Part 3
Buck shifted restlessly in his sleep, the nightmarish images coming closer. He had to get away...He had to move...
Pain tore through his battered body and he awoke with a gasp. His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for the danger that he knew was lurking there. For several frozen seconds he didn't recognize his surroundings. White walls, TV mounted on the wall, pale blue curtains on the window, pulled aside to reveal a sky heavy with leaden rain clouds. Flowers, plants and stuffed animals crowded on the windowsill and the high table against the wall.
Recent memory, and searing pain, swept over him in a wave and he moaned, trying to curl his body against it. All that accomplished was to send more pain jolting through his leg, his shattered ribs, pounding into his head. He closed his eyes tightly and pressed back into the hard flat pillow, feeling sweat break out on his forehead.
'Damn.'
He hated this. Hated the dreams, hated the pain, hated the hospital. Hated the drugs that eased the pain somewhat, only to leave him feeling sluggish and weak and stupid.
Most of all, he hated being helpless and trapped in this bed.
Slowly, reluctantly, the pain eased a little. He became aware that he was breathing in the rapid, shallow gasps that everyone - from his nurses to the respiratory therapists to Nathan Jackson – had warned him against, and he consciously tried to slow and deepen his breaths. The tightness in his chest didn't ease and he rubbed at it absently.
Finally opening his eyes, he focused on the clock next to the bed, smiling a little as he always did when he looked at it. JD had brought it to him, the first night after he'd been released from ICU and settled into this room for what promised to be a protracted stay. Heaven knows where the kid had found a 1970s Charlie's Angels clock, but it did cheer the room. He glanced around again; letting his eyes rest on the other items his friends had brought in to brighten the long days.
A few minutes after four. Still the quiet time of his day. He wasn't due any medication until five, although if a nurse showed up with a pain pill right about now he might not refuse it. His evening crop of visitors usually started arriving around five-thirty. Dinner came at six. The flow of visitors slowed around seven or seven-thirty, but JD and at least one other of his teammates would stay until visiting hours were over at nine, leaving only after they were assured he was ready for sleep. Sometimes one of them spent the night on a cot in the corner, but he tried to convince them not to. He'd spent enough nights on those torture devices to know just how little sleep they allowed, and his friends needed to be well rested for the job. Buck worried enough about everybody without having to worry about that too. He thought his doctor or somebody must have said something, or maybe Chris had just laid down the law, because no one had tried to stay the last few nights.
Mornings were hectic, starting around five a.m. when the vampires – the lab techs - emerged from the depths of the earth-the hospital lab-to take his blood. No one had yet given Buck a logical reason why they needed a blood sample every day. "Orders," they just said tritely. Most of the techs – one of them had informed Buck she was technically a "phlebotomist" - were pretty skilled but by this time his veins were getting tired of giving up their bounty. There was one guy though, that Buck just knew would be more comfortable with a machete or maybe a chain saw, than a syringe.
Buck usually dozed off after the vampires left, to be awoken again around six when the getting-ready-to-go-home night shift came banging in to take his vitals and assure themselves he hadn't expired since their last visit. Hard on their heels came the newly arrived day shift to give him his morning meds. Visiting hours didn't start until eleven but the staff turned a blind eye to the fact that Vin or Nathan almost always showed up to cajole Buck into eating some breakfast. Most of the others popped in on their way to work to say good morning as well.
Once Buck had forced down some of his meal-the food wasn't bad, he just didn't seem to have any appetite-morning rush started. Dr. Culver made rounds. Various other doctors that had something to do with his case made rounds. Residents made rounds, interns made rounds, hell, even medical students made rounds! An aide showed up to give him a sponge bath-which had gone from embarrassing, to mildly enjoyable, to just part of the routine. His Occupational Therapist-a rather abrasive guy named David-showed up to supervise his shaving and combing hair. Respiratory Therapy came in to heckle him into breathing deeply, or coughing, or inhaling or exhaling into a variety of plastic torture devices. Every one of the RTs was cute, young and female, but Buck had stopped flirting with them days ago. They just made him hurt. Depending on something-Buck didn't know what factors went into it-they'd either increase his oxygen, decrease his oxygen, or sometimes decide he could go without it for a few hours.
