I wanted to acknowledge Veterans Day this past week. Everyone who has served their country is owed a big debt of thanks.
And speaking of thanks, a continued thank you to the readers and reviewers - and happy Thanksgiving to those in the States.
Storywise, time's moved forward about a week from the last update, which will leave certain questions unanswered for now, but all in due time…
####
Dark, deceptively empty. You'd be lucky if you could count the fingers in front of your face. Abandoned warehouses: the shared location of choice for horror movie government experiments gone wrong and the underbelly of society.
He'd give anything to be navigating through a warehouse right now rather than pointing his gun at a brightly lit, large room with the requisite neatly stacked set of tools. Experience had taught him that the greatest horrors strolled along merrily whistling in the glint of daylight.
Wiping the sting from his eye with a damp finger only amplified the burn, but at least he had dry skin on the trigger now.
Sliding against the garage's inner door sent a cold shock through his heated skin. Brot cleared his throat for the required warning, the pronouncement that was as good as I'm here, come and get me!
"Police! I have a warrant!"
The soft whoosh of a breeze greeted his call. He quickly assessed the possibilities, his arm relaxing slightly but the feather-light touch against the trigger never easing. They could've gotten word, abandoned ship. But the warrant had gone down quickly. Hell, just an hour ago he'd been chowing down a croissant at the coffee shop, planning what to do with his fiancée on his day off. He knew the protocol, but he couldn't wait for backup. He had a feeling time was too short for that.
This was prime science lab time. And the unmistakable stench of a fresh batch told him all he needed to know. They were close.
Waiting.
Brot was never a patient man. Keeping his back firmly against the wall, he pushed slowly sideways, guiding himself as best as he could around the hammers and nails: a veritable minefield of natural traps. Sour liquid – the only physical sign of the sick roil in his guts – teased at his lips again and sweat clouded his vision. He might as well have been in a warehouse, blindfolded, