piece of it wound into the corner of her mouth. Salt from her tears had dried into powdery streaks on her cheeks. She looks so pretty when she wakes up, Carter thought.
"I'm not sorry," he said. "There was a lot we needed to say. I'm not sorry at all," he assured her.
A slip of her hand through her hair, a tissue across her face and eyes, a sip of water from her nightstand, and suddenly she was indeed breathtaking. She still wore the sweater from the night before, only it was twisted and fell off her shoulder showing her bare skin, and the buttons were open just enough to see the lace of her bra. She half-smiled through her barely opened eyes. He smiled back and kissed her forehead and then her lips. She lowered herself back on her pillow and he leaned over with her, unwilling to break the kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, and her fingers lightly touched his hair. They kissed deeply.
His lips moved to the base of her neck and then lower to the top of her breasts. Abby closed her eyes and enjoyed the familiar warmth of him. It had been a long time since she'd felt his lips on her. His hand brushed her cheek, and then his fingertip traced a line down her shoulder over the curve of her breast past her hips to her thighs.
She begged herself to let go and enjoy him—but ultimately she couldn't. Images of the past year were too fresh. The air was thick with her confession last night. She needed to talk to him more, to know how he felt about her and her past. She needed to think about all the things they said to each other just a few hours before.
"John, wait—" She pulled back, clenched her legs, and pulled the covers up to her neck. "I'm sorry. I just—"
"It's OK, It's all right." He moved off of her, stood up, turned away from her, and breathed deeply trying to control the passion she raised in him. "We'll take it slow, OK? How about dinner tonight?"
She nodded yes and clutched the blankets close to her. She watched from her pillow as he tried to find the shoes he kicked off in the middle of the night and gathered his jacket to leave. But before he walked out into the early morning darkness, he sat on the bed again.
"I've got to go," he said, tracing her lips with his fingertip.
"I know." She smiled sweetly.
"You sure you're OK?"
She nodded yes.
They were quiet for a moment. He brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes and said, "I love you, Abby." He was never so certain of anything in his life.
She reached up to stroke his cheek, now rough with almost a night's worth of beard.
"You do?" she asked softly, thinking how handsome he was and how much she had missed him.
"Always have."
Tell him how you feel. SAY IT!, she implored herself.
Instead, she only managed, "I'm on at 8. See you then."
He got up and left, carefully closing the door to her apartment so as not to disturb her neighbors.
Frustrated with herself, she exhaled out her lower lip and blew the bangs off her forehead.
Alone now in the dark, empty apartment, Abby thought sleep would overtake her again quickly, but it didn't. So she slid over a few inches in her bed to the warm spot where he had slept. She positioned her body in his place, carefully cradling her head on his pillow in the indentation where his head lay moments before. Her fingertips caressed the sheets around where he had slept. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the essence of him, and drifted off to catch forty winks more.
Abby was in love.
THE STREETS WERE quiet and dark at this time of the morning, and the air was cold and biting. Carter pulled his collar tightly around his neck and waited at the corner until he spotted a roaming taxi cab. Inside, amber streetlights filled the seat. He leaned his head against the window, and his thoughts immediately went to Abby. He didn't want to rush her; he knew she needed time. For now, he would have to be satisfied with remembering . . .
He thought of the evenings at her apartment when he'd order a pizza and they'd lie on her couch watching TV until the closeness was too much for him and he'd have to kiss her. And there were the mornings at his place when he'd distract her from getting dressed to make love to her in his large tiled shower with the hot water beating down on them. And then there were the times they'd sneak off and spend a cold afternoon in her warm bed.
He loved how playful she was after sex, how she'd let her guard down—even if it were just for a few minutes. She'd sing and laugh, and all her cares would disappear. However, he had to admit he liked it best when the playtime interlude was over: Her eyes would get softer and dreamier, and her lips would kiss a path from his mouth to his ear, and then she'd moan softly that she wanted more.
Carter shook himself out of his reverie just in time to instruct the cabby. "The north side, please," Carter requested when they pulled onto his short but very posh block. "Right here's fine," he said when they just about reached the iron post at the foot of his walkway from which hung a simple mailbox labeled "Carter" in modest gold lettering. No other cars roamed the street. It was the dead of night. The cab came to a short stop, and the driver turned on the interior light, illuminating the entire back seat and just about blinding Carter momentarily. He paid the fare, included a generous tip, and headed for his door.