The door would no sooner close behind the RT than the PT would bounce in. Now, Buck had to admit he did enjoy those sessions, and not just because Kia was blonde and all of twenty-six. While he was still bedfast, his physical therapy consisted of arm and leg exercises—sometimes with weights involved - and massages to keep his skin from breaking down. By the time Kia left he was usually ready for a short nap. That was the most restful sleep he got.
Most days, JD and usually Ezra would show up about the same time as his lunch tray. Ezra had a deeply ingrained belief that hospital food was inedible, so he usually smuggled "real" food in. Well, there wasn't much smuggling to it, Ezra being Ezra he just waltzed in with it and no one ever said anything. Because of the trouble he went to, and because JD would turn on the pleading puppy dog look, Buck ate better at lunch than at other meals. Still, he'd lost nearly twenty pounds since he'd been in the hospital and the staff dietician was threatening him with supplemental milkshakes.
After lunch, other members of his "rehab team" would come by: social worker, counselor, and at one-thirty the speech therapist. Buck had no idea why she was involved-he could talk just fine if anyone ever bothered to listen to him-and all they ever did was play card games or maybe checkers for the half hour she was there.
Then it quieted down. He got meds and a snack at two and usually could count on being alone and undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon.
Buck reached for the controls and slowly raised the head of the bed until the strain on his healing ribs and chest was painful, then eased it back slightly. Curling one arm around his ribs, he reached out with the other and grasped the edge of the bedside table, rolling it closely to his side. He opened the drawer and pulled out the thick accordion file he'd asked Vin to retrieve from his demolished apartment. He studied the contents every afternoon, making notes on a yellow legal pad, comparing them to other notes tucked into the files. Years of notes. Years of dead ends and frustrations.
Years of sorrow and anger and guilt.
As he undid the string holding the folder closed, a file slipped out and fell to the floor, a page from within fluttering loose. He grabbed at it.
Page three of the Sarah's autopsy report. His eyes fell on one sentence in particular.
And his mind fled back through the years to that fateful morning...
"Uncle Buck! Uncle Buck!"
Buck caught his godson in mid-air and swung the child up. "Hey there, Pard," he greeted the almost six year old. "Boy, you're growing faster than a dandelion in a cow pasture. Pretty soon you'll be wearin' my clothes!"
Sarah turned around from the stove, giggling. "Buck you know you'd never share your Jimmy Buffett shirts with anyone!"
Adam frowned. "Who's Jimmy Buffett?"
Sarah laughed again as Buck staggered in mock-dismay. "Oh, li'l Pard...they're not raisin' you right if you have to ask that..." With Adam still in his arms he stepped forward for Sarah's quick hug. "Where's Chris?" He sat Adam down and the little boy promptly took off, yelling "Daddy! Uncle Buck's here!"
"Buck, I need a favor," Sarah said quickly.
Buck raised his eyebrows. "Anything for a pretty lady, Sarah. You know that," he grinned. She swatted him with a dishtowel.
"I'm serious!" She looked quickly toward the living room and lowered her voice. "My appointment with Dr. Fulcher got postponed until six o'clock...I need you to keep Chris sidetracked. Can't you two go to dinner or something in Colorado Springs before you come home tonight?"
Buck shrugged. "Guess so. You know, Sarah, he's likely to kill me when he finds out we've been keepin' this a secret!"
She smiled. "You know he won't." She laid a hand on Buck's arm. "Please, Buck...it's just...after the miscarriage, I just want to be sure before I tell him. He wants a little girl so badly..."
Buck gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Don't you worry none, Sarah. I'll keep Detective Larabee busy tonight."
It rained all the way to Colorado Springs. Buck had meant to buy new wipers but he kept forgetting except when it rained, of course. Chris needled him about that the whole trip.
