A Cold Day in July -- Original Ending

Disclaimer: Emergency! and its characters are owned by Mark VII Productions and Universal Studios. No infringement on any copyrights or trademarks is intended in any way, shape, or form. All medical errors are mine. This is just a story, and is meant for fun, nothing else. Enjoy!
"Wait, Roy," Rick spoke up now. "I'd like to tell you. After all, I was right there."

"Are you sure, Rick?" The Sheriff asked. "You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I think I do."

"Very well. I'll wait downstairs for you," Sheriff said. "I'll need to get a posit . . ."

"Yes, Tim, we'll be down in a minute," Rick interrupted, dismissing the man.

Sheriff Wilson nodded his understanding, closed his notebook, and turned to leave the waiting room. Roy remained where he was, while Rick shifted on his feet, running his fingers though his hair repeatedly. Finally, Roy sighed, and looked up at Rick.

"Please, sit down, Rick, and tell me what happened," Roy's voice was just above a whisper, as he indicated the seat adjacent to him that had just been occupied by the Sheriff. Reluctantly, Rick moved to sit down, and Roy shifted slightly in his seat, tears already welling up in his eyes, his throat already constricting as he anticipated what he was about to be told: that one of his friends was dead.

"Roy," Rick began, then stopped to clear his throat. He took a deep breath, and continued. "Margie and I were doing site checks - just going from site to site making sure everything is okay, and everyone's having a good time. That sort of thing. We were talking to a family from Oklahoma, when a man came running around the corner screaming about some guy having a gun. We weren't sure what to make of it at first, but then this other guy comes around the corner, waving a pistol around. The campers ran for their trailer, and Margie got on the radio for backup, while I went to grab the rifle from the truck. By the time I got back . . ."

Rick paused, his voice catching in his throat.

Roy held his breath, silently willing Rick to continue.

"By the time I got back, Watson had already shot the other man. I shot Watson, but, God, Roy, I'm so sorry! There wasn't anything to be done for the other man. Your friend. Nothing."

"Chet! Hey, Chet, wake up!"

Roy placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, shaking it slightly, trying to rouse the man. He knew it was no use, knew before he'd even been lead into the stark, cold room, that his friend wouldn't wake up at his urging. It was a reflex action, Roy thought, just like pressing his fingers to Chet's neck to find the carotid pulse, or laying his hand on Chet's abdomen to feel for respirations that he knew weren't there. A reflex action. A force of habit.

Wishful thinking.

Chet did look like he was just sleeping, after all. His usually sparkling, mischievous eyes were closed, his mustache, usually twitching with a barely suppressed smirk was still, and his face was peaceful looking, like he was in a deep, deep sleep. But, Roy knew better. Roy had seen death enough in his career to recognize its stamp on his friend: Chet's face may have looked peaceful, but it was also still. Too still. There was no fluttering of an eyelash, no involuntary muscle twitching, no rise and fall of the chest. Just stillness.

A small white bandage was taped to the right side of his forehead, slightly covered by a few damp locks of Chet's bushy brown hair. Someone had washed Chet's hair. Someone had washed the blood and bone and brain tissue away that would've been on Chet's face and hair. Roy smiled slightly as he realized someone had gone to a lot of trouble to clean Chet up before he saw him. To spare him from the devastation caused when the bullet from Mark Watson's gun struck the back of Chet's head on the left side, ripped diagonally through his brain, and exited through the right side of his forehead. The kindness of such a person to think to clean up his friend before he was forced to walk into the cool dim room to see his friend's body, to identify him, nearly overwhelmed Roy. Chet's still features blurred as tears filled his eyes, spilling over the rims and dropping onto Chet's face and bare shoulder. He wiped the wetness away, apologizing, though he couldn't say why.

It's not like you're gonna notice now.

"God! How did everything go so horribly wrong?" Roy asked aloud. "How did this happen?"

"So, this is your other friend, Roy?" Sheriff Wilson's quiet voice interrupted Roy's unanswerable questions.

Without turning to the officer, Roy nodded. "Yes, this is Chet Kelly," he said. "Chester B. Kelly. A fireman. My brother. My friend."

