Uh, pretty hard chapter this time: sorry for the delay, but I want it to be good enough. Shawn will show up next time, don't worry. If you have any advice, let me know. Thanks for your support.
P.S.: The title refers obviously to the West's role in many ancient religions: it was where the sun sets, and so where dead have their land, but is also a symbol of change and transformation.
III – Occidens
(West)
He was at the hospital; he didn't know how, but he was at the hospital. The trip was a blur of lights and wind an colors, no sounds and no sensations, and he was neither running nor walking but simply, simply moving. But that wasn't important right now.
Think, breath, act.
He checked his jacket, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve. He walked past the whispers of the sliding doors, across bunches of hunging heads and past the acceptance counter. He didn't need indications: every cop in active service had been in hospital, either to check one of his men or not to die himself. And despite all his charades, Carlton remembered perfectly almost every time he was there. There had been the shooting at the Fish Stockage, where Rodriguez got shot getting behind him, the car accident when he accompanied in ambulance a broken-armed and very pissed O'Hara, the stupid chase ended with McNab under painkillers and his wife crying and screaming to them both. But every time, at least, he had been in the center of the events; scared, furious, but fully able to understand what happened, or at least barking and sending men and making living hell until he could prevent things from going even more down hill. At least, he had been here, with people to be angry at or to ask blunty how bad were things. But this, this was different, and to think clearly again and find a solution he needed to go and find his people. He needed to be again in the center of the storm, before even try to think. So go along the corridor, do not think, take the elevator, do no think. And again he was at the right floor without remembering it, and he turned, and he saw the advise Intensive Care, big green letters painted on the double doors. He had to take less than five steps in the aisle, before seeing her.
O'Hara was slumped in a chair, hair a tangle of blond chucks and eyes a puffy mess. She still wore the churnished jacket of that morning, had peeled off her shoes. She kept staring at something in front of her. At a closer inspection, she kept not staring at anything else.
-O'Hara. O'Hara, we need to talk. This is just pure crazy.-
She didn't answer. Not think, Lassiter.
He was in front of her, and felt better. It was the right word: Juliet was the person who made him better even when he was scared to hell. Not overjoyed, not immortal, but better: high enough over the water to keep breathing. Enough not to slip.
They both were together. They would figure it out.
-O'Hara.-
She kept staring. Suddenly, like a clockwork clicking on, she started to sob, hard.
No. No no no.
-O'Hara. O'Hara, it's only the shock.- He bent in front of her. -Stop it. Please stop it.-
She gulped again: the mascara was carving black streaks on her cheeks, and this was not good, so not good.
It's only the shock, but the body had been there, it's only the shock.
So why aren't you touching her?
A clacking of heels came behind them. The chief stopped beside O'Hara, sat stiffly on one of the chairs. She breathed like they taught you in the academy, deep and slow, before screaming or throwing up.
-How's he going?-
-Not sure about this. The docs threw in a lot of "if" and "but", but basically they said they don't have a damn idea about it. The bullet cut the subclavian artery, he lost tons of blood. They don't know.-She turned, brushing awkwardly O'Hara's arm. -I'm really sorry, detective.-
His partner nodded mechanically, brushed her eyes and absurdly enough, the only thing he would like to do was handing her his napkin, dammit O'Hara, you still don' buy Kleenex?. Her voice was a whisper.
-Carlton.-
And there, something snapped. Something cracked, back in the end of his mind, and the fear kicked in. Blowing. Raging.
Not think, not think not think not think.
-They're still looking for a compatible blood match, but it's not easy. Spencer?-
-I called him, he turned off the phone. I just hoped he would come, if. If something happened.-
Carlton Lassiter wavered back, lips slighty parted. Slowly, the world around him stood out.
Officers, officers and doctors, McNab talking with a nurse. The surgery double doors down the aisle, streaks of blood on the floor tiles.
They're talking of you. You were the body.
You're not working it out, because you're not really here.
Carlton saw the resigned lines around his chief's eyes, his partner's hunched back, preparing for breaking, for mourning, and got furious. With them with the world with that leather jacket going away, the burning ice fury that he hadn't felt since he was twelve years old.
He had imagined this scene. Hell, he had imagined five different versions of it, with the words they should say and the last moments they would share, O'Hara's shoulders protecting his bed and Spencer's hand brushing his own. But this, this was all wrong. All totally wrong, and he didn't deserve it, he never did wrong.
Not with them. Don't with Dad.
-O'Hara, stop.- he ordered.
She was crying for him, not seeing him. So wrong.
-O'Hara, stop.- He knelt in front of her, grabbing the chair and searching her eyes, her strong wise eyes. But she lowered her head, muttering curses and prayers.
