Chapter 43

Hanging On

Intro song: Forever On Your Side, Need To Breathe

Guillermo raced down the hall to Josef's den, leaving Beth alone to watch over Mick. It made him uneasy to leave their side, but it was time to make some decisions. Throwing open the door to Josef's sanctuary, he revealed a showcase of classic, priceless antiques mixed with high-tech equipment that, right now, had the atmosphere of a war room. Ryder was simultaneously working on the desktop computer and manning the phone, while Logan, seated beside him, frowned into his laptop screen, the glow from the LCD display giving his face a ghostly blue cast. Simone, the lone human in the room, paced up and down in front of the stone fireplace, a legal pad covered in her careful script, waving in her left hand as she argued heatedly with someone on her cell phone.

Kostan was standing at one end of the granite fireplace, staring blindly out through the heavily tinted windows into the darkness, oblivious to the flurry of activity around him. When Guillermo entered the room, however, he spun around, fear and tension immediately evident in his face.

Gasol quickly realized what the vampire leader was thinking and held up his hands. "Mick's still alive, Josef." He watched as the vampire's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I just- " He took a breath and rushed on. "Look, his heart rate isn't good. I don't think I can try to remove any more of the silver the way things are. The pain is just too much for him to take and he isn't healing at all. I'm afraid that the shock is going to kill him if I keep going this way."

The news, while not unexpected, hit Josef hard and he had a difficult time focusing on Guillermo's next comments.

"...unless we have a way to anesthetize him to minimize the pain. I was just thinking…do we have any of the drugs here yet that this Spector wanted?" Gasol looked at the elder vampire hopefully.

Josef turned to his lawyer, who had finished her call and lowered her thin body into a soft leather wing chair the color of burgundy wine, while he and Guillermo talked.

"Simone, what's the latest update?"

The beautiful brunette rubbed her forehead as she looked down at the legal pad on her lap, the gold bangle bracelets on her arm jingling slightly as she impatiently pushed her heavy hair back from her face. "Damn, I could use some coffee, Josef! Okay, we have two tanks of the isoflurane gas here now, with two more due to be delivered within the hour."

She looked up, careful to arrange her face into an expressionless mask. "Isoflurane is the anesthetic gas used on humans…and gorillas. Apparently, this doctor intends to use it in combination with ketamine, tiletamine and…" She dropped her gaze to refer to her notes before continuing. "And zolazepam - all injectable drugs that he can put on continuous drips. They will put Mick under pretty deeply and keep him there. At least that's what I got from the conference call with him. Now, how much of the gas he needs to use, and for how long, I'm not sure. I'm not even sure he will know until he gets here and examines Mick. That's why we're getting more."

Seeing Josef nod his understanding, Simone transferred her gaze back to her notes. "Thank god we have the Los Angeles and San Diego Zoos in this state, or I'm not sure we could find any. They both have gorilla populations, so they have reason to stockpile some of it. I think Ryder and Logan have located every canister of this stuff on the West Coast - and there's not that much." She smiled tiredly over at the vampires manning the computers.

Ryder looked up from his screen and snorted, "Well, we had a little extra motivation what with Josef threatening us and telling us to look for another job if we come to him with any story about how we couldn't get hold of this stuff." He glanced surreptitiously at his boss, who frowned in his direction.

"Get back to work, Ryder," Josef snapped. "You're supposed to be checking the rest of the country. Oh, and have the staff bring some coffee in here for Simone."

Ryder took a large gulp of blood from the tumbler next to his elbow and picked up the desk phone, punching the intercom button to ring for the housekeeper. After a few murmured sentences, he put down the phone and turned back to study the latest information coming across his computer screen.

"Do you have the ketamine, or any of the other drugs yet?" Guillermo asked despairingly. His mind kept going back to Beth's blonde head resting next to Mick, her hand clutching his. His desperation stemmed from feeling that his friend was slipping away, He needed to do something if he was going to keep Mick alive, but he was uneasy about the use of the gas in the absence of the physician. They couldn't even be sure that they had enough of the gas yet to do the surgery when Spector arrived. It would be much easier and safer to jab Mick with an injection of some powerful analgesic.

