Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
A/N: Okay, okay! I apologize: four cliffhangers in a row, as people pointed out, is just unfair. Never mind: let's see if THIS helps!
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.
It's A Long Journey Home
Chapter 61: Be True to Me
In spite of all the danger,
In spite of all that may be,
I'll do anything for you,
Anything you want me to,
If you'll be true to me.
He fell face first in the snow, an explosion of pain flooding his body, pain so intense it stole his breath and scattered it on the wind. Vaguely, he heard the shot echoing over his head, and some isolated compartment of his brain connected the sound to the punch above his kidneys.
Lindsay was his first real thought, the only one he could hold onto through the white-light agony piercing his brain.
He lay in the frozen embrace of the drifts for a lifetime, a moment, he could not tell. He could see people hovering around him, hear voices, and frowned with the effort of trying to understand them. Finally, he summoned up the energy to move one hand. The movement stole his breath again, but he fought to get it back.
Fought and won. Two breaths, three breaths, and he had pushed his body up onto his arms and knees. He stayed like that, panting like a dog, for a long time. Too long. The thought of Lindsay filled every part of his brain that wasn't concerned with the immediate and all-consuming reality of pain; something was wrong. He had to get to her.
He couldn't see straight, couldn't figure out where he was. But under his hand was a cord, a line, and he began to crawl, eyes on the cord, never lifting his head, never questioning his actions. Lindsay was at the other end of this cord, and he needed to get to her. That was all he knew. That was all he had room for left in his head.
Sometimes, in later nightmares, he would see it as if from above, a splash of scarlet blood on the bright white ground, the small figure, dressed in a bright yellow and blue ski jacket, dragging through the drifts of snow. Sometimes, the dream would just go on like that for hours and untold hours. Sometimes, he would simply fall into the snow and suffocate, waking up gasping, tangled in the bed sheets.
And sometimes, on the worse nights, on the nights that had him hurtling awake stifling a scream and refusing to go back to sleep, the snow turned into blood, and he would look down to see himself crawling over the bodies of Cameron, of Tricia, Laura, Mark. And then he would look up, and see Lindsay's stricken face as he wallowed over the bodies of her friends.
He ran into the wall of the cabin hard enough to see stars. He had not lifted his head, afraid of losing his lifeline, of getting turned around and lost in the blank landscape. Slowly, he stretched his hand up the wall, dragging himself up with its support. He could see a small window, and he leaned against the cabin and tried to focus his vision to see what was happening inside.
Miraculously, his glasses had neither broken nor fallen off, but the edges of his vision were dark and foggy, not clear enough to get a good look. He only saw one thing: Lindsay in the chair, and the barrel of a rifle pointing at her.
He reached for his clutch piece, a small caliber weapon he had shoved in the back waistband of his sweats as naturally as he had pulled on socks that morning. Although no longer on patrol, he was rarely unarmed. With it in his hand, he pressed his back up against the wall, nearly screaming in pain as his abused body responded, every nerve ending quaking. He moved as carefully as he could, as quickly as possible, towards the open door, staying against the wall when he could.
As he came around the corner, he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He looked up, praying that it was a rescue and not a recon trip. Almost at the door, he heard an unfamiliar voice inside the cabin scream, "You don't know what you're talking about. Shut up. Just shut up."
Then his heart froze as he heard a shot.
"Lindsay! NO!" Danny screamed as he came through the open door, crouching low, his handgun ready, his lungs collapsing behind his words, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Training took over as he scanned the room for danger. He saw Ross Adams on the couch, rifle held negligently in one hand, the butt trailing on the ground, head back against the window. He could smell cordite on the air, still hear the echo of the shot ringing in his ears. He saw Lindsay spattered in blood, still curled up in the armchair.
The side of the chair was scorched and smoking. Her gun was held firmly in her hand, low down, between her body and the now non-existent chair arm, and her face was strangely emotionless as she stared at the body only feet from her.
"Danny?" She looked up, eyes wild with disbelief as he flew into the living room area of the small cabin. He was soaking wet, dripping blood, and white with pain, but he was on his feet.
In a flash, so was she, dropping the gun, running across the room to him, putting her arms around him. "Oh my God, Danny, I thought you were dead. I thought he'd killed you too. Oh God." The panic she had shoved down and used to her advantage in the confrontation with Ross came bubbling to the top like lava, and she sobbed out her relief against Danny's chest.
"I heard the gun go off. I saw him with a rifle on you," Danny muttered into her neck.
