Part 10
Nathan stifled a yawn as he got off the elevator, carefully balancing the two steaming Styrofoam cups he held. The nurses' station was empty as he passed. It wasn't quite midnight but already the hospital was sunk deep into the noisy hush of night shift.
Sgt. Ian Hamilton of the Denver PD was in the chair outside Buck's room, frowning over a book of crossword puzzles. "Know a seven-letter word for herb of death? he asked, not looking up.
"Hemlock. Here." Nathan handed him one of the cups. Eyebrows raised in surprise, Hamilton took a greedy sniff. "You didn't get this from the cafeteria," he commented, peeling off the plastic lid and sipping happily.
"No. I had to get out for a while," Nathan confessed. "Walked over to that all-night coffee place in the mall." Nathan didn't mention he'd had to leave the hospital to return Josiah's call on his cell phone. He reached for the door handle but Hamilton lifted one hand to stop him.
"Respiratory Therapist is in there. Said something about giving Wilmington a breathing treatment, whatever that is."
Nathan cringed. He knew how necessary the treatments were-knew how important it was that Buck coughed to clear his lungs of the congestion clogging them-but the act of coughing was so painful to the injured man that he kept trying to stop it.
The door opened then and the RT stepped out. Nathan hadn't seen this one before-middle aged, slightly stooped, with heavy black-framed glasses. Nathan smothered a smile, imagining how disappointed Buck must have been. Wilmington kept saying all the RTs were so hot!
"Left the mask on. I gotta go start another treatment and then I'll be back," the therapist said in a strong New York accent. "We're shorthanded tonight." He hurried down the hall.
"Thanks for the coffee," Hamilton grunted to Nathan, looking back down at his puzzle.
"No problem." Nathan stepped inside Buck's room. Buck had been dozing when he'd left and he'd turned off all the lights except the half-panel over the bed. The RT must have turned on the overhead light though; the harsh fluorescents cruelly showed the pallor of the injured man's face. Buck's eyes shifted toward Nathan and he weakly waved, prohibited from talking by the clear plastic mask that covered his mouth and nose. As usual the hiss and bubble that accompanied the breathing treatment made Nathan think of an old-fashioned coffee-pot.
Buck's hand went toward the mask. Nathan caught it and replaced it on the bed. "Don't," he scolded. "Don't try to talk, just breathe deeply. Mouth and nose."
Buck gave him a withering look, fighting a cough. He gestured to the phone.
"I talked to Josiah," Nathan said, sitting back down in his chair. He scooted his notebook over with his foot. The relief he'd felt at hearing his best friend's voice had vanished as Josiah solemnly filled him in on the bust. "Everyone's okay," he hastened to assure Buck, seeing the anxiety in his dark blue eyes. "Well...Josiah said Ezra got shaken up some but they didn't take him to the hospital so he must be okay." Nathan hurried on, "JD's fine. He and Bobby are taking the car Ezra borrowed back to Shreveport...they'll catch a flight out from there. The others were going to get a couple hours sleep and then head to Dallas. Be back here tomorrow afternoon sometime."
Buck reached for the mask again. Again, Nathan swatted his hand away. "Leave that alone," he repeated. He glanced at the plastic vial attached to the oxygen line; it was still half full.
Buck started coughing: deep, tearing coughs. His face whitened with the pain and he tried to curl around his damaged ribs, gasping. Worried, Nathan put the back of his hand on Buck's forehead. 'Damn.' In spite of the powerful antibiotics flowing into his veins through the IV, Buck's temperature was rising. "Just go with it," he coached, feeling helpless. "Don't fight it so hard."
The spasm finally eased and Buck relaxed into the pillows, exhausted. The bluish tinge to his complexion alarmed Nathan and he belatedly noticed the head of the bed hadn't been elevated. That surprised him; during the previous treatments he'd seen, the RTs had always raised Buck as close to sitting upright as he could bear. Nathan reached over for the controls and raised Buck's head.
