THE NIGHT OF THE ICE COLD DEATH

By Andamogirl

WWW

ACT ONE

Part one

The Wanderer, the next morning,

Opening the door of the Wanderer, Jim discovered his companion standing soaked to the skin and covered in mud on the rear platform, pale, shivering and his hair spiky. He noticed that he had bruises on his cheek and forehead and a black eye.

Surprised first, he then frowned in concern. "Artie? Are you okay? You're all wet. But it didn't rain and your face wasn't in that state when you left the Wanderer… What happened to you?"

His teeth chattering Artie let out, "I need to get out of these clothes before I catch a cold."

Before entering the parlor suite, Artemus unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Jim. "I lost my hat in the River, but I still have my gunbelt and my gun." Then he started to remove his muddy, wet clothes, starting with his boots. "Yes, I'm fine – now," he said and added, "After a little altercation with a bunch of ex-confederate officers in that club of theirs, I ended up in the Potomac River. Brrr! That water was cold! They didn't want to talk to me and they let me know it. They punched me as soon as I showed them my identity card." He struggled to undo his pants and peel them off, then he dropped them on top of the pile and took off his corduroy jacket. "I was knocked out and I woke up in the river… They threw me in the water from the Lincoln's bridge!" He took off his favorite yellow shirt sticking to his skin and goosebumps formed on his arms. He added it to the growing pile at his feet. "I had to swim toward the muddy bank by fighting against the current… They're lucky I'm too busy to put them in prison for having assaulted a federal agent, but I will, later." He sighed and his shoulders sagged. "I am exhausted!" he shivered and finally removed his socks. "I hope that your researches were more fruitful than mine, because they literally fell into the water…" He pulled down the top of his long underwear, stopping it high up on his waist. Then he clutched his shivering body, in a desperate attempt to keep warm. "Brrr… I need a hot coffee and some warm, dry clothes…"

Slinging an arm around his best friend's shoulders, Jim smiled and said, "What I like with you, Artemus, it is that you always keep a sense of humor at all times. Come on buddy, don't stay there, unless you want people on the train platform to see you stark naked?"

He blinked. "What?" He turned around and noticed a group of people grouped on the train platform watching him, guffawing.

Embarrassed, he let out, "Great Scott!" and hurried to enter the parlor suite. "Bo-oy! I'm freezing!"

Closing the door Jim said, "Don't move buddy, I'm going to bring you some towels and your robe. I'll be right back." he placed Artie's gunbelt on the table and vanished behind the door leading to the narrow walkway serving all compartments.

Once Jim had left the room, Artemus removed his long-john completely and grabbing the coverlet on top of the closest couch, he wrapped his trembling naked body in it.

Spotting a pot of coffee and two cups on the table, he headed there and poured himself a cup of the black, hot, steaming liquid.

He took a sip and grimaced. "Gaah! Jim's atrocious coffee…"

He had gulped down two cups to warm himself up, when Jim joined him, holding in his arms a couple of towels and his thick, warm, emerald green robe. "Ah! Thank you!" He threw the coverlet onto the armchair and started to towel himself dry and then rubbed himself down. "You didn't answer my question, Jim…"

Taking his place on a chair, Jim sighed. "I didn't find anything… except a headache." He poured himself another cup of coffee. "I shared cheap whisky and bad beer with my contacts…" He rubbed his aching forehead and temples. "I think I'm broke… and I still have a hungover, and I've got nothing."

Now dry and dressed in his robe, Artie sat down at the table, in front of his partner. "Let's hope we'll spot that assassin before the President's speech," he said.

Concerned, Jim nodded. "We don't have any choice."

Combing his wet air with his fingers, Artie added, "I'll stay at the President's side, while you circulate in the crowd…" he sneezed. "You are faster than me with a gun, if you spot the assassin, you can react quickly enough to neutralize him."

Jim nodded. "Okay. Bless you."

WWW

Washington DC, October 9 1875, at noon.

Standing beside a street lamp, James West looked into the crowd assembled all around the presidential platform which was decorated with flags, scanning everyone's faces…

President Grant would make a perfect target! Very frustrated, he tightened his right hand into a fist. The assassin was there, but where? Artie and he had done their utmost to find out who he was and where he was, in vain, he mused.