"I saw you go down. There was so much blood. God, Danny; you've been shot! Where? Where are you bleeding?" She stepped back and began running her hands over him, trying to find the wound. Her hands were quickly covered in his blood.
"Damn, Montana," Danny hissed in pain, then looked over at Ross. "He's dead? You killed him?"
She nodded shakily. "I saw you go down, and grabbed one of the guns from the boxes. I knew the boys had packed them. Then I sat in the chair and hid the gun under me. I tried to wait, Danny. I was hoping someone would come. I didn't want to kill him."
She began to sob in earnest, and Danny pulled her against him again. He couldn't see straight for pain; all he could take in was that Lindsay was alive and crying. He ran his hands shakily through her hair, down her back, trying to reassure himself that this was real. He could feel the scorched fabric against her leg; her effort had cost her.
"Bloody hell!" It was a heartfelt oath that pushed them an inch apart, and Lindsay turned to see her brother John in the doorway, followed by several big, armed men in body armour.
"So, you did have to shoot Messer after all. I knew he'd be more trouble than he was worth. Man, you're bleeding all over the place. You okay, peanut?"
"It was Ross Adams. It was him all along. I had to shoot him, John. I waited as long as I could." Her eyes were huge and she was as pale as the snow covering his feet.
"It's okay, honey. We'll take care of it now. Don't say anything, Lindsay, until your statement has been taken. You hear me?" John waited until he saw her nod her head in agreement.
"You two need to get out of here. Looks like Messer's going out on a stretcher."
Danny's knees had finally given out, and he collapsed into Lindsay's arms. Before he pulled her down with him, though, John had caught him and helped ease him down surprisingly gently. "We have MedEvac right behind us. Hold on there, Messer. Linds," he looked at her seriously, " Are you hurt? In any way?"
She shook her head, biting her lips anxiously as Danny went limp under her hands, his breathing fast and shallow. "John? He's unconscious. Do something!"
"Hold on, Peanut. Here're the paramedics. They'll take care of him. You have to move so they can get to him. Come on, honey." John pulled her to her feet and handed her over to another officer. "Get her on the helicopter. They both need to get to the hospital ASAP. Get a team there to process her. Bag the clothes from both of them. I need everything you get to go straight to me. Nothing to the Bozeman office." He snapped the order under his breath.
"John? " Lindsay took her eyes off Danny being worked on by the medics for a moment to look at her brother. "My weapon is in the chair. One round fired through the arm of the chair. Shell is probably in the chair still. You'll find the bullet in his chest. On the table? Ross Adams' confession. I had a voice-activated recorder on. By the truck …" her voice wavered, "You'll see the bloodtrail from Detective Messer. You may be able to trace it back and figure out where Ross waited…" her voice trailed off as the men working on Danny lifted him onto a stretcher and started to move to the chopper.
"You go. Be with him. Don't worry. I'll take care of the scene. No more missing evidence, Lindsay. You did it. You solved the whole thing. You put it to rest."
Lindsay's haunted eyes tracked from Danny, being carried out the door, to Ross's body, which was cooling in the frigid air.
"Not to rest, John. Not yet."
The officer beside her pulled her arm gently, "Come on, Detective Monroe. The chopper needs to go. Let's get you on there, okay?"
Lindsay let him lead her away, but she kept looking back at the cabin, even as she was helped into the helicopter, even as she was strapped into the seat, even as she struggled to shift in her seat so she could hold Danny's hand while the paramedics started a blood transfusion. Her eyes didn't leave the cabin until the helicopter rose, hovered above the ground for a few minutes, and then flew off in the direction of safety and home.
The noise of the helicopter filled Lindsay's head until she felt pounded, every turn of the blade stripping away her senses until she wanted to curl up into a little ball and scream. When the pilot landed the chopper on the hospital roof, Danny was whisked away from her and she was isolated in an examining room to be processed. Nurses walked briskly in and out, smiling sympathetically and soothing her with meaningless platitudes. An investigator was on his way to process her clothing and take samples of the blood from her hands and face, blood she knew would match Ross and Danny. "Blood brothers," she thought with a snort. Until all that was completed, she was not allowed to shower or even wash her hands, and she was immersed in the coppery smell and taste of Danny's blood, the blood and fluids of Ross Adams. No one would tell her what was happening; John did not come. The officer assigned to her knew nothing; the nurses wouldn't tell her anything. Her parents had been notified; her brothers were coming. It was a nightmare and she could not wake up.