Buck's color didn't improve and he started panting, eyes widening in panic as he couldn't get enough oxygen to his damaged lungs. Recognizing the symptoms, Nathan leaned over him, getting as close to Buck as he could, catching his eyes with his own. "Buck! Listen to me," he said, low but urgently, compelling Buck to focus on him. "Relax. Just try to breathe normally. You've got plenty of oxygen, Buck...you just need to calm down and let your body get it."
He could tell Buck was listening to him but he couldn't seem to comply. Then he started coughing again, harder, and that just made things so much worse. One of the alarms started pinging. Nathan didn't look up to see which one it was; he just hit the call button for the nurse. Then, remembering the empty station and realizing they must all be with other patients, he started for the door. Buck had a tight grip on his hand and wouldn't let go. "Hamilton!" Nathan called, hoping his voice would penetrate the closed door and alert the policeman they needed help.
Buck's free hand went up to claw at the mask again. The vial of medication was almost empty and Nathan had just about decided to take matters into his own hands when the door was flung open to allow Janna, the night nurse, to rush in, followed by another young woman in a white lab coat. Sgt. Hamilton stood in the doorway; Nathan realized the man must have summoned help when he heard the yelling.
Janna took in the situation quickly and took the mask off Buck's face, replacing it with the lightweight oxygen canula. Out of the corner of his eye Nathan could see her adjust the flow higher. "Mr. Wilmington, I need you just to try to relax now," she said calmly. She looked up at Nathan. "This'd be a lot easier if we could turn him on his side."
Nathan nodded; it would be, but Buck's broken and casted leg - as well as the damaged ribs - prohibited that.
Slowly the coughing spasm eased. Nathan could feel Buck's tense muscles relax under his hands. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and under his eyes and the nurse went into the bathroom to wet a washrag. "I think we'll give you your next dose of pain meds a little early," she said, coming back in with the damp cloth. Nathan took it from her.
He'd almost forgotten the other woman in the room, until he heard her voice. "Who started his breathing treatment?"
Nathan looked at her for the first time, noticing her picture ID said M. Norris, Respiratory Therapy.
"The other RT, the man."
She looked confused. "I'm supposed to be the only one on this floor tonight. What was his name?"
Nathan didn't know. He looked at Hamilton, who shook his head. "He had a name tag on," Hamilton frowned, looking uneasy. "Not a picture ID, just a white pin...started with a 'C' I think...Carter, no, Cartier. That's it."
The RT shook her head. "Can't be. Phillip Cartier is off this whole week. He never comes up here, anyway - he's assigned to Pediatrics. What'd this guy look like?"
Nathan exchanged glances with Hamilton; he could feel cold chills chasing down his spine. Buck, fortunately, was too exhausted to notice the heightened tension in the room. His eyes were drifting shut.
"Middle aged guy, blond hair..."
"Black rimmed glasses," Nathan supplied.
The woman shook her head again. "That doesn't sound like anybody..." Before Nathan could stop her, she reached over and picked up the canister off the bed. There was a little liquid left in and she shook it, then took a cautious sniff. Her eyes, wide with alarm, met Nathan's. "We may have a problem," she whispered.
"What?" Nathan asked, dreading the answer.
The RT gulped. "I don't know what's in this," she said, extending the canister. "But it's not albuterol. It's not his breathing treatment."
They were somewhere on the highway - JD knew they'd left Oklahoma but he wasn't sure if they were currently driving through Arkansas, Texas or Louisiana - before he broke the silence in the SUV. "What happened?" he asked.
Bobby didn't look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Don't diss me," JD snapped. "You blew it out there. You acted like the worst kind of amateur-"
"Thank you, Chris Larabee." Bobby's voice was acidic.
"You're damn lucky he didn't hand you your head on a platter," JD pointed out. "And tryin' to lay the blame onto Ezra was just wrong, Bobby. Stupid and wrong."
Fragile silence stretched between them, brittle as spun sugar.
"You're right," Bobby finally said.
JD hadn't expected that. Bobby went on, musingly, "I shouldn't have accused Standish without more evidence. Should have known Larabee would just blow me off."
"More evidence? What are you talking about, Bobby?" JD demanded.