He looked up at Artemus standing beside the President, close to him, his right hand not far from the gun hidden inside his vest.

He turned around scrutinizing each face around him, trying to read hate, determination and death in all those looks finding only respect and admiration. He pivoted, looking up at Grant who was beginning the second part of his speech.

Suddenly… BANG! A single gunshot echoed in the air and a split second later Artemus Gordon placed himself in front of the President, pushing him to the side, and reaching for his concealed gun, interrupting the President's speech.

He felt a searing pain in his chest, grimaced and tackled President Grant to the platform, protecting him with his own body from other possible bullets. They both hit the floor hard together. Artie's weight knocked the breath from the President's lungs.

Screams echoed through the crowd.

It took only a few seconds for Jim to locate the assassin at the opened window of the hotel situated in front of the presidential platform.

He pulled out his gun, aimed, and with one perfectly targeted bullet hit the other man right between his eyes and then watched the shooter topple over to the ground below.

Then panic stirred in his gut. He started running at top speed toward the presidential platform, zigzagging through the crowd, pushing people to the side, out of his way.

People attending the ceremony fled in all directions, amidst frightened cries and noises of loading army rifles. Immediately a line of soldiers encircled the presidential platform firearms raised, their eyes searching for further assassins.

Groaning in pain, Artemus managed to roll onto his side and with Grant's help he sat up. He looked at the President holding him and asked, his breathing labored, "You alright Sir?"

Blood appeared on his lips.

Ulysses S. Grant nodded. "I'm fine, Artemus, thanks to you."

Blinking slowly, Artemus clasped his hand over the left side of his ribcage, feeling something warm and wet spurting through his trembling fingers. He looked down and saw the blood pouring from his chest. Face strained in pain, and colorless, he breathed out, "I was hit," his gun dangling from his loose grip.

The Colt monogramed AG hit the boards.

Ulysses S. Grant gently lay Artemus down beside him.

The special agent coughed, tasting his own blood in his mouth. "It hurts," he whispered in a faint voice. "I knew I had a bad… feeling ab… about this."

He grunted and winced and more blood, bubbly blood oozed between his lips.

President Grant reached down and loosened Artie's ribbon tie before pushing Artie's hand away and opening his shirt to expose and assess the wound.

He blanched. "Dear God!" he said.

Grant gulped at the sight of all the blood pouring freely from the gaping hole in other man's chest and back, pooling under him.

He had seen many such wounds during the war and immediately knew that Artemus wasn't going to make it. The bullet going through and through, had punctured his lung close to his heart and there was nothing to be done he realized. Artemus Gordon's death was inevitable.

He only had a few minutes left, he mused, his heart broken.

Seeing the President's sorrowful and helpless expression, Artie knew. "I'm not… gonna… make it. Heard the bang… hunting rifle… I prob… probably have a hole… larger than a plate…. On my back. M' bleed-bleeding to death."

Grant raised a hand. "You're not going to die here, Artemus." He turned toward a Captain. "Captain Jones, fetch an ambulance!"

The officer saluted. "Yes, Sir," and gave orders.

Grabbing Grant's arm Artie shook his head. "No… no. I want to die here… at your side… Sir. It's my… place… I have always been at your side, during the war… as a soldier and spy… and after as-as a special agent pro-protecting you… and Jim… Jim's here… too. I want… see him."

President Grant nodded. "Alright, you're staying here, Artemus," he said as tears pricked at his eyes. "I'm here, son, and Jim will be here soon." Tears finally rolled down his cheeks. "He took Artie's trembling hand in his, pressing it. "You saved my life. Thank you very much."

Smiling weakly, looking ashen, his brow covered in sweat, Artemus whispered, "It was… a… pleasure, Mr. President."

President Grant pulled Artemus to his lap holding him tightly. He glanced at the cavalry officers now crowding the platform, guns in hand, forming a human shield to protect him, ready to fire then stopped his gaze on Colonel Murray, "Colonel, move the security detail at some distance please, and move back too. I want to be 'alone' with my agent…"

Murray who had been at Grant's side during the war nodded knowing that Gordon would not make it, and that Ulysses S. Grant had a father's love for the dying man. "Yes, Mr. President."