Simone frowned as she checked her notes. "They aren't here yet. I just got off the phone with a supplier who was giving me the runaround on selling us the drugs. Bastard just wanted to hold me up for more money."

"Did you give it to him?" Kostan spoke up, his pale face grim.

"Of course I did, Josef. Against my better judgment, I might add. Your instructions were pretty clear though - whatever it takes, no matter what it costs, right?" She smiled up at her employer and lover encouragingly, trying to boost his spirits.

"So, we don't have them yet?" Gasol's shoulders sagged dejectedly.

"We should have them within 30 minutes or less. Logan is arranging to have them couriered over as soon as we complete the wire transfer to this guy's account. He won't turn them loose until he sees the money," Simone finished bitterly.

"Ryder! How much longer on the wire transfer?" Josef abruptly wheeled toward the vampire manning the computer.

England's head snapped up. "Just about to finish it now, Josef. No more than a couple of minutes - and he'll get the confirmation immediately. Pretty nice haul for him," he added sarcastically.

Josef nodded, his eyes glittering. "As soon as that's done and Logan has confirmed that the courier has picked up the drugs, I want this guy wasted. Make sure it's by a vamp. It has nothing to do with the money; it's about holding this medication for ransom, keeping someone from getting what they need in a life or death situation when they know I'm good for the money. Make absolutely sure that is clear. I want this bastard to know why he's gonna be dead."

Guillermo sank into the twin of Simone's chair, downhearted over the news that they had nothing on hand that he could use on Mick. Without anesthesia, he couldn't bring himself to inflict any more pain on his friend - and, in all likelihood, Mick wouldn't survive it anyway. Maybe it's time... The Latino looked from Simone, her eyes huge in her thin face as she took in the ferocity of Josef's death sentence to the drug supplier, to Kostan, his body shaking with barely contained rage at this human who would dare to deny his friend potentially life-saving medications. This needs to stop.

"Josef."

"What?!" the vampire snarled, wheeling around.

Guillermo looked down at his hands, swallowing hard. "I - I think maybe we should let Mick go in peace." He glanced up at Josef's tormented eyes. He's in almost as much pain as Beth. "I just don't think we can save him - and all I'm doing is torturing him." His voice grew thick with emotion and he cleared his throat with enormous effort. "I thought maybe if we had some of the drugs here, I could try to work with them, but without them..." He spread his hands helplessly. "The shock alone would be enough to kill him in his weakened condition. I'm not a surgeon, Josef. I just - I can't save him. And I don't know what to say to Beth." In his voice was all the heartache and desperation of the last several hours.

"Are you through?" The vampire's tone was icy.

"Josef..." Simone, reading Kostan's face, tried to intervene.

He waved his hand at the young woman impatiently, without glancing her way. His eyes never left Gasol's as he stalked over to the chair where the coroner's assistant was perched. "Stay out of this, Simone. Are you quite through, Guillermo?"

The seated vampire nodded mutely, hypnotized by the force of Josef's glare.

"Good. I want you to listen closely. You. Do. Not. Get. To. Make. That. Call." By the time Josef spat out the last word, he had leaned in so closely to Guillermo that their noses almost touched. In the background, Ryder and Logan had ceased all activity, transfixed by the scene in front of them.

Josef continued. "We are buying Mick time until Spector can get here. He will help him. I told you - Mick is not dying. You don't get to make that call. Beth doesn't get to make it. None of you get to make that call." There was a long pause before he added, "Not even Mick. " His voice was cold, hard steel.

There was silence as Guillermo stared into Joseph's suddenly ice blue eyes before he answered. "OK, I-I'll do everything I can, Josef." There was really no other response for him to make. Not if I want to keep my head attached to my body…

"Good!" Kostan announced to the room, straightening and dusting off his hands, as if he had just finished some bit of manual labor. "Now, everybody get back to work. Guillermo, I'll let you know the minute we have those drugs here."

