Part 22
The "Bomb Scare in Local Hospital!" story led the evening news. The too-tanned, too-blonde ex-beauty queen anchor on the local ABC affiliate sounded peeved it had only been a stink bomb. She did mention the device was secreted in a floral arrangement intended for a patient but that it was intercepted before it reached the patient and that only one minor injury had been incurred, by a local cop. "Investigators announced they have several leads," was how she ended the story.
Sarah Bryant used the remote to turn off the TV. She sat back in the one fairly comfortable chair in her miniscule living room, frowning. Leads?
The flowers were exotic, expensive...and it was possible, she supposed, that someone would recognize the arrangement as identical to one Buck Wilmington had received some days before. It wouldn't be difficult at all to find out they came from the exclusive Blossoms and Blooms shop in the pricey Aqua Bella section of Denver. But so what? She'd paid cash both times, worn oversized sunglasses that concealed her eyes and subtly distorted her facial features.
The materials used in the stink bomb were inexpensive and readily available at any number of novelty, craft or hobby stores around town. The knowledge wasn't specialized: she'd learned from a classmate in her high school Chem class.
Sending the nuisance gift had been an impulse, a vindictive urge arising from her hurt pride. She'd known at the time it wouldn't hurt Brian...Buck, badly, even if it had reached him. She'd just been lashing out.
She needed to be careful. Such stupid moves could prove her undoing.
Her uncle was dead, his operation in turmoil, but Sarah knew there were any number of people who would like to know her whereabouts right now. Both the "bad guys" and the "good guys" would be after her for the same reason: what she knew or might know about her uncle's empire. The Feds would want her to help point fingers at his associates; said associates would be in fear that was exactly what she would do.
Sarah wasn't stupid. She doubted there was anything she could be prosecuted for, but that didn't mean someone wouldn't try.
And her uncle's associates would probably just kill her.
She had been safe as long as her uncle was alive. Marcus Hoyt might have been an arrogant, tasteless, pretentious mobster pretending he was of genteel wealth, but he loved her. She was family. He might have been concerned about what she knew or guessed, but he would never have allowed any harm to come to her.
But now he was gone.
That was only just now truly starting to sink in...
She stared straight ahead, not seeing the tiny, cheaply furnished apartment that had been her refuge and her prison since her world had fallen apart, but instead seeing the opulent, expensive and totally vulgar mansion Marcus Hoyt had been so unjustly proud of. Specifically, the living room, all spiffed up and shining for a party...the night that Brian Jakes...Buck Wilmington...had walked into her life.
Sarah sipped her drink, schooling her face to mask the scornful amusement she felt as one of her uncle's "guests" nattered on about art. Art! The man's idea of Art was probably a portrait of a nude woman astride a tiger. On a black velvet canvas.
She wandered away, surveying her surroundings and trying not to shudder noticeably. While she had been away, her uncle had fancied himself a serious art collector: he'd obviously spent hundreds of thousands on the paintings and sculptures that now proudly adorned the rooms. Unfortunately her uncle's lack of taste and knowledge showed pitifully: the pieces that had taken his fancy were almost all overlarge, tasteless, gloomy works of the Victorian era, which clashed terribly with the-equally tasteless-but much more modern furnishings.
The doorbell sounded and she winced, wishing once again that she'd been able to talk Uncle Marcus out of installing the Westminster chimes to announce visitors. An air of excitement, of expectation, seemed to ripple through the room. Her uncle glanced at his watch. "That's Edward, I'm sure," he said, his voice pleased, somewhat excited.
Edward Steen. Her uncle had talked about him unceasingly since she'd arrived home from Europe, but this was the first time she'd actually meet the man. Her uncle had described him as "Cultured, knows all about art and music and that stuff. You'll enjoy talking to him."
But, of course, her uncle hadn't invited Edward Steen just because he thought Sarah would enjoy a chat with a kindred spirit. Edward was connected to a rich, powerful family. Old South, her uncle kept saying. International connections. An alliance between her uncle and the people Edward represented would transform her uncle from a well to do but very localized "businessman", to someone of status, power. Someone whose name would be known all over the country, if not the world. A man to be respected, reckoned with.
Everything her uncle craved, so desperately desired.
One of her uncle's men went up the staircase to answer the door; her uncle followed, too impatient to meet and greet this so important guest to wait. Most of the guests were looking up, eager to catch a first glimpse of Steen but trying to conceal their interest under a thin veneer of blasé indifference.