Panting, Artie blinked, trying to clear his vision which was graying at the edges, darkening. He didn't have much time left. "Mr. President, where's Jim? I need to talk to him… before it's… too late."

Grant nodded. "I know. He'll be here soon."

Closing his eyes, too tired to keep them open, Artie rasped, "Mr. President… it was an honor to serve you… an honor to be at your side during the war and after… I felt honored and proud that you had a… a father's love for me." He started shivering. "I'm not… afraid to die. I know… it's my time. I knew-I knew I wouldn't die old in… in my bed but shot dead or stabbed to death or that I'd die… in an explosion... It comes with the job. Sir, tell my mom… and tell Harry that-that I love them…" His voice broke. "Oh god… my poor mom…She's going to have a broken heart..." He coughed again, another wave of red-hot pain lanced through his chest, and more blood splattered from his lips.

Grant looked up at Jim seeing him jump onto the platform, gun drawn. "I will. Jim's here."

His face gray with dread, Jim holstered his Colt and sank to his knees beside his best friend and partner laying on his back, immobile, blood pouring out of a hole on his chest. "God, Artie!"

He was lying in a pool of his own blood.

Opening tired eyes, Artie looked up at Jim. "Jim, y're here."

Cringing at the sight of all the blood welling up from Artie's wound, he pulled out his handkerchief from his inside pocket. "It's okay, buddy, I'm here." He pressed it on the gaping hole to slow down the bleeding, making the other man hiss and cry out in pain. "I'm sorry, Artie. I have to do this…" he gritted his teeth, pressing harder on the wound, blood seeping onto his hand – and Artemus screamed. Feeling nauseous, Jim pushed back welling vomit. "I'm sorry… I don't want to hurt you Artie… but there's so much blood…"

His eyes, now glassy, Artie shook his head. "No… use. I'm dying J'm… " He rasped, every breath pure torture.

His strained face wet with tears, Jim let out a strangled 'no'. "Hang on pal, hang on, okay? You're going to be alright…" he said, his voice trembling with emotion, his voice hoarse with the fear of losing his best friend. "We're going to get you to the hospital and a doctor there will fix you up in no time. You just need to hang on, Artemus, okay? Hang on!"

Detached Artie shook his head weakly having accepted his fate. "I'm dying Jim... it's okay… Being shot in the line of duty saving the… President's life is a good way to die."

Grant murmured, "I'm so sorry…"

Placing his free hand on Artie's shoulder Jim shook his head. "I won't let you die. I won't." He was crying so much that his vision was blurred.

Raising a limp hand, Artie reached out, touching Jim's chest, where his heart was, while he struggled for air. "I have… little time left Jim, I want you to know… I want you… to know…" He coughed again spitting blood on his partner's face, his breath was coming in shallow difficult gasps were slowing "S'ry," he let out brushing his fingers on Jim's blood-splattered face, smearing it on his cheek while trying to remove it. "S'ry. Y'know… I always wanted a brother… Found one in you… Thank you for being my brother…" A last smile appeared on his bloodied lips. "It has… has been an honor and… and a pleasure to be your best friend and partner… "

Devastated, Jim shook his head and grasped Artie's hand. "Noo… don't say that, please. Don't, don't!" He insisted, his voice taking on a desperate tone.

Still smiling Artemus whispered, "Don't… be sad. It's not over between us, James my boy, we'll meet again in the afterlife…" he let out a chuckle. "I just hope there's good coffee up there. And a galley… no a real cuisine…" His eyes slipped closed again.

Frowning, Jim groaned angrily, "Don't say that! You're not going to die! I forbid you to die, you hear me? Stay with me, Artie, please. Hang on, don't give in. You're going to make it, you hear me? You're going to be fine. You've had worse wounds and you survived!"

Re-opening his eyes, slowly, Artie licked his bloodied lips. "I'm not gonna… make it this time, I'm cold, so c-cold," He whispered.

Immediately Grant took off his jacket and covered Artie's upper body with.