His friend shifted so he was facing him. "Look...JD...I know you won't want to believe this...but I wasn't lying. I don't know what happened to make that kid go off...but he was staring at Standish real funny. And when Standish looked back at him...and what was all that about making me take the money?"
JD sighed. "You were supposed to be his employee," he pointed out. "Wouldn't be proper for Ezra to actually touch the money. A gentleman doesn't do that," he recited.
Bobby made a rude exclamation. "Guess he told you that, huh, JD?" Bobby shook his head. "Look, you know who my family is..."
JD nodded. That he did. Everyone in the Denver office-probably everyone in the ATF-knew Bobby Fewell's family background.
The Fewell family was to government service what Wrigley was to chewing gum. Bobby's grandfather had been an assistant director of the FBI under J Edgar Hoover. His father was retired from the Secret Service; two uncles were high up in the FBI and his brother and several cousins were all in one or another of the alphabet agencies. JD's eyes narrowed as a sudden thought occurred to him. He remembered the first time he'd invited Bobby to join Team Seven for a drink after work; there'd been an odd constraint between the novice agent and Ezra. Neither one of them had ever explained it to JD, but Ezra had later mentioned almost in passing that he had worked with one of Bobby's cousins in Atlanta.
"That whole story about him being framed in Atlanta doesn't even make sense," Bobby's voice was rising in heat. "An Assistant Director tried to take him down? Why?" JD opened his mouth to answer but Bobby kept right on. "I appreciate your loyalty, JD, hell everyone knows Team Seven stands by their own, but what you guys don't get is that Standish doesn't deserve that loyalty. He's dirty, JD. He was dirty in Atlanta - how the hell do you think a lowly field agent could afford a Jag? - and he's dirty now."
JD managed to keep his voice level with an effort. "Bobby-"
"He's dirty, JD! And he was responsible for what happened on site. I can't prove it but I saw-"
"Saw what?" JD prodded when Bobby suddenly shut up. He didn't believe Ezra was dirty - hell, he'd known right off the bat Ezra was good people, even when the rest of Team Seven was floundering in doubt at the very beginning. He really didn't want to hear anything else Bobby had to say but he figured he should listen and try to defuse whatever was bothering him. If Bobby went back to Denver and started spouting off in front of the wrong people it could make trouble. Not so much for Ezra - JD didn't think anyone in the Denver office harbored any doubts of the undercover agent anymore - but for Bobby's sake. Chris wasn't too happy with him as it was and Buck would go ballistic if-
Buck.
Oh God, he'd forgotten for a little while. How could he forget? His best friend was in the hospital; he'd almost died...the home they'd shared was nothing more than a pile of rubble, their battered possessions relegated to cardboard boxes in Chris' barn.
"Saw what?" He asked again, desperately trying to get his mind off Buck. He couldn't deal with the confusion now, the anger, the fear and the hurt. 'Later...'
Bobby was silent for a long minute, then shifted around more in the seat, facing JD as much as he could within the confines of his seat belt. "In Shreveport," he started, "Standish didn't want us to share a room. He insisted on separate rooms. I said the budget guys wouldn't like that, he said he'd pay for his own damn room."
"So?" If Bobby had acted even half as hostile to Ezra as he was acting about him, JD could sure understand why the undercover agent hadn't wanted to share a room with him.
"I was wiped, crashed soon after we checked in. Something woke me about two - the guy next door having trouble with his key card, I think - anyway I couldn't go back to sleep. I was hungry. There wasn't any room service at that hour but there was a convenience store next door; I thought I'd walk over and get something."
JD frowned, really confused at how Bobby's middle-of-the-night munchies had anything to do with Ezra being on the take. Or not being on the take. Or whatever.
"I saw Standish," Bobby rushed on.
"Ezra was having a snack attack too?"
Bobby sighed. "No," he said patiently. "He was in the lobby, talking with some guy. Really furtive, they were in a corner. The guy had his back to me but I think-" Bobby paused dramatically.
"You think what?" JD had to force the words out. He was suddenly quite sure he really didn't want to hear what Bobby thought.