The moment seemed frozen, forever. Sarah could sense everything around her: the too sweet perfume of her uncle's latest "lady friend"; the soft rustle of the maid's uniform as she circulated amongst the guests with her tray of canapes; the man from the caterer standing behind the lavish bar mixing a pitcher of martinis. She felt the silk of her simple sheath dress caressing her shoulders.
The mirrored doors that separated the large living room from the dining room were closed but she fancied she could still hear the clink of china and crystal as the housekeeper set the table. Farther back in the house, the Cordon Bleu chef her uncle had hired away from Antoine's in New Orleans would be laboring in a frenzy of joy, producing a meal that was a masterpiece of culinary delight. Such had been her uncle's orders. Everything that could be done to impress Edward Steen would be done.
Sarah looked up, craning for her first glimpse of Steen.
He was shorter than she'd expected, but well put together. He wore his expensive clothes as if he were born to them. Sarah stroked the silk skirt of her dress absently. No matter how much her uncle spent on his clothes, he always looked a little-wrong.
Not so Edward Steen. His expensive suit fit his body in a way that could only be the work of a top-notch tailor.
Then her eyes caught the man with him and she frankly stared. Tall, much taller than Steen. He too wore an expensive suit, which fit well but was as obviously off the rack—albeit an expensive rack- as Steen's was custom-made.
He was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.
"Who is that?" She hissed at the man standing next to her.
"Brian Jakes," Kurt whispered back. Well, tried to whisper, which meant they could have heard him in the next county. "Bodyguard," he added. Kurt fulfilled a similar role in her uncle's employ.
Sarah barely heard him, watching as the little group started down the stairs. Brian Jakes looked over the entire room, his eyes scanning, seemingly alert for any signs of trouble. She noted how he subtly kept his body between Edward Steen and her uncle and his men.
And then Brian Jakes looked at her.
And his eyes widened in-
Sarah gasped as she came back to herself. After all these weeks she'd seen, replaying in her mind, the first look Brian had given her had not been interest or even appreciation, but something else.
Something darker.
Shock. And more. Fear? No. Horror.
What-?
Sarah glanced at her watch. There was time. The library would be open for another two hours.
She grabbed her purse and coat and ran from the apartment.
7777777
Chris almost laughed, would have laughed, damn it, if things hadn't been so bad. He was pacing one way around the waiting room, JD in the opposite direction. They passed each other twice each lap of the room. The few other people in the long room watched them nervously but didn't interfere. The poor pink-smocked volunteer had learned the hard way when she'd stepped in front of young Mr. Dunne to ask him if he wanted coffee.
Chris stopped, mesmerized by the view out the window. Golden late afternoon sun made exaggerated shadows of the ancient oak trees on the hospital grounds.
'Burnin' daylight.'
It had been his grandfather's favorite expression, used to chide on his visiting grandson when the chores seemingly piled up. Chris remembered those bygone times with fondness, especially the summer he had brought Buck along with him. There on the ranch-with only a few men to take care of acres of farmland, cattle, and horses-Buck had seemed to tap into something deep in his soul, a source of peace. He'd told Chris once, "I was born a hundred too years late. You were too, Cowboy. Can't you just see us in the Old West?"
"Getting drunk and getting into fights, I suppose."
Chris bought into his fantasy with a smile.
Now an echo of that smile crossed his face. Good times. He glanced at JD, still pacing. JD would be stunned if he knew just how long Buck and Chris had been friends. JD thought -well, all of the team thought - that they'd met when they were in the Denver police department together, when the truth was Buck and Chris had met the first day of their junior years in high school. They'd gone to different colleges, but stayed in touch, visited each other during the summer and holidays, and both made the decision to join the Navy after college.
The SEALs had actually been Buck's idea initially, but Chris had agreed enthusiastically.
Why they'd never corrected their friend's wrong assumption of the actual length of their friendship, rested in the dark shadows of Buck's past, not Chris'.
Although Chris did wonder sometimes why no one ever seemed to realize the truth.
His eyes studied the scene outside again, his mind calculating the time as efficiently as a clock.
Burnin' daylight.
Ezra was out there, somewhere, the chances finding him alive, or even finding him at all, lessening with every minute that passed.
If he was still alive…
Chris shook his head. He had to be. He had to be. Chris wasn't going to allow it to be any other way. Any more than he was going to allow Buck to slip away from them.