In denial, Jim shook his head. "No… you're not going to die!" His voice suddenly broke with a strangled sob. "I can't do this alone buddy, not without you. Please, don't die, please don't die." He gritted his teeth. "If only I had spotted that assassin before…"

In a last effort sapping all the energy he had left, Artie slowly moved his other hand up toward Jim's face, big tears running too down his cheeks. "Don't… don't blame yourself, this wasn't your fault… It's my time. Live long Jim, be… careful…take care of you… cats too. And thank you. Thank you for everything… love you brother. Tell… tell my mom and Harry… Tell… I… love them."

Shaking his head in despair, Jim cried out, "Don't die Artie! Don't leave me! Please! If you die on me I'll never forgive you! Please… Don't you do this to me!" and his voice cracked on the last word.

Artemus's grip on Jim's hand loosened and his other hand, slack, dropped to the floor beside him. "J'm... tired… sleep now," he managed unable to breathe, before everything faded to black.

He gave one final breath and died.

Ulysses S. Grant gently closed Artemus's lifeless blank eyes, staring unseeing at the dark clouds slowly moving in the sky of Washington DC. "He's dead, son." He just said, tears rolling on his pale face, his voice trailing off into silence.

His whole body trembling, a look of disbelieving in his face, Jim pulled Artie's dead body in his arms and shook his head in denial. "This can't be happening, it can't be true. Artie is not dead, it's not just possible, he can't die, the Great Spirit protects him," he said, his throat choking up.

Grant placed his left hand on top of Artemus's head. "He's dead, Jim," he said. He closed his eyes in pain his fingers brushing strands of hair away from Artie's sweat dampened brow and he murmured the first words of a prayer.

As Grant's words sank in Jim finally realized that Artemus Gordon, the most important person in his life, the man he lived 365 days a year with, the man with whom he shared everything, his confidant, the man who was brilliant, talented, witty, charming, and loyal, honest, honorable, the man he considered a brother – was his blood-brother, was dead.

Dead. Gone. No more.

Finally, Jim released the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yes, he's dead," he said in a low, broken-sounding voice. And his throat constricted again.

He wished he had died too. He wouldn't recover from this loss, no matter how long he took. He would be alive outside but dead inside, he mused.

His shoulders shaking, sobbing silently, Jim gently placed Artie's lifeless body on the wooden floor and he breathed out, "Godspeed Artie…" he hiccupped then he rested his forehead against his companion's.

WWW

Arlington cemetery, three days later

It was dark and cloudy day, overcast with the threat of rain. A chilly wind was blowing through the leaves of the trees.

Everyone had left.

The military chaplain, had ended his sermon, the honor guard had left and the mourners: President Grant, Colonel Richmond, Jeremy Pike, Frank Harper, other agents, many actors and actresses, a few senators and Governors, and women had paid their last respects.

Lots of women had come, women that Artemus Gordon had met during his life all, of them wearing black and crying. The journalists were gone too, along with the photographs. Artemus Gordon's funeral would make the headlines tomorrow.

He was a hero.

Everyone had left but Jim West who stood there, alone, beside the open grave placed on a gentle slope under the shade of an oak tree.

Artie's dark wood polished coffin was lying at the bottom of it, the lid being covered up by dirt and dozens of white roses.

He couldn't help but see Helena's chalk-like face, Artemus's mother, again and again when he had told her that Artemus was dead.

She had been so horrified and devastated to hear that, that she had fainted.

Helena Gordon devastated by the death of her only and beloved son had had a mild heart attack a few minutes later and she couldn't attend Artemus's funeral. But she was hopefully recovering at home. Harry terribly affected too, was at her side, taking care of her, helping her, Jim thought.

Tears ran freely down Jim's gray-tinged face as his posture slumped. Agonizing grief and guilt submerged him. It was his fault if the man he loved like a brother was dead.

He should have spotted the assassin before it was too late. He should have looked at the hotel windows instead of the crowd… "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I failed and you died," he said as he blamed himself for Artemus's death. He pressed the US flag meticulously folded twelve times (he would give it to Artemus's mom later) against his constricted chest, tears blinding him. "Artie, I miss you, I miss you so much. I won't forget you." His voice broke unexpectedly on the last word, and he began to sob, head down.

