A/N: Thank you for reading!
Moving Forward
Chapter 4
We should all be thankful for those who rekindle the inner spirit…Albert Schweitzer
He woke as in a dream, drifting for a moment in an unfamiliar place, yet knowing it did not matter because there was nothing to fear. His mind came to life very slowly remembering the previous day—the experience of something new and different. Opening his eyes, he watched day break as a sliver of sky changed from a pale blue glow to bright sunlight. He smelled the wet fragrance left by nightly rain and heard the vociferous sounds that were part of this place.
For a while, he remained in bed—a narrow yet comfortable one, made up with sheets that still smelled slightly of sunshine and fresh air, mosquito netting hanging from ceiling to floor. A quick glance—the other bed was empty—he would not have to be quiet this morning, he thought, so he punched his pillow, folded an arm under it, and thought of the past, quickly, with a spasm of grief that would always be with him, yet embraced and surrounded by contentment for the present.
His friends had remained by his side; he had never thought otherwise but they went beyond the expected. On the first day he could visit Ellie, Nick Stokes had arrived, driven him to the prison, and stayed with him long after they had gotten back to Vegas. Then it was Greg and after him, Sara, and then Gil—each one driving, letting him talk about Ellie or about nothing important. He had not made one trip alone.
Six months into Ellie's imprisonment, he had gotten the message he knew would come. Not a phone call, but an early morning knock on his door, opening it to find Gil and Sara. He knew what they had come to tell him—and he had not asked how or why because he had known all along that Ellie would choose the time of her death.
At the graveside service—surprised when so many people attended—he caught sight of a familiar face that appeared over the shoulder of one of the officers and quickly disappeared. By the time the crowd had dwindled, she found him. Annie Kramer.
Always sophisticated in a simple, stylish manner, she wore a black dress with silver jewelry and he could think of no one he could have been happier to see on that day. Later, realizing the two were talking as friends rather than acquaintances, he had been surprised to learn Annie and Sara had been in contact for months.
And Annie had stayed. For a week, she brought him coffee each morning, walked with him each day, ate lunch with him at favorite places, and fussed as she straightened his house—dusting and sweeping cobwebs from the corners of rooms just as she removed the tangled confusion from his mind.
One evening while sitting in an armchair across from him, she announced that she would be leaving in a few days. Suddenly, she asked, "Am I as you remember?"
He chuckled—because she had caused him to laugh about other things during the week—and said, "Yes and no."
Annie's eyebrows shot upward.
Another chuckle, as he continued, "A woman of the world now, I think."
She nodded, knowing truth was in the years since they had been together. She stood, loosened her hair, and slowly unfastened three buttons on her lime green shirt.
Brass was stunned—too good to be true, he thought. When her arms reached out to him, his did the same and when her eyes closed he felt like a man suddenly and unexpectedly warmed by sunlight. He actually, for an instant, felt her mouth smile with pleasure. After that, everything happened quickly and in another split second, he thought this was a dangerous place to go, but they went there anyway.
Surprising to both, there was no danger; they were happy, content with each other, and in the days that followed—because Annie did not leave as quickly as she had suggested—they discovered a new kind of happiness.
By the time he had maxed out bereavement leave, he had decided to retire.
Retirement is what had gotten him here; he shook his head, smiled, and sat up, checking the floor before placing his feet on it.
He was giving his boot a shake when there was a rapid tattoo outside the brightly colored door. A familiar voice, laughing, said, "Hey in there—are you still asleep?"
If Annie had saved his mind and body, given him reasons for living another day, Sara Sidle had saved his spirit, infused in him a new frame of mind. And together, the two women had gotten him to this place—he wasn't sure if he was following them or if all of them were under the magic spell of the charismatic Gil Grissom, leading them to the edge of the world—or at least the edge of Panama.
Brass answered, "I'm up, awake, and almost dressed—where's Annie?" He pushed the door open—there was no lock—and finished buttoning his shirt. He grinned at her appearance—Sara's lips were a bit swollen, her face glowed, not because of sunburn, and she had the marks of beard burn on her neck.
As he looked at her, he tried to think how the two beds in the tent-rooms, bolted to the wood floor, had been moved together—then realized they probably hadn't—and chuckled, realizing he could learn more than bug science from his old friend.
Sara handed him a bottle of bug repellent, saying, "Don't forget this."
Five hundred years before their arrival, a small group of men had traipsed through this part of the world in search of gold, silver, and who knows what else. Jim Brass was no Balboa, but he was fit and adventurous enough to trudge up a small mountain, more a sharp hill, to see—as the Spanish before him—to see what he could see.
They were all grateful the national park service had maintained a rough trail, remote, crossed with massive tree roots, closed in by thick underbrush, and towered over by a canopy of cuipo trees. A local guide had been with them since their arrival by a small airplane the day before and would lead them to the summit of the mountain.
The walk was slow because the four chose to watch howler monkeys flying above them; they paused to watch a line of ants—leaf cutters, according to Grissom—carrying sails of purple flower petals across the path, disappearing into the dense growth. And they laughed at the guide's story of wild pigs climbing trees.
A small group passed them, young and old, hurrying from one scenic sight to another; a group of bird watchers were headed into the lowlands, but the two couples had no need to hurry. Punta Patino, Panama's largest nature preserve was their destination. At the park's lodge were frontier police, carrying rifles along with water bottles, because the area, far to the south, had become a refuge for guerrillas from another country.
But everyone they met was hospitable, spontaneously reporting what was ahead of them, how much farther they had to go until the trail 'officially' ended. Wildlife was spectacular—tracks of pumas or ocelots or jaguar had been thoughtfully marked and preserved for other hikers to see. The variety of birds was breath-taking. Around a pool of water, the ground seemed to erupt in butterfly confetti as they approached.
Then, quickly, the four clambered up a rise and saw, far below, a wide, empty beach and a vast expanse of water—the Pacific Ocean—as far as the eye could see. The trail ended with a pile of stones, plain and white, as a marker for the summit.
From a cloudless sky, the sun warmed their shoulders. The landscape below them stretched from an emerald green primeval forest to the shining silvery blue of the ocean water. The air was filled with the smell of flowers and damp earth.
Two or three minutes passed in silence before Sara said, "Wow!"
"Yeah," Grissom whispered.
With a pleasant grump, Brass said, "I feel like Francis Drake!"
Sara tried to stifle a giggle; Grissom did not attempt to hide his chuckle. Annie placed her arm around Jim's shoulder.
"Jim," she said, "I don't think Francis Drake was ever here."
Brass laughed, saying, "Well, if he had, I know how he felt—no, I feel better than Drake would've felt!" He leaned toward, tilting his head under the brim of Annie's hat and kissed her. In his peripheral vision, he could see Gil kissing Sara. Or was she kissing him?
Moving forward, he thought. No longer looking at the bad side of human nature, he was at peace.
A/N: This story could have another chapter or go on for many more...but this ending seems appropriate for our story about Jim Brass. Thank you for reading. Many thanks to those of you who take the time to write words of encouragement, comments, and reviews. We appreciate your support of our writing. Maybe there is another story waiting.