To lose either of them would destroy Chris. He knew that. Knew it simply as the truth. He'd managed to survive, barely, losing his wife and son. Only because Buck had snatched him away from the cliff he was trying to throw himself from, snatched him and held him and kept him safe, until Chris saw a reason to keep himself alive. The Team. He had the team.
And he wasn't going to lose any of them now.
"Chris?"
He turned, startled. He hadn't heard JD step up beside him, hadn't noticed the younger man had stopped pacing.
JD's stared out the window, but Chris knew he wasn't really seeing anything. The younger man's arms were tightly crossed around his body. "He's going to be okay, right, Chris?" The younger man's voice was pleading. "He's okay. I mean...they'd have come out and told us if he...if he...he's okay, right?"
For the first time in days, JD's eyes were not filled with fire and disgust as they appraised Chris, but were dark with fear. He desperately needed something from Chris, some encouragement that his best friend, big brother, was going to make it.
Chris cleared his throat. Truth be told, he didn't know what to say, only knew he had to say something. But before he could speak he heard someone calling his name.
Both men turned, to see a nurse beckoning at them. As they walked closer she said, "Dr. Culver wants to speak to you right away-"
Behind her, the door to ICU burst open. People spilled out, lots of people, all dressed in scrubs and pushing one of the awkward hospital beds between them. Others pulled IV poles behind as they raced alongside, yelling out incomprehensible gibberish.
Chris felt JD move and grabbed his arm before the younger man could leap in front of the crowd. JD tore loose with an angry snarl, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Damn it! Let me go! That's Buck! Where are they taking him?"
Someone yelled out "To Surgery!"
JD froze. He looked back at Chris with pleading eyes. "Surgery?" he repeated in a tiny voice. His hands dropped limply to his sides; he stood still as the group surrounding Buck accelerated their path to the elevators.
"Chris. JD."
They both turned to see Dr. Culver standing behind them, looking worn and tired. "I'm sorry," he said, indicating the crowd now disappearing into an elevator. "I wanted to explain to you what's going on, but I was detained by a phone call-"
"Why's Buck going to surgery?" JD interrupted the older man to demand. Automatically Chris put a hand on his shoulder, not sure whether he was giving support or getting it.
One good thing about Culver, he didn't beat around the bush. "His blood pressure is dropping rapidly-he started to choke and when we pulled out the ventilator tube there was fresh blood in it. He's bleeding internally and I suspect it's from one or both lungs."
JD shook his head, dazed. "But...but surgery...he's so weak already. And what about the poison?"
"I'm guessing the poison is what's causing the hemorrhaging."
"Can Buck survive the surgery, Doc?" Chris could barely recognize his own voice.
Culver took a deep breath. "He's got the best surgeon in the hospital attending him. I don't know what else to tell you, Chris. His chances aren't good but he has no chance at all of surviving if that bleeding isn't stopped."
Chris didn't know what to say. His throat was too dry for him to make a sound anyway. 'Damn it Buck. Don't you dare die on me, you son of a bitch!'
He must have nodded, or something, or maybe Culver just took his consent for granted. The doctor's beeper sounded - too loud and shrill in the sudden hush - and Culver said something as he moved away. Chris had absolutely no idea what he'd said.
He just stood there, staring down the hallway. His knees felt like rubber and his head seemed to be bobbing on the ceiling. Vaguely he realized he needed to sit down but his feet wouldn't move. He couldn't move. He had to keep looking after Buck.
"Chris. Chris? CHRIS!"
It took three repetitions of his name, the last one accompanied by a frantic shaking of his arm, before Chris came out of his trance. He looked around, confused. JD was standing there, eyes wide and terrified and face parchment-white.
"Chris? Are you okay?" JD let go of his arm but hovered as if he expected Chris to fall over any second. "Maybe you should sit down?"
"I'm fine," Chris managed to reply through numb lips.
"You sure? You don't look good."
Sarcastic words rose to Chris' lips but he bit them back with an effort. Fortunately JD didn't say anything else. He himself looked as if he were going to fall over at any second. "JD...uh...I've got to go look for Ezra. Will you be okay-"
"Chris Larabee, please dial the Operator. Visitor Chris Larabee please dial the Operator."