With that dismissal, Josef turned back to the window, the dark, empty night outside providing a perfect counterpart for his feelings.

Carl Davis sat in his living room, shades drawn against the blackness outside, the flickering light from the television set playing across his handsome face. In his hand was a bottle of Makers Mark, the distinctive top, dipped in red wax, discarded on the coffee table in front of him. From time to time, he lifted the heavy bottle unsteadily to his lips as he stared, unseeing, at the images on the TV screen.

He had not planned to get drunk, hadn't planned to drink at all, in fact. But then, he hadn't planned to see his new-found friend torn apart by bullets right in front of him either. "Best-laid plans," he muttered bitterly, and took another gulp.

The detective had driven home from his confrontation with Talbot, still quivering with anger over the ADA's seeming indifference to the consequences of his push to get involved in the San Diego investigation. His callous dismissal of what had happened to Mick St. John as a result of his insistence that the P.I. be along on the trip had almost driven Davis to strike Talbot. As it was, he wanted to shout, punch the walls, throw things. Instead, he got out the bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon, a gift from his uncle, who had traveled through Kentucky, where the elixir was brewed and aged, on his way to a conference in Atlanta.

"One of the best bourbons there is, son," his uncle had boomed, handing over the bottle to him almost reverently. "Next to Pappy Van Winkle, that is…and that one is impossible to get. There are some new 'flavors of the month' out there, capitalizing on marketing, but this here is the real deal. Savor it when you have a special occasion - but just be sitting down when you drink it. The stuff is potent!"

"Well, this certainly qualifies as a special occasion," Carl said to the empty room. "Here's to you, Mick." He took another, longer, draught of the potent liquor and swiped at his mouth with the back of his free hand. He had started out with a glass, but soon discarded it in favor of the bottle itself, as the 45% alcohol content began to catch up with him.

His bleary eyes focused on the small object he had carefully placed on the coffee table, a marked contrast to his treatment of his keys, tossed with such force that they skidded across the polished surface of the table and landed on the floor. Forgotten, they still lay there, forlorn orphans of his grief. Davis leaned over to pick up the shiny trinket, coming dangerously close to face-planting on the table as he lost his balance. He brought it close to his face, balancing the small bit of metal in the palm of his hand. Frowning down at it, he nudged it with the forefinger of his other hand, gingerly flicking off a few grains of sand.

The bullet casing was an enigma. He had first noticed it during the examination of the crime scene after Mick was airlifted out. The police and ATF personnel at the scene had encouraged him to leave once he had given his report, but he had refused. Maybe he couldn't do anything to save St. John, but at least he could help in the investigation to bring the perpetrators to justice.

The bodies of the assailants had been searched, with little success. They had carried no identification, or personal effects - a curiosity in, and of, itself. The investigation would have to rely upon fingerprints and dental records to identify the dead men. If we're lucky, he thought now, sourly.

Too impatient to wait on the arrival of floodlights to make the job easier, the detective had begun scouring the desert's sandy, rock-strewn surface, despite the advent of darkness rendering the task more difficult. His high-power flashlight beam had swept from side to side in front of him, and he'd scuffed the ground, looking for any clues that would help them to unravel this mystery. Carefully inspecting the ground around the area where he estimated the shots that hit Mick had come from, the light had unexpectedly caught a glint in the sand. Dropping to his knees, he'd dug out the casing that now rested in his palm.

Protocol would normally dictate that he hand the evidence over to the detective in charge of the investigation. Protocol, however, did not allow for having one's travel companion practically blown apart right in front of your eyes. Without hesitation, Carl had pocketed the small piece of metal, saving it for closer study as part of his own, much more personal, investigation. He had never seen anything quite like it. The metal would need to be tested, but it gave the appearance of silver. "What the hell, was the Lone Ranger out there?" he muttered to the empty room.