Then it all happened so fast. Carter felt the very first blow in his stomach, then another to his head, and then the sharp pain in his ribs came repeatedly. It was the point of a boot.
"Get up, Carter, get up!"
He heard the voice yelling at him in the dark. The throbbing in his head got louder, and the voice screaming at him in an intoxicated rage grew cloudier.
"Say you won't hurt her anymore. I need to hear you say it!" Each request was punctuated by a strong kick and drunken grunt.
Carter tried to speak, but he only gurgled through the blood pooling in his throat. It tasted foul and was making him retch. He could make out the heel of a boot coming straight toward his head. And just before things went black, he could see the boot belonged to Abby's brother Eric.
IT WAS BARELY sunrise, and the early morning Chicago air was blustery. Pratt's overnight shift was ending, and he stepped outside to watch the first blades of light emerge in the sky. An ambulance pulled into the bay with lights flashing but sirens silenced. The paramedic burst out the rear door and called to him: "Hey Dr. Pratt, we got one o' yours." He pulled out a stretcher on which Carter lay strapped.
Pratt ran over. "Carter, can you hear me?" he shouted, removing his stethoscope from the pocket of his jacket and plugging it into his ears. "What the hell happened?" he said to the medic.
"Neighbor walking a dog found him on his stoop and called 9-1-1. Somebody beat the crap out him. Cops are behind us, they wanna talk to him, but he's out cold." He started to recite Carter's vitals as they quickly wheeled him toward the ER.
"Why would somebody want to beat up a doc?" the medic asked.
"I know why someone might want a piece o' this one. Maybe for his big, fat wallet," Pratt remarked.
"Yeah, you mean this?" The paramedic dug Carter's wallet from his pocket, fully intact and undisturbed.
"What the—?" said Pratt, and they disappeared into the ER.
Once inside, Pratt began to bark orders to the staff: "Jerry, what's open?"
"I don't know, I just got here," Jerry snapped back.
"Thanks—for nothing." Pratt, a little rattled, mumbled the last part to himself. "Follow me." Pratt led them into Exam 2. He and the paramedics pulled Carter from the stretcher to the bed and began working.
"Good breath sounds, pulse 92. Carter, can you hear me?" Pratt asked insistently as he shined a small light into his patient's eyes. "Pupils equal and reactive," he called out. "Get an I.V. started and hang two units of O-neg, but don't push it until I see where all this blood is coming from," he ordered Haleh. "Let me get an ultrasound on his belly, a C-spine, and a portable chest. And somebody tell Morris to get his butt in here and gimme a hand!"
Tension hung in the air as the team poked and prodded Carter to bring him around.
"Carter? Carter, wake up," Pratt ordered.
"Dr. Carter? Dr. Carter, wake up," Morris said, trying to appear engaged by following Pratt's lead.
"What the hell—? Do I need a echo in here?" a panicked Pratt remarked.
"Well, why won't he wake up?" Morris asked.
"I don't know. We need to get a head CT stat."
ABBY THOUGHT SHE'D get in a little early and meet up with Carter. She walked through the ambulance bay a little bleary-eyed, with a cup of coffee in each hand—one for each of them. Abby stepped through the ER doors just as Pratt and the team were wheeling Carter past.
"What's going on?" Abby asked, a bit dazed.
"Keep going, I'll catch up," Pratt ordered as the others continued to push the stretcher down the hall. "Somebody used Carter as a punching bag."
Abby was confused.
"A neighbor on that fancy block of his found him and called 9-1-1."
Abby was having trouble grasping all this.
Seeing her reaction, Pratt squeezed her shoulders and said earnestly, "Look, his vitals are good, we just can't get him up and talking. We're doing a CT now to see why. We're taking good care of him. Go to work, OK? I can't save the world alone." He headed down the hall.
It started sinking in. Carter was hurt—badly. And his co-workers were trying to help.
"I thought you'd be off duty by now," Abby called after Pratt.
He turned but continued walking backward. "Yeah, well, Carter needs my superior skills." He winked at her, but she knew his cockiness belied his concern.
It was all happening so fast. She just saw him a few hours ago. What happened? Who did this? Her mind raced with questions. Abby's feet were glued to the floor, and she stood there by the ER doors with a coffee in each hand, not knowing what to do first.