Artemus's passing had left an enormous hole in his heart and he felt a part of his soul got buried with him, he thought.

He pulled out a piece of paper from right coat pocket and unfolded it. He read what he had written aloud, "In perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale. (Forever and ever, brother, hail and farewell.)", then he added, "Rest in peace."

He traced the carvings in the headstone with his fingertips. "Goodbye Artie."

It started to rain.

WWW

A week later, Arlington cemetery, at night.

Dr. Miguelito Quixote Loveless stopped in front of the grave.

He looked down at the white marble headstone, above it, and read out loud what was chiseled on it, 'ARTEMUS GORDON, MAJOR, US ARMY, MARCH 20 1830, NOVEMBER 5 1875, MEDALS OF HONOR. Then he laid a few wild flowers gathered along the road leading to the cemetery - on top of all the bouquets of multicolored flower arrangements completely covering the grave.

He took a couple of steps back. "You were a brilliant and redoubtable adversary; I will miss planning to get rid of you…" He frowned and huffed, visibly irritated and frustrated too. "He's dead. Dead and buried. He's really is dead this time….it's not a trick. It was I who had planned to kill him, along with his insufferable partner James West! I and no one else. Who deprived me of the pleasure of killing Artemus Gordon? Some obscure assassin wanting to kill the President! He failed and killed Artemus Gordon! What an Idiot! What an incompetent!" He made a face. He was furious now. "I resent that. I had planned everything! My mise en scène would have been perfect… I'd had loved seeing Mr. West watch his precious best friend and close-to-a-brother die from exposure, little by little, without him being able to do anything to save him…" Out of rage, he kicked the bouquets of flowers and stopped when the grave appeared, exposed.

It was just a heap of muddy earth surrounded by white pebbles.

He walked around the grave and stopped beside Voltaire, disappointed and then upset. "Such an ordinary grave… for an extraordinary man…" He sighed, suddenly sad. "He was very intelligent, brilliant, gifted; he had a very wide scientific knowledge not equal to mine, but far superior to everyone, except me. I am a genius; he was almost a genius... He was a worthy adversary… and his death would have been unique! I would have offered him a beautiful tomb that he would have shared with his companion, James West, together forever…" He muttered a curse, angry and frustrated again. "I had my machine ready, all was planned, and it's not fair! Not fair! I alone had the right to kill him!"

He looked up then at the big man dressed in black towering over him, listening to him without a sound, like the perfect bodyguard and butler he was. Voltaire. Voltaire at his side again after a long stay in a state prison. "Just like old times… old times… time, time, time…yes." He snapped his fingers while building an idea. When it was shaped a smile appeared on his lips. "But nothing is lost Voltaire… "he said, continuing his long monologue. "Do you remember Colonel Noel Bartley Vautrain we met last month in New York, during the secret meeting of that group called MEOPG, Of which I was the guest of honor?"

The giant nodded.

Loveless continued, "All those who hate Ulysses S. Grant and want his death were there, and many of us were present that day." He paused and continued, "Colonel Vautrain claimed to have an extraordinary power, to be able to control with his mind a warp in the fabric of space that could permit objects and people to voyage through a limitless fourth dimension: time. He told everyone that he had used this fabulous power of his to go back in time to kill General Grant at the battle of Vicksburg… but had failed, because of James West and Artemus Gordon. Then he told us that he had traveled to the future to escape his burning manor house then had traveled back to our time his heart filled with vengeance… No one except me believed him. They all thought that he had lost his mind, except me. He wanted help to kill Mr. West and Mr. Gordon after his plan failed and he lost his legs a second time… No one offered him help. No one helps a lunatic. But I didn't offer him my help either, not because I think he's a lunatic – which he's not – but because West and Gordon are mine and mine only." He paused again and added, "I could use his help to save Mr. Gordon's life, in order to be able to kill him myself later, as I had planned to." He looked down at the headstone again. "Find colonel Vautrain, Voltaire. I need to talk to him. I have a proposition for him…" He smiled broadly. "See you in a few days, Mr. Gordon, alive and kicking – but not for long."

Tbc.