A Cold Day in July -- Alternate Ending

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"I'll do better than that," the Sheriff said, looking up from his notebook, smiling for the first time, "I'll take you to him."

Sheriff Wilson stopped in front of the closed door to a room on the second floor of Weston Memorial Hospital, and turned to Roy.

"There's something I should probably tell you before you go in there," he said.

Roy stiffened, steeling himself for what he expected would be bad news about his friend's condition.

"From what you've told me, I'm pretty sure the guy we've got in here is your friend," the Sheriff continued. "However, the guy didn't have any ID on him, and was unconscious when I arrived at the scene. He was still that way when he was brought in here. Because of that, he was listed as a 'John Doe.' Basically, Roy, what I'm saying is, I think this is your friend, but I'm not sure. Hopefully, you'll be able to tell me for sure."

A nurse came around the corner, and seeing a man in front of her patient's door, headed for Roy, intent on shooing him away.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, politely, but with a firm voice.

Roy turned, and the nurse could then see Sheriff Wilson had been standing behind him.

"Oh, sorry, Sheriff! I didn't see you there!"

"That's okay, Dana," the Sheriff smiled, and indicated Roy. "Dana, this is Roy DeSoto, and I think he'll be able to shed some light on our John Doe in here," he said, pointing at the door with his thumb.

"Oh, that would be great!" Nurse Dana exclaimed. "The poor guy's been pretty out of it since he was brought in here. He's got a moderate concussion, and he's been on painkillers for the gun shot wound . . ."

"Gun shot wound? Chet was shot!" Roy turned on the Sheriff, his eyes angry once again. "Why didn't you tell me Chet was shot when I first asked about him?"

"I wasn't sure if this John Doe was your friend Chet at first . . ."

"Waddya mean you weren't sure?" Roy demanded. "He was shot by the same guy who shot my son and my partner, right? Or did you have two gun-wielding lunatics in your park today?"

"Now, Roy . . ."

"Don't 'now Roy' me!" Roy growled. "Get out of my way!"

Roy shoved his way past the Sheriff and the nurse, and entered the room. The lights were dim, but Roy could clearly make out his friend's features in the shadows. He forced himself to calm down before slowly approaching the bed, and laying his hand on Chet's shoulder.

"Chet? Hey, Chester B., can you hear me?"

Chet moaned a bit in response, but did not awaken. Still, Roy smiled at his friend. He turned to look at the equipment surrounding Chet, and then tenderly examined the large white bandage that was wrapped around his head. He didn't realize Sheriff Wilson and nurse Dana had followed him in the room until the Sheriff spoke.

"So this is your friend, um . . ." he paused, flipping through his small notepad.

"Kelly," Roy told him stiffly. "Chester B. Kelly."

The Sheriff nodded, "Yeah, Kelly, right. Thank you. That should be all for now, but if I need to reach you . . ."

"I'll be here in the hospital until my son and my friends are well enough to be transferred to Rampart General Hospital in LA," Roy told him.

Sheriff Wilson nodded, closed his notebook, and left the room without another word. Nurse Dana had picked up Chet's chart and was crossing out the "John Doe," and writing "Chester B. Kelly" above it, saying the name out loud as she spelled out each part of it.

"You mind if I take a look at that?" Roy asked, feeling a bit more relaxed since the sheriff left. "I'm a paramedic with the LA County Fire Department. Call it a professional curiosity!"

"Sure!" Dana smiled and handed him the chart. She gave her patient a quick appraising glance. "He seems to be resting comfortably now. You can stay for a while, but you really should try to get some rest yourself."

Roy returned her smile, feeling truly happy for the first time since entering the campground at noon, nearly twelve hours earlier.

"Yeah, I will. Thanks!"

The nurse left, and Roy turned to Chet once more, quietly watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. He settled himself in the chair beside the bed, and opened Chet's chart, scanning the information there: Moderate concussion, laceration and abrasions on right forehead, abrasions on both palms, right elbow and forearm . . .

Roy looked at Chet again, and realized he'd been so angry and annoyed at the Sheriff that he hadn't bothered asking him exactly what had happened to his friend.

Sighing, Roy turned back to the chart, and reading just a bit further, he sucked in a breath so suddenly, he ended up choking on his own spit. He tried to recover, but ended up succumbing to strangled laughter and a massive coughing fit.

"Goddammit!"

Regrettably, the noise woke Chet, who moaned and turned to the find the source of the noise. He could barely make out the figure sitting next to him, but he recognized the voice.