Behind her, two uniformed police officers entered the ER.
"Do you work here?"
She turned to face them, still balancing the two cups. "Yes, I'm Dr. Lockhart, I just came on duty.
"Dr. Lockhart, we're looking for the assault victim from Cattlemen's Row," one asked her.
"They brought him to CT. What happened? Do they know who did it?" Abby asked.
"Neighbors said they saw a white male leave the scene." He checked his notes. "Late twenties/early thirties—over six feet with curly brown hair," he read. "One said he had a bloody hand and he looked like he was staggering. They saw the same guy hanging around late last night."
"Let us know if someone matching that description shows up here for stitching," the other officer requested.
". . . Late twenties/early thirties—over six feet with curly brown hair." Abby felt a brick in the pit of her stomach. No, never, he wouldn't . . .
ABBY RAN TO Exam 2 when she heard Carter had returned from radiology.
"Is he conscious?" she asked as she burst through the doors.
"He's in and out," Pratt said.
"You think there's anybody he wants us to call?" Haleh asked.
"If he doesn't come to in a while, I'll call his dad," Abby volunteered. "How is he otherwise?"
Pratt gave her the rundown: "CT and spine films are clear. X-rays show a cracked rib and slight orbital fracture, which explains that Mike Tyson eye, but nothing else is broken. But we're concerned because he's still woozy, and that could indicate some brain swelling or a bleeder that's not showing up on the CT. So we'll watch him for a while."
Chuny peeked in: "I'm sorry, Abby, but we got a high-speed MVA coming in, and they need another doc," she said softly.
"I got it," said Pratt, following Chuny out the door. "You hang out here with Carter a while. I'll find you if I need you."
"Thanks, Greg."
It took another hour or so for Carter to start to come around. As Abby waited, she listened to his breath sounds, watched his monitors, and double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked his I.V. lines. And when she could do no more, she pulled a chair over by his side and took his hand.
Eventually, his eyelids began to flutter. She got up, leaned out the doors of the exam room, and spotted Haleh. "Could you see if Pratt's around?"
"He's in Trauma 2 with that MVA, but I'll tell him to come in as soon as he can."
Abby removed her own stethoscope and listened to Carter's chest. She noticed his eye was even more swollen and getting blacker.
"Carter, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand."
He did.
"John, do you know what happened? Did you see who did this?" He cracked opened his eyes and nodded once indicating he did.
She got much closer and reluctantly asked, "It wasn't . . . Eric . . . was it?"
His eyes opened wider, and his hand gripped hers tighter. He nodded his head "yes."
Tears came to her eyes, and she started explaining quickly. "John, he showed up at my apartment last night. I just came from your place. I told him where it was and that I saw Kem there and I was upset. He was off his meds and drinking to boot—maybe even doing drugs. He was cycling down. I should have seen it. He must have been waiting for you. But I just can't picture Eric . . . hurting someone. Maggie used to get violent. She tried to kill me with a knife once. It was Thanksgiving then, too."
He could hardly understand her, and it hurt to try. "It's OK," he whispered and began to drift off to sleep again.
Why would you want any part of this?, she thought. She leaned down close to him, wiping her teary eyes. "John? . . . John? . . . I'm sorry for everything." And when she felt sure he was asleep, she kissed the side of his face and whispered in his ear, "I love you, too."
When she pulled her lips away, she could see his eyes were closed, but the corners of his mouth were turned up in an unmistakable smile.
"Chicken," he whispered.
He knew her so well.
"I've got to find him, Carter." She stood and started for the wall phone in the room.
"Abby . . . no . . . let him . . . calm down." He was weak, and the words came out slowly. She could tell he was frightened for her.
Haleh peeked her head through the swinging door. "Let him rest, honey. He'll be OK."
She stepped farther in and said softly to Abby, "Thought you'd want to know, I heard the cops just brought in the SOB they think did this to Carter—DOA with a bullet in the head."
Abby gasped so hard, she was unable to exhale. "Oh my God . . . ," she moaned. From the table, Carter's hand struggled to reach for her. "Oh my God, they shot him?" she asked, desperately hoping she heard wrong.
"I don't think so, honey. They said the hole was through the roof of the mouth."
Abby pushed Haleh aside, ran to the bathroom, and vomited in a bowl until she passed out.
Next . . .
Epilogue—The Wake of the Tornado