Sheriff Wilson nodded, wrote the information in his notebook, and turned to leave. Stopping, he turned back to the mourning man. Placing his hand on Roy's shoulder, the sheriff gave it a squeeze.

"I'm very sorry, Roy," he said, then released his grip and left.

Ranger Rick had been standing a few feet away from Roy, not wanting to intrude, but approached him now. Roy did turn to face Rick when he came to stand beside him, and saw the blonde man's agonized expression.

"None of this is your fault, Rick," Roy insisted.

Rick swallowed hard and nodded. He didn't really believe it wasn't his fault, but wasn't about to argue with the man, either. He looked down onto the face of the man he'd never met, but whose last moments he'd witnessed. He knew he was responsible for this man's death, as well as the injuries suffered by Roy's other friend and his young boy upstairs. No one could tell him otherwise.

Roy's hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, and he looked into Roy's intense blue eyes.

"Please don't let this eat you up, Rick! Chet certainly wouldn't want you to beat yourself up about this, and neither do I. It's not your fault! If anyone's at fault it's Mark Wilson! He was the one who shot Johnny, and Chris, and Chet, not you!"

Rick nodded and smiled slightly to placate the man, but he knew he'd carry the responsibility and guilt of this man's death with him for a long, long time.

"I'll leave you alone, now," Rick said, and turned to leave the morgue.

Roy watched the man go, saddened by the weight he now carried on his slumped shoulders.

It's not your fault, Rick! It's not your fault! Roy chanted in his head.

When the door to the room swung shut, Roy turned his attention back to Chet.

"I'm not really a religious man, Chet. Then again, I guess all fire fighters are religious by default: We pray every time we head off to a call. Pray the victims will survive until we get there. Pray they won't be too badly injured, and we can help them. Pray no one is hurt or killed fighting a fire, or attempting a dangerous rescue. We pray all the time, and never really realize it." Roy paused to chuckle. "I guess I'm a religious guy after all, huh, Chet?"

Roy's smile faded as he realized the typical Chet Kelly smart-ass comment that would usually follow a confession like that would never come.

"Oh, God, Chet, I'm sorry! I never should've let you go out there! It's my fault you're . . . you're . . . ah, Jesus!"

Roy let the tears fall freely, and didn't bother trying to conceal his grief when he felt another person standing beside him. A small warm hand touched his shoulder, and he recognized the voice of Nurse Dana.

"Roy, don't blame yourself! You're no more responsible for this than Rick is! Did you forget what you just told him? It was Mark Wilson's fault! Mark Wilson shot your two friends and your son. Mark Wilson killed Chet!"

Roy shook his head, but was too tired to argue with her. He knew he should've stopped Chet from going, from leading the gunman away from them. It was selfish of him to allow Chet to leave like that. To save only himself, and Johnny, and Chris.

Dana sighed. She'd just had a similar conversation with Park Ranger Rick Johnston in the hallway. Everyone was blaming themselves for what happened, when it was really only the fault of one man: The man with the gun!

"Come on, Roy," she said quietly, gently urging him away from the body. "Your son woke up a few minutes ago. He's being brave, but I know he's hurting, and he's scared. He needs you."

Roy nodded, swallowing hard, and wiping his wet face with his sleeve. "Just a minute," he said. "I'll be up in a minute."

Dana regarded the man a moment longer then nodded and quietly left.

Roy looked down at Chet's still form again. "Chet Kelly, you're a good man! When the chips are down, you're right there! You didn't even hesitate. Didn't think about yourself, you just went! You're a damn good fire fighter and a damn good friend! I'll never forget what you sacrificed for me and my son and Johnny! Never! I know I'll never be able to repay you for what you've done, and I know the words are meaningless to you now, but I thank you, Chet! Thank you for saving my son, and Johnny, and me! God?" Roy lifted his face to address the unseen deity. "God, take care of him! He gave up his life for my family and my friend. Please, God, take care of him!"

After pausing for a moment, Roy took one last look at his friend, and then turned to go to his son.

The End