The training session wasn't bad as those things went. At least the presenter had some experience in the field. Buck hated those classes where some guy in a three-piece suit who had never had a .457 Magnum pointed at his gut condescendingly spoke about "Positive Police Relations With The Community" or something equally mind-numbing.
They got out about four-thirty and went in search of windshield wipers. There was a Mexican restaurant down the street from the auto-parts store. Buck looked longingly at the inviting cantina. A couple of young beauties grinned at him, flirting, as they went in. Mindful of his promise to Sarah to delay Chris' return to Denver, Buck suggested they stop for dinner and maybe a drink.
"Ought to be gettin' back," Chris drawled. "You know Sarah will be keepin' dinner warm. Think she was goin' to make liver and onions, just for you."
Buck managed to paste a horrified look on his face, although inwardly he was laughing. Chris never had figured out Buck and Sarah were fooling him about the liver and onions. It was a running joke that had been going on since before Sarah and Chris were married. Buck really did hate liver-so did Sarah-but they put up with it for Chris' sake.
"Oh, Chris," Buck said persuasively. "It's a long drive back in the rain and a man needs somethin' under his belt..." He let his eyes follow some more girls going into the cantina.
"Yeah, you're thinkin' about under your belt all right," Chris returned. He clapped his partner on the back. "Come on, Cowboy...can't have you wasting away, can I?"
Buck had a good time, even though he didn't drink. He never needed alcohol to give him a high when there were pretty ladies around. Still he let Chris drag him out around seven-thirty. Chris fell asleep on the trip back and Buck kept the radio low, humming along under his breath. The miles sped by and almost before he knew it he was exiting the highway and on the road to Chris' ranch.
As he drove, he thought about the new baby. Sarah wanted a girl but Buck knew his friends would love whatever it was. He would too. Chris, Sarah, Adam, and now this new baby-they were Buck's family. The family he'd always wanted growing up the bastard son of a prostitute. Buck loved his mother, and knew she'd done a damn good job of raising him, but he'd always imagined what it must be like to be part of a real family. Then with his mother's murder he'd been alone. A loneliness that no woman he'd dated had ever managed to heal-
What the hell-?
He saw the lights first. Swirling beams of red and blue shining eerily through the mist. Cars skewed all over the roadway. A fire truck. Ambulance. Police cars...
'Oh, God...'
A pick-up truck half in the ditch on the side of the road. Burned, still smoldering.
He stomped on the brakes, heard a voice keening "God no! God no!" and only later realize it was his own voice.
He saw paramedics carrying a gurney to the ambulance. A tiny body wrapped in the bright yellow casualty blanket. Ghost-like figures holding IV bottles aloft...
There was a buzzing in his ears. Words. Chris' voice..."Jesus, Buck, what the hell-"
'Oh God. Please, no, please...don't let it be...' Buck forced himself to look at Chris. "Chris-" he said brokenly.
...The blood draining from Chris' face as he saw what Buck prayed so desperately was a nightmare...
The next hours were a blur of horror. Buck never could remember how he got from there to the hospital. His next clear memory was hours later, standing outside the cubicle in the burn ward, watching his best friend and the child he loved as his own.
Knowing Sarah was dead. Sarah and the child she'd carried within her.
Knowing it was his fault. He'd stalled to stay later in Colorado Springs. If he'd driven straight home...
His fault. His fault.
"You son of a bitch!"
Startled, Buck looked up.
A livid Chris Larabee stood in the doorway of his hospital room.
Visitation at the county jail was two to four p.m., three afternoons a week.
Visitation for the public, that is. Lawyers for those incarcerated in the jail could see their clients any time between eight and five, Monday through Friday.
Marcus Hoyt's long-time attorney-a man even he thought of as a "slimeball", could no longer practice law in the state of Colorado, as he was awaiting sentencing on a charge of hindering prosecution. That was a plea-bargain from the much more serious charge of conspiracy to commit murder-arising from his admission that he'd been the one to procure the real names of the two undercover ATF agents who had infiltrated Hoyt's organization.