Fact, my partner doesn't see me. Fact, I'm not here.
Facts facts facts.
He swore. -O'Hara, shut the Hell up.- He hated her, wanted to shake her, hug her. -Shut the hell up.-
Suddenly, a rustle of persons and orders and scrubs slipping in place rushed past them, toward the double doors. Shouted words reached them.
Emergency. Flat lined. Call McDonnell.
O'Hara shot up, looking older and younger than ever before. -Oh God. It's him. It's him.- She dashed forward.
Carlton opened his mouth, felt something close to panic. Something that was a step behind fear, all the world sucked in a single question.
I'm dying. I'm dead.
If she goes, what will happen?
-No, no, it's all wrong.- He jumped upward, following her.
How can she be so dull. How can't she see how scared he was.
-I'm here, I'm here, I'm not gone.-
-Shit.- The chief was up too, talking fast to O'Hara. -Shit. They have to give me one hell of explanation this time.-
-I go there.- O'Hara gulped, and she didn't understand didn't understand. -I go.-
What will happen?
-O'Hara, stop it!- Carlton cried, felt his voice crack. -Stop it!-
Don't leave me, God don't leave me like this.
He had no time. He threw one arm toward her, not knowing what would happen, not giving a damn.
Please.
And she stopped. For the briefest moment, for the time of a breath or a tactical hesitation, she stopped. Her head up, her shoulders striaghtened to catch everything, to hold her breath.
For a moment, she waited for him.
O'Hara.
Then the moment passed, and she was running along the corridor with the chief and McNab and all the world's sense.
Carlton stayed there, an arm lifted in the air.
Dad's pick up was far, an orange spot in the snow. He didn't stop to wave.
-I'm here.- he whispered, but there was no one.
The funny thing was, Carlton had really imagined his death. Programmed it, it's more likely. At the beginning it had been a glory fantasy, with shotguns shooting across the cemetery's sky and virile speeches about his boldness and skills. Then O'Hara stepped in, walking smoothly over her absurd heels, and Shawn kissed him, and suddenly Carlton had to admit that his departure wouldn't be a so clean job. That there would be pain, and regret, and that all he could do was leaving them with less crap possible. He had programmed to say them farewell. To slip away in a fast way. No smudges, a well-directed exit. It had been comforting. Creepy but comforting.
How stupid.
Carlton stared at the hospital garden, sitting awkwardly on the steps. Santa Barbara was lazily slipping in the twilight, rose and azure and violet quivering over burning streets. It was the best time of the day, when the air smelled of fresh and concrete and going around with a suit didn't seem so dumb anymore. Or so he supposed, because right now he was neither hot nor cold. The wind didn't brush his skin, the plant spores didn't tickle his grass allergy. The steps were not uncomfortable, simply because he didn't feel them. He didn't feel anything.
And somewhere in the building beind him, he was dying.
After O'Hara left, Carlton had started screaming. Not shouting by impatience, but screaming, the way kids and very scared people do. Calling her, the leather jacket, cursing both, running across the hospital, up the stairs, down the stairs, trying to show the world that see, he was still there. But breakdowns are kind of pointless when you don't have a body to wear off and so at some point he just stopped and found himself here, in front of his beloved city. And sit to wait. Wait what, it wasn't important.
He sighed. Maybe, maybe it was a pre-death experience. Some chemical imbalance, neurons coping, swirling in their blood nests. Dying.
He looked down at his hands. As before, they weren't shaking.
Crap.
It shouldn't happen. You are alive, you are dead. Feeling dead, well, it was so wrong. Death is not a noble or charming thing, but still he had come to know it. Brushed it more than once, understood its times and its rituals. He was prepared, had a plan. Not for this to happen.
And now, besides. Now that everything was getting scary and exciting and real. Now that he and O'Hara had still to organize the Reenactment Ball of the PD. Now that Shawn looked at him that way, and he had begun to buy the Tropical Shampoo along with his own. The shampoo thing hurt more like anything else.
Shawn's shampoo on his drawer and the smell of his hair and the look in his eyes when he turned and dashed away.
Oh, Gosh.
He shivered, sinking his head between the knees.
Maybe, maybe still a second, and he would be gone. Zero cerebral waves, call the decease. Oh, how would he like to talk to O'Hara right now. She would snivel all the time, but wouldn't miss a word.
I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die, O'Hara.
He hugged himself tighter. Let out a sound he wouldn't ever dare to let, the one you had when losing a leg or a limb.
It was then that he heard steps behind him. Squeaking, sneakers-like steps that stopped just before the stairs.
For a moment he thought of Shawn.
He has come. He has seen me.
-Oh, crap.-
He closed his eyes, because it was a girl's voice.
