AN: I know it's a holiday weekend for most people, but please let me know what you think! Reviews make my day!
Chapter Three
He dreamt that night - one of those creepy dreams where his consciousness was well aware that he was dreaming. He knew it was those last thoughts of Carter that spurred his dream, yet his consciousness was powerless to wake him. He could only sit by and let the dream happen.
It started out pleasant enough - he was on a bike. The road was dark and his full concentration was fixated on the thin beam of brightness from his headlight. The roar of the motor was drowned out by the thickness of the helmet protecting his head. His hands were ice cold from the wind and he heard the chiding voice in the back of his head that told him he never should have been so upset to have forgotten his gloves. His conscious mind reminded him that he'd never been on a motorcycle in all his life and therefore never would have known he'd need gloves.
The turn was tight and it took all of his strength to keep the bike under control; it didn't matter, though. He gunned it a little harder, increasing the speed. His eyes lighted on the speedometer for a moment, laughing inwardly when he saw the next speed limit sign. No, he had no tolerance for traffic laws when he was angry. Although he remembered that he hadn't been angry anymore when he went to bed, he was angry in the dream. He felt the heat coursing through his veins; he felt his heart pounding; he felt his teeth grinding to hold back the frustrated scream that threatened. The sheer force of his anger startled him - even when Carter was challenging him, he hadn't felt so pissed. But he was mad. And more - the hatred was covering the pain and defeat and impotence of his position. Half awake, he reminded himself that he was the one in charge; he called the shots. In his dream, he was the loser. But on his bike, he was in charge. There was no rank or loyalty or constraints.
He gunned the engine more, letting the increasing speed drive the demons from him. The pressure of the wind on his chest forced back the feeling that he was going to explode from the emotions raging inside him. He felt the roughness of the grips against his hands and squeezed as hard as he could, the exertion draining more of the stress out of him. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and let it wash over him.
He understood in that moment why she rode. He felt the release, the relief, the escape. He drew in a few slow deep breaths, easing the tension from his soul. Calm once again, he eased off the accelerator and brought the bike back to a more manageable speed where he could easily handle the twists in the road.
The lightening took him by surprise, even though he had been well aware of the storm that was raging when he went to sleep. His heart rate sped up again, from nerves rather than anger. The thunder was drowned out by the bike and the helmet, but he knew it was there. The rain felt like cold blades slicing into his unprotected hands. He cursed himself for forgetting the gloves once again, instinctively knowing that wet hands could lose their grip easily.
He told himself that he was dreaming as his heart pounded against his chest. He wanted to wake up, but he was held prisoner by his thoughts.
His headlight no longer did anything to combat the darkness - the clouds and rain and fog left him blinded. He knew there was nowhere safe to stop and wait it out, not on the twisting, winding road he'd chosen for his heedless pursuit of freedom. He slowed slightly, mindful of the slick pavement beneath him, and telling himself that he needed to check the forecast before he took off in a rage.
And suddenly, through the sheeting rain, he saw the trees. They were too close. The bend was too tight. The bike was going too fast. He tried with all his might to stop. He felt the wheels sliding, bumping roughly as they lost contact with the road. His mind was screaming at him to speed up in order to regain that grip, somehow knowing that increasing the revolution of the tires was the only chance he had to retake control. And still, his mind asked him where he'd gotten that information because he never recalled knowing it before then. Nonetheless, the terror overtook his analytical mind and he could only brake harder as the bike started to roll.
He was weightless for a heart-stopping moment until he felt the tug of the bike, heavy in his tight grasp. He fought for control although he knew it was gone. His hands reluctantly gave up hold of the handles when the weight just became too much for him.
And then he was falling, tumbling, flying. He felt nothing except terror.
The physical sensations were gone, lost with the bike, as the emotional took over. The terror abated, allowing sadness and loss to rise up. They faded to something else and it took his mind a moment to recognize that it was forgiveness. He wasn't mad at all; there were no hard feelings.
And that realization made way for the last one - perhaps the scariest thing he'd ever felt in all his life. Love. Complete and utter love. It was thoughts of Carter that enveloped him, cushioned him from the blows that rained down on his body. He heard the snap of bone as his body came to a halt, half wrapped around a tree. He didn't feel pain. He didn't feel the cold rain seeping through the tears in his clothes. As the darkness descended around him, he felt only love. Because, really, in the end, that was all that mattered.