"The guy he was talking to was short. Red-haired."
JD finally followed Bobby's thought. "Oh, you can't mean-"
"Yeah. I bet it was that kid that jumped the gun at the bust today."
'Oh, God, no,' JD pleaded silently. 'It couldn't be...Ezra wouldn't have...'
But why would Bobby lie to him? They were friends...it didn't make sense...
JD stared through the windshield at the inky blackness of the highway.
He felt deserted and alone, and far away from home.
It was so late by the time everything was cleaned up at the site and the reports written and filed that Chris - seconded by Josiah - reluctantly decided they might as well spend what remained of the night in Hugo and get a fresh start for Dallas in the morning. Although Ezra didn't seem happy about the idea, the energy letdown that always accompanied the end of an undercover mission was hitting him hard, leading him to owl-eyed exhaustion. Vin didn't express an opinion either way.
They were leaving the Hugo Police Department building when the sergeant on desk duty called for them to wait. He approached Chris, holding a piece of crinkly fax paper in his extended hand. "We got an ID on that kid you killed," he said to Vin. There wasn't anything derogatory in his tone; just matter of fact, but Vin noticeably hesitated.
Thinking only of Vin's dyslexia and his not wanting him to be in awkward position, Chris reached out and took the paper from the man. "Sammy Parker. Ran away from a juvenile detention facility near Tulsa four months ago." He scanned the rest of the fax, shaking his head. Sammy Parker's short, unhappy life had been decided long ago.
"Any-" Vin stopped and cleared his throat. "Any family? Anybody that-"
"-Gives a damn?" the sergeant finished. He shook his head. "Don't look like it. Mother just up and left one day. Father's serving twenty-five to life in Big Mac-" he noticed Chris' puzzled look and interrupted himself to clarify, "State Prison at McAlester. We'll probably never know how the kid ended up down here with our little group of revolutionary wanna-be's. I'll notify the Juvie authorities up in Tulsa...they can close the books on him." He shook first Chris' hand, then Vin's. "Nice meetin' you fellas - hope you have a good trip back."
Vin took the fax from Chris and studied it with a tired, sad look on his face. Chris shook his head, knowing what Vin was thinking. "Nothing you could have done differently," he pointed out.
Vin nodded. "I know. Nothing I could have done different today. Just seems like sometime, someone should have done something different. I mean, hell, Chris. This kid's life was over before it even started. What chance did he have?"
Chris took a deep breath. "Same chance you had, once upon a time," he pointed out. "Yeah, the odds were against him, Vin, but sooner or later person has to make their own choices. Sammy Parker chose one way. You chose another. Hell, look at Buck. He had every reason to go the wrong way, too-" He stopped suddenly, reminded with a sickening lurch to his stomach, that Buck was far away and badly injured. He sighed. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get a couple hours sleep and then get the hell out of here. It's time we went home."
~+~+~+~
Ezra stood under the steaming cascade of water, imagining he could feel the thousands of individual drops striking muscles too long knotted with tension. He sighed in relief as the water soothed the burning ache in his shoulder and eased the stabbing pain behind his eye.
Washing the remnants of "Brody Carter" away.
It was never easy for him to return to his own skin, his own identity, after an undercover mission. Truth be told, he left a little part of himself behind every time. Few people would believe it. He'd been born to the con; it was what his mother made him, what she wished him to be. But, in spite of Maude's teachings, some small, stubborn streak of his father - that shadowy, half-remembered man - pulled Ezra away from Maude's often questionable schemes and into law enforcement. "What a waste of your God-given talents," his mother despaired. When she was angry with him for thwarting her desires yet again, her words were more spiteful. "I raised you for better than this." Ignoring that her "raising" of him had been sporadic at best; she'd frequently abdicated her maternal duties to friends, relatives, boarding schools and summer camps...
He forced his mind away from troubling thoughts; tried to blank it completely, concentrating on the feel of the warm water. He thanked the patron saint of undercover agents for the fact this little motel had an apparently unlimited supply of hot water.