You're a fool, Carlton Lassiter.
Still by pure habit he turned, and repressed a curse. It was the girl from the accident, the one who fled. The one who saw him. And was currently staring.
For a bunch of seconds, they didn't say a word. Just stared at each other, ready to jump or retreat at the faintest alarm. She had brownish, tangled hair, cut over the shoulders, so much mascara he too saw it. Dark circles under the eyes, no more than twenty.
He wondered briefly what she was seeing.
Not important. Not fundamental. Skip to the real thing, Carlton.
Because whatever she was seeing, he could see in her eyes. Anger, a streak of pity. Cognition.
-What is happening?- he asked quietly.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. -I think we should start from the beginning. Can I sit down?-
-No. What is happening?-
She gave him a troubled look. -Listen, I'm sorry for having left you there. Seriously. But I couldn't begin it again. I can't do it anymore.-
He didn't understand, but she was talking to him. He talked, she answered. And if he could do it, he could make her talk. He slipped in his interrogation voice before knowing it.
-Then why you came.-
-I had to have some tests here and I, I felt guilty.-
-Why?-
-Because I coud know what is happening. Can I sit?-
He sighed. -Yes.-
She sit down, looked at the city with stiff interest. They stayed in silence, just two persons enjoying the breeze out of the hospital. So perfectly abnormal.
-Why no one could see me?-
-Because you're not exactly here. Or in any other place, for that matter.-
-Bullshit. The truth.-
A hint of annoyance. -I just told you.-
O'Hara, Spencer. He didn't turn, she did. For a million of other reasons.
-So I'm dead?-
-I'm, well, I'm not sure, but it's possible.- She gave him the quickest look. -It's probable.-
I don't want to die, O'Hara.
-No, listen, no. That just doesn't make any sense. It, it's not how it works.-
-Well, sometimes yes. You got stucked, detective. Not before the line, not beyond it. Still here, but not as before.-
He unfolded his body, straightening. Not before the line, not beyond it. Seeing everything, just from a wrong angle.
Just out of sight.
Oh Christ. It makes sense.
-Are, are you saying I'm a freakin' ghost?-
-Not exactly.-
He let out a laugh, a limped thing that died halfway in the throat.
-Oh, perfect. I'm a ghost. A ghost, for Christ's sake. - No, no wait Carlton. It couldn't be, there are other possibilities, it couldn't be or this thing would eat us. Attack. Attack, and she wouldn't talk again. - Well, thanks for nothing, but I think I should have known better. You, you're one of those goth weirdos, right? I knew you were off.-
Her eyes widened in disbelief, and his mind knew it was an excuse, it knew perfectly. -What? No, I'm...-
-No, no, it must be like this, I'm confused and you're playing with me and are one of...of them. Right?- He shot up, ready to go.
Go where, detective?
She didn't move. No magic suddenly snapped, no one returned him his realm.
His voice became a whisper.
-Please.- Go where, detective? -Please tell me I'm right.-
She stared at him, and in her eyes was all the sadness of the earth. -This is really happening, detective. I know it, because I saw it other times.-
Where, detective? -But it, it...-
Two voices suddenly echoed near them, behind the large glass doors; shuffling of nurse shoes. She stood abruptly, turning with the violence of very skilled cops or very frightened people. The steps fluttered far but she bitted her lip, looked him. Earnestly, coldly.
-Shit. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to go.- She run a hand across her hair. -People could see me, I can't stay. They can't find me here. I promised. I'm sorry.-
She was going to run. To disappear again.
Breath, act.
Carlton stiffened. -What- he blurted out. - No, no, you can't go. Not after that.-
-I'm sorry.-
-No, you can't. You can't. It is...- He opened his mouth, got out nothing, and found himself saying the first and truest insult he had ever used. -It is unfair.-
-You don't understand.- She backed from him, warily. - They can't see me talking alone, all would be fucked up. I'm sorry.-
She stepped across the door.
Like O'Hara, like Shawn. Oh God, no, not again. -Wait, no, I don't-
He tossed his hand forward, clasped it around her wrist.
And the world screamed.
It didn't really hurt; it didn't really happen anything. But the world cracked, right on their laced hands and hundred of dead endless voices cried and the fabric of matter shivered, life and death, clouds and clouds rolling over, streams of beatless grey swirming around as flesh and nothing clashed and they shouldn't clash not because it was wrong but because it was unthinkable, it was inexpressible. He felt the decay, the hopeless cold worming among the living like a contagion, realized it was him, cried for a million years.
Carlton pulled back his fingers, slowly. The aisle reappeared. They stared at each other, knowing what the other saw, sure they couldn't turn back.
-You can't go.-
-No.- The girl said. -No I can't.-