"Roy?" he rasped.

Roy sat forward in the chair, calming himself some, but still suffering from a case of the giggles.

"Hey, Chet, I'm right here, buddy!"

"Damn, Roy, what's so funny?"

"Nothing, Chet. How're you feeling?"

"Like I've been shot," Chet replied with grumpy, sluggish sarcasm, "How do you think I feel?"

"Well, I dunno," Roy shrugged, unable to come up with a witty retort or suppress his grin.

"It's not funny!"

"I'm sorry, Chet, but it is! It's funny because everyone's okay. Chris is okay, John, and you're going to be okay, too, and I was just so Goddamn scared, Chet, but everything's okay now, so yes, Chet, I'm sorry, but it's just so Goddamn funny!" Roy knew he was babbling and slightly hysterical, but he didn't care. He was so relieved that everything and everyone was going to be okay.

"Oh, sure, Roy, laugh at a guy when he's down!"

"I'm sorry, Chet, really!" Roy gasped in between chuckles. "But it's just so funny, really! I swear, you're the only guy I know who could get himself shot in the ass!"

"Oh, ha, ha," Chet glowered.

"Oh, c'mon, Chet, you gotta admit, it's pretty funny! If it was Johnny laying here with a hole in his right butt cheek, you be having just as much fun with it, maybe more!"

Chet pondered this a moment before answering. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he admitted. "How's Gage doing, anyway? You said he was gonna be okay?"

"Yes, Chet, he'll be fine. Gonna have a lot recovery to do, he'll be out of commission for awhile, but he'll be just fine. He got lucky. We all did."

Chet nodded. "And Chris?"

"He's fine, too!"

Chet blew out a breath, relieved. He figured from Roy's reaction to his own injury that all was well, and had even picked up on a few conversations going on around him, but he needed to hear it from Roy for it all to be true: they had all survived the ordeal. He'd been sore and slightly disoriented when first brought into the hospital, and had chosen to keep his eyes and mouth shut, and his ears open, all the while trying to ignore the burning discomfort of his injuries, and fighting the fogging effects of the sedatives they'd been giving him. The campground shooting was the biggest thing to happen in the area in decades, and everyone was talking about it. He'd heard from the nursing staff as they went about taking his vitals and administering medication, as well as from the doctors who came to check his wounds that both Johnny and Chris were alive, Roy had not been injured aside from a bump on the head, and the gunman had been killed. Chet tried to feel sorry for the guy somehow. Tried. And failed.

"So, what was this guy's story, anyway, Roy?"

Roy shrugged and became serious. "He was a career drunk. Apparently his wife had just left him, and he lost his job, and he just kept drinking. . ." He shrugged again, and let the explanation fade. No more really needed to be said: it was a familiar story to the two men who'd seen too many times the devastation caused by the misuse of alcohol.

Chet shifted in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and winced as the movement caused pain. Instantly alert, Roy stood and leaned over him.

"You okay, Chet? Do you need a painkiller? I can call the nurse . . ."

"No, thanks, Roy," Chet interrupted. "It's okay. It just aches, burns sometimes. You know?"

Roy didn't bother trying to suppress a smile, as he relaxed and sat back down again. "Yeah, I suppose it does."

Chet glared at him, then turned away and sighed. "I'm going to be a laughing stock!"

Roy's smile faded, and he suddenly felt bad for finding humour in his friend's injury. "Yeah, I suppose you will be the butt of a few jokes for awhile . . . oh, sorry, Chet! No pun intended, there!"

"Uh huh," Chet grunted, sarcastically.

"No, really, I didn't mean it that way," Roy said earnestly, leaning forward in the chair. "As far as I'm concerned, Chet, you're a hero!"

Chet turned back to Roy, surprise written on his face. "A hero?"

"Yeah. What you did out there . . . risking your life like that . . .leading that guy away from us . . . you saved our lives, Chet! Johnny, Chris . . . who knows what would've happened if that guy'd gotten another chance at them! What you did was such a . . . a . . . selfless act! You could've been killed, Chet!"

"I know."

"I won't forget what you did for us. Ever."

Chet looked up into Roy's intense blue eyes. Part of him wanted to pull his gaze away, embarrassed by his friend's sudden show of emotion, but he couldn't.

"Thank you, Chet," Roy said, he voice cracking as his throat became tight with emotion.

"Anytime, man," Chet replied quietly. "Anytime."

The End