The chill of air conditioning hit him as he exited the warm, steamy bathroom and he shivered, wishing he had something warmer to wear than his silk pajama bottoms. It wasn't that it was hot - actually the night was on the cool side - but he couldn't stand the stuffiness of hotel rooms. Upon entering the room he had immediately adjusted the air conditioner to its coldest setting. He quickly slid between the stiff sheets and stuffed both flat pillows under his shoulders. Reaching for the remote, he ran through the television channels quickly, avoiding the news, sports and weather that seemed prevalent and finally settling on the History Channel, which was airing a documentary about Nazi war criminals. Adjusting the volume just loudly enough to provide a background hum, he reached for his book. Tennyson's "Idylls of the King". A childhood favorite and one he frequently re-read when coming off an undercover mission.
But his mind refused to become involved with the familiar words. His shoulder burned like molten lava. He shut his eyes, letting the book drop to his chest.
The last few days whirled in front of his closed eyes in a kaleidoscope of images, echoing remnants of speech. Bobby Fewell's face rose up in front of his eyes, the handsome features twisted with loathing, the voice heavy with disgust.
Ezra had managed to avoid Bobby Fewell for several weeks after the novice agent's arrival in Denver. He'd recognized the name, of course; realized the young man had to be related to Kevin Fewell. The memories of Atlanta were all twisted up with thoughts of the man who'd been a friend once and then believed the rumors, the lies...turning his back when Ezra most needed him.
But JD and Bobby had become friends. JD was excited about this new friend, talked about him. Ezra could understand it. JD was everyone's kid brother. He contributed his invaluable computer expertise to Team Seven but he felt they held him back, protected him too much. Not that JD could probably admit that to anyone, even himself.
But the relationship with Bobby was different, on equal footing. Peers.
Still, even after Bobby had started joining Team Seven occasionally for drinks or dinner, Ezra managed to avoid him. He simply skipped the outings when he knew Bobby would be there. Until one night when Bobby unexpectedly turned up at the Saloon after work and JD insisted he join them. It was every bit as uncomfortable as Ezra had known it would be. Everyone had sensed the tension between the two. JD had been upset, demanded to know what was going on. Ezra had muttered something vague about knowing one of Bobby's cousins in Atlanta. It seemed to satisfy JD; at least, he made no more mention of it. Whether he'd pressed Bobby for further information, Ezra didn't know.
But after that first time things had improved. Bobby was never overly friendly but he was cordial enough. Ezra knew why. It was no secret that Fewell felt his talents were wasted with Team Three. He was angling to be part of the best: Team Seven. And he was smart enough to realize Chris would never let him on the team if there were problems between the newcomer and the undercover agent.
But Bobby's dislike for Ezra wasn't tamed, just under wraps. Ezra knew it. Bobby couldn't seem to resist the occasional verbal dig or a certain look in his blue eyes when he looked at the older man. No one ever seemed to notice and there was nothing overt that Ezra could pinpoint. But he could feel it, the sick churning in his stomach that brought up memories of Atlanta all over again.
And then Buck had been hurt. And the Brody Carter assignment came up. And Chris told Ezra that Bobby was going undercover with him as his backup.
Ezra didn't protest. What could he say? That Bobby sneered at him with his eyes? Travis had ordained Bobby would join Team Seven. Bobby was Robert Fewell, from the First Family of government service. The protege of Travis' assistant and trusted friend, David Montgomery. And who was Ezra? Just Ezra Standish, slick undercover agent, con man; a black sheep with the stench of Atlanta hanging over him. Ezra didn't protest the assignment because he knew it wouldn't make any difference.
Oddly enough he wasn't worried about his personal safety. Bobby was a Fewell. He was Kevin's cousin. Even after Kevin had lost all faith in Ezra, he'd still protected him because that was what a good FBI agent did. Even if the one he was protecting was dirty. Scum. Lower than the miscreants they arrested. Kevin would never leave Ezra twisting in the wind. He watched his back.
And he had almost died because of it.
His mind drifted back to the flight to Shreveport...