Jack jerked awake, sitting straight up in bed and gasping for breath. His eyes searched the darkness wildly, seeing the familiar dark shadows of his bedroom lit occasionally by the flashes of lightening. The storm was moving away, but he still felt it inside of him. He took a few deep breaths and dropped his face into his hands as he tried to calm down.
He'd had nightmares for years. Following his years of covert ops and Charlie's death, he'd become all too familiar with the pattern of waking up drenched in sweat and out of breath. He was shaking as he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet.
The bathroom light blinded him when he switched it on and he pressed his hands against his closed lids as it reminded him too much of the lightening in his dream. He gulped down handfuls of water and tried to block out the images that continued to assault him of tumbling uncontrollably. Part of him still felt like he was falling. He ran his hands through his hair, causing the wet pieces to stand up in their usual crazy angles.
He sat down heavily on the side of the bathtub, feeling the protest of his lungs after the workout his heart had gotten. It had been years since he'd had a nightmare like that and he told himself he was going to order Carter to find a less dangerous hobby. He chuckled to himself when he imagined telling her that she was giving him nightmares. She'd get a good kick out of that.
Still trembling, he made his way to the living room and dropped onto the couch. He was physically exhausted. With rest like that, he needed a vacation. He reached for the remote and tried to drown out the parts of his mind that were still screaming with the ceaseless drone of CNN.
Forty-five minutes of financial news later, he wasn't feeling any better. Just like everyone else who had a nightmare, he wanted the comfort of a familiar voice to reassure him that it was just a dream and that he was all right. Besides, he thought as he dialed the phone, he owed her an apology. The fact that she didn't answer did not soothe him. He told himself that she was just really angry as he hung up and redialed four times.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time he headed for his truck. He'd thrown on some jeans that sorely needed washing and a jacket as a nod to the weather, but hadn't bothered with a shirt. He just wanted to check, he told himself. He wasn't going to knock and wake her. He just needed to make sure.
His heart had resumed its pounding when he pulled up to her house. He told himself that the presence of her car meant that she was safe and sound inside. But the lights burning inside told him otherwise. He raced over her lawn, realizing he hadn't bothered with shoes as the wet grass slid between his toes. He knew she was going to get a good laugh at him when she saw him. And she deserved to - after the way he'd acted. Against his better judgment, his fist fell hard on the door. He wasn't seeking entrance; he was insisting on it.
He continued to pound long after it became obvious that she wasn't going to answer. He paid no attention to what her neighbors might think when he boosted himself up on her trash cans to peer in the garage windows. He saw exactly what he'd expected - nothing. Her bike was gone.
He dialed Daniel's number as he climbed back in his truck. He was trying to fight the waves of near hysteria that were rolling through him, but his voice was broken as he answered Daniel's sleepy greeting. "Daniel, is Sam there?"
"What? No." Daniel paused for a moment, probably locating his glasses in the dark. "Jesus, Jack, it's three in the morning. What would Sam be doing here now?"
He fought back the sob, but it escaped anyway. "I think she's hurt, Daniel. Meet me downstairs." He hung up before Daniel was able to utter a response.
It felt like forever before his wheels screeched to a halt on the sidewalk below Daniel's apartment. Daniel was waiting for him, the hood of his windbreaker obscuring his face. He barely climbed in the truck before Jack peeled out again.
"Jack, what's going on?" He threw back his hood to shake off the water and then turned to notice his friend's attire. "Did you guys have a fight?"
Jack shook his head guiltily. "Before she left work. She was really pissed. Where does she go to ride?" He would have been ashamed that he didn't know, but he was too upset.
Daniel placed a reassuring hand on Jack's shoulder. "Maybe she's just not answering because she mad. Did you go by her place?"
Jack swiped angrily at the tears on his face. "Of course I did. Her bike was gone, Daniel." He turned to stare at Daniel with pain-filled eyes. "Now you tell me where she'd be at three in the morning on her bike."
Something in Jack's eyes or voice or tears made Daniel fully aware that it was very real. "She likes to go riding out in North Cheyenne Park."
Jack pressed harder on the gas as he headed to the outskirts of town. He didn't want to think of her in that park, injured and helpless and alone. He knew there were only a few roads there, but they were terribly dangerous as far as he was concerned, especially in the middle of a storm.