Chris blinked, looked around and spotted the phone on the wall. He raised his hand, then clenched his fist quickly to stop the shaking before he punched the number. The hospital operator's voice sounded tinny and far away as she asked him to stand by for a call.
"Chris?"
"Vin? What's going on?"
There was a lot of background noise; Vin was almost shouting and Chris could tell he was in a car. "Chris! Someone faxed a map to the federal building - some place up in the mountains, close to the old Silver Falls ski resort. Think Ezra might be there. His picture is on the fax."
"What-" Chris couldn't seem to get his mind together. He took a deep breath, held it, forced his thoughts into some kind of order. "Where are you now?"
"We alerted everyone and now we're on our way to the staging point...you know where the old railroad track crosses 671? 'Bout twenty miles off the interstate?"
"Yeah, I know it." Chris' voice lacked its usual snap. He had to clear it again. "I'll meet you there." He hung up the phone before Vin could say anything else. JD was right there, hovering at his elbow, and Chris knew he'd heard most of the conversation. "I've got to go, JD. You stay-"
"I'm going with you."
That was the last thing Chris expected him to say. He stopped dead, staring at the younger man.
JD's face was absolutely colorless but his voice was firm as he repeated, "I'm going with you. It's what...it's what..." He took a deep breath. "Buck would expect us both to go after Ezra."
Chris had already opened his mouth to order JD to stay put, but what the kid said hit a nerve. Buck would expect that, damn him. And if... when he could talk again there'd be hell to pay if he ever found out otherwise.
Chris met JD's eyes. "Let's go."
7777777
Monica Hastings hummed along with her CD player as she worked. She'd deny it if confronted, but she did her best work to music. Well, she thought of it as music, at least. Other people called it other things. But Monica didn't care. She'd made some of her biggest breakthroughs while listening to disco over and over.
The labs were empty except for a few techs in one corner, doing final checks on T27. Monica frowned. FDA approval should have been granted to the drug already, but the fact that a federal agent had been poisoned by it had set things back by weeks. Now the FDA wanted a last round of fail-safe tests. Monica shook her head. As much as she hated it, she had to admit David was right. Using her own drug to try to kill Ezra Standish had not been her brightest move.
Now, as the CD player relentlessly chugged out ABBA's Dancing Queen, Monica clicked the key on her computer to enter the last of her data on the unknown chemical compound killing Buck Wilmington. She blinked, then closed her eyes tightly and looked again.
The results didn't change.
"Shit," she said out loud, a rare curse from her. 'I must have made a mistake somewhere, entered something wrong. No way could it be that easy.'
After thinking for a minute, she went over to the CD player and silenced ABBA in the shrillest part of their chorus. This required the big guns. From her leather satchel she retrieved the two CDs she reserved for heavy problems. The soundtracks from Saturday Night Fever and Car Wash.
This might turn out to be an all-nighter after all.
7777777
Sarah Bryant yawned, discretely sipped from the thermos of coffee she'd smuggled in her over-sized bag. Not that anyone was around. This late in the day, very few people frequented the basement of the public library.
She'd used the computer's search function to pull up any articles in the local papers that mentioned Buck Wilmington, and, after a second thought, Christopher Larabee. She'd learned the two had been partners in the Denver PD, friends for a long time. Maybe...
She'd run into a wall though-only the past five years of articles were available on computer; older than that she'd have to resort to the microfiche machine. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed from staring at the fuzzy images and stark white words on black background. She'd started at the present and worked backwards, so far not finding out anything she hadn't already known or guessed.
She consulted her notes and pulled a fresh canister of microfiche into the reader. Quickly she flipped through with a practiced hand until she neared the article in question. The headline came to life on the tiny screen.
"LOCAL COP'S WIFE, SON, SLAIN IN CAR BOMBING".
She paged down, quickly realizing the wife and son were Larabee's, not Buck's. Buck's name was mentioned in the article as being Chris Larabee's partner who was with him in Colorado Springs the day of the bombing. In spite of herself Sarah was interested in the story. She paged down again and a blurry picture came into view, captioned as a recent photo of Sarah Larabee with her husband and his partner. Reaching for the back dial she tried to sharpen the image.
She recognized Buck first, looking younger and devil-may-care. Chris Larabee next to Buck-the photo was taken at some awards banquet-with his wife in the middle. As the focus sharpened a fire started in Sarah's gut, a strangled scream wrenched from her throat.
She was looking at a face that could have been her own.
tbc...