Ezra sat with his eyes closed, listening without hearing to the drone of the jet engines, the hum of conversation around him. Bobby hadn't said a word since the plane took off; Ezra assumed the younger agent was - as he himself was - using the time to mentally prepare himself for his upcoming role.
"You ever think about what you did to my cousin, Standish?" Bobby's voice was close to his ear.
Startled, Ezra's eyes snapped open. His heart pounded hard in his ears. Still he managed to keep his poker face intact. "Brody Carter," he reminded Bobby.
"No one on this plane's going to know."
"That is hardly the issue," Ezra replied. "To mentally prepare for the role - to actually become the character you are assuming - can make the difference between-"
"Yeah, I've heard your spiel already." Bobby shook his head. "Got to give you credit, Standish. You are one cold-hearted bastard. You didn't answer my question. You ever think about how you ruined my cousin's life?"
"Your cousin was my friend."
"Liar!" Bobby's voice rose over the whine of the jet engines and several passengers looked over to see what was going on. A flight attendant started toward them, but Ezra caught her eye and shook his head slightly.
"My cousin wouldn't have been friends with someone like you. A turncoat traitor." Bobby's voice was lower now but bitterness drenched the words.
Ezra sighed. "Might I suggest we avoid this subject?" he asked politely. "Both of our lives might depend on our ability to get along for the next few days."
Bobby laughed. The sound sent cold chills up and down Ezra's back. "You're delusional if you think I'm depending on you to watch my back." He grinned coldly.
'And you're not planning on watching mine, either.' Ezra couldn't avoid the thought.
They didn't exchange another word until they were driving from the airport to the hotel in Shreveport. "How'd you do it, anyway?" Bobby suddenly asked. "Get Chris Larabee to take you onto his team? You ought to be serving a life sentence in Leavenworth and instead you're lording it over everyone in Denver."
"I never did anything deserving of imprisonment," Ezra responded quietly. "And you'd have to ask Mr. Larabee that question." He kept his eyes on the road.
Bobby snorted. "Yeah, right. Don't even bother, Standish. You can't con me. I'm not some innocent like JD. I know what you are."
Ezra didn't say anything.
Bobby turned in his seat and looked directly at him. "There is such a thing as justice," he said quietly. "And if I have anything to do with it, you'll get what you deserve for what you did to my cousin. And what you did to everyone else who ever trusted you."
Ezra forced words through his tight throat. "I never harmed your cousin. Believe what you want, but Kevin was my friend. I am sorry for what happened, but I was not responsible."
Bobby just looked at him.
And that look on his face chilled Ezra to his core.
7777777
Twenty-four hours later Ezra sat in the passenger seat of the borrowed SUV as Bobby drove down the dirt road toward their meeting with the Hugo gunrunners. And for the first time since his embrace by his brothers on Team Seven, he went into a deadly situation with the same feeling he'd had those last months in the FBI.
That he was in as much danger from his supposed back up as he was from the criminals he was facing.
Next door to where Ezra stared sightlessly at the ceiling and remembered, Vin Tanner sat at the small round table and stared out the window to the darkened parking lot.
The room was cold. Like Ezra, Vin couldn't stand the stuffiness of a closed-in motel room and had turned on the air conditioning. Chris slumbered in the far bed, covers drawn close around his shoulders, frown on his face even in sleep. Vin glanced at his best friend. He knew Chris was exhausted; the man hadn't slept much at all since Buck had been injured and had had virtually no sleep since Travis had dumped this case in their laps. He needed the sleep.
'But, damn, I wish he'd wake up.'
Alone with his thoughts, Vin turned back to the flimsy piece of fax paper on the table. The scant details of the short life of Sammy Parker. Sixteen years, reduced to a few lines of type.
And no one to care. Whereabouts of the mother unknown, the father in prison. The Juvenile authorities in Tulsa would probably breathe a sigh of relief when they heard the news. One less kid with no future to keep track of, to warehouse until he could be cut loose to make his way any way he could in an adult world no one had ever prepared him for.
No one to care.
Except the man who had shot him, and ended his life.
Vin never went to bed. He was still sitting there when the sun rose over the horizon.
tbc...