Hoyt was pissed at the slimeball. The man had enjoyed a hefty retainer all these years and the one time he was threatened with charges, he fell apart and started confessing so fast the stenographers could barely get it all down. Slimeball was a dead man.
And he was pretty pissed off as well at the judge who'd decided that, since Slimeball had admittedly been involved in a criminal act, he'd been acting as a co-conspirator and not as a lawyer, and therefore attorney-client privilege did not apply. Everything Hoyt had ever divulged to his erstwhile attorney could now be used against him.
He'd had to find a new attorney, which was a lot harder a task than he'd thought it would be. Eventually though, Darla McGivens had agreed to take his case. The crusty sixty-year-old had somehow made a successful career defending white-collar criminals even though she looked, spoke and acted like a pillar of rectitude.
Needless to say, Hoyt wasn't depending on his attorney to get him out of the mess he found himself in.
Although his bail had been revoked and he was stuck in the county jail until his trial (or until his lawyer could find a more sympathetic judge) most of his people were still free. One-his long time friend and right-hand man, Tom Bales-visited him like clockwork, every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at two-thirty.
This particular day Marcus was especially anxious for his old friend's visit. Not because he was worried about the fate of the three main witnesses against him-Slimeball the Attorney, and Special Agents Buck Wilmington and Ezra Standish. He had every faith that those little problems would be taken care of, and soon.
No, there was someone else he was worried about.
"Have you been able to find Sarah?" His tone was anxious.
Bales slowly shook his head. "She cleaned out the safe deposit box at First Federal the same day she sold her car."
Hoyt nodded. That box contained the fake identification papers and documents he'd set up for Sarah long ago just in case something like this happened. She didn't know much about his business dealings but he'd pounded into her head to use another identity if needed. But, he had no way of knowing which identity she was using now. The bank accounts in each name hadn't been touched.
"If she talks to the Feds-" Bales started.
"She won't," Hoyt snapped. "That Wilmington conned her-used her. But she's loyal to me."
Bales didn't look convinced, but he shrugged. "We've got people on the inside. She makes a move toward the Feds or the DA, I'll hear about it."
Looking back later, Chris realized it was sheer luck-or maybe the intervention of a benign Deity-that kept him from causing an accident on the way to University Medical Center. Traffic across town was sluggish and the periodically heavy rainfall throughout the day had knocked out traffic signals and left intersections flooded.
Chris paid no attention to any of it. His head throbbed with the stabbing tension headache that had started that night when both Ezra and Buck were on life support and had never completely abated since.
He kept seeing Buck. Buck, dead-killed by an assassin as he lay helpless in his hospital bed.
And other visions crowded him-visions of the past, fragments of conversations, memories-swirled around him.
...Rain pelting against the windshield of Buck's pickup as he looked out to see the black body bag being loaded into the Coroner's wagon...
...Adam, screaming in agony in the burn ward...then finally, taking his last breath and slipping away from his tortured body...
...Pressing the sharp blade of the knife into Buck's throat, feeling the warm blood ooze over his own fingers...
...Buck's battered body on life support...
... "Damn it Buck, I cut your throat with a fucking knife! How could that be an accident?"...
He slammed the Ram's door, not even noticing he'd parked in a handicapped space, and strode through the pneumatic doors into the hospital lobby. People turned to stare, then prudently stepped out of his way.
Fear and fury built with every step, pounding in time with his head.
He was off the elevator before the doors fully opened, stomping past the nurses' station, not even hearing the greetings by the women there. Tension bore knots in his temple and the base of his skull as he turned right and went down the short hallway. There was no guard on the door. The guards had been taken off because with Hoyt in jail everyone had assumed the danger to Buck was over.
God, how stupid and wrong they'd been...
He shoved open the door to room 2246, taking one look inside. Buck, his face pale and eyes smudged with dark shadows, looked up in surprise.
Alive. Buck was alive. He was safe. Chris felt almost dizzy with relief.
Then fear and relief were swept away in a rising tide of anger.
"You son of a bitch!"
tbc...