The surface of the casing, distorted from the impact of the gun hammer, displayed an odd symbol. Twice, he attempted to pick up his pen to draw the design before giving up. His fingers, under the influence of significant quantities of alcohol, refused to cooperate with his efforts. He set the fragment back down on the table gently, as if it were a fragile piece of glass. Tomorrow, he would follow up on it, sketch out and research the symbol, have the metal tested, run ballistics on it. Tonight, however...

The idea of sitting alone in the quiet house suddenly became intolerable. It felt like a death watch - and, indeed, it probably was. The reality was that he was just waiting to get word that Mick St. John had died. In order to save him.

Dropping the Maker's Mark on the coffee table next to the bullet casing, the heavy bottle teetered before righting itself - much like Carl himself, staggering as he made his way to his feet, the alcohol hitting his now-upright brain. The detective put out a hand to catch himself on the leather sofa to keep from falling, easing himself back down to the spot he had just vacated.

"You ain't goin' anywhere, son," he slurred, shaking his head ruefully.

Reaching out to snag the bottle again, a coherent corner of his mind advised him that more bourbon was definitely not a smart idea. He silently told the voice to shut the fuck up, and sent another swallow of alcohol burning its way down his throat. Self-pitying tears burned at the back of his throat as he realized that there was no one he could call after 1:00 o'clock in the morning, no one whose shoulder he could cry on, or to whom he could spill his feelings of guilt and regret.

His troubles with Lisa, his ex-wife, were well-known in the department. Her affair with a fellow detective, and the subsequent scenes and near-violence that had resulted, had served to effectively ostracize him from his co-workers. Yeah, like they would have been any different if it had happened to them.

Davis grasped that he was admired for the work he did - but he also knew he was feared and avoided, branded as a loose cannon and given a wide berth by most in the department. Lisa had left him with little self-respect... and, though there were those with whom he socialized, he had no friends he felt close enough to that he could 'drunk dial' them for company. She really did a number on me, he thought resentfully, not for the first time. Yeah, and you were such a peach to live with…

Wait…Jamie!

Why not? She was friends with Beth so she would want to know about Mick anyway. Maybe Jamie could help Beth... And you?Davis felt another stab of guilt, thinking about Beth. First Josh, now Mick... He buried his face in his hands, anguished over the thought of what she would be forced to deal with. No one should have to go through that alone. And neither should he. Yes, he needed to call Jamie.

It took Carl several tries to untangle his cell phone from his jacket pocket, snagging it on the lining repeatedly until finally, out of frustration, he ripped the fabric to free it. Squinting at the screen, he closed one bleary eye to reconcile the two screens into one, and punched in Jamie's number. Sinking back against the cushions, he closed his eyes with a sigh of relief as the phone rang.

A soft voice hesitantly said, "Hello? Carl?"

"Jamie, I- ." He stopped, his voice thick, unable to go on.

"Carl! What's wrong?! Where are you?!" Her voice flooded with concern.

He tried twice to get words out, but the combination of his emotions and the alcohol he had consumed, conspired to choke him on the words.

"Where are you?" Jamie's tone grew insistent. "Carl! Tell me where you are."

"Home," he finally managed to get out in a whisper.

"I'm coming over. Stay right where you are. Don't you move, you hear me, Carl Davis?!" Her New Orleans accent grew stronger as she gave him firm instructions.

"Yes, ma'am, hear you. Don' think I can move an'way," he slurred meekly, already consoled by the thought that she was coming to his rescue. "Be righ' here."

"I'm coming," Jamie repeated and hung up. Oh, god, they went to San Diego today! A sick feeling settled into the pit of her stomach as she sprang up to throw on the first clothes she grabbed. Gathering her unruly curls into a haphazard ponytail, the young woman took a quick look at herself in the mirror and winced. Her mother had lectured her long, and often on appearances. "Ladies do not go out without makeup and their hair done, Jamie." She hesitated for a moment, then...

"Screw it!" Snatching her car keys from their customary place on her nightstand, she bolted out the door.

End Song: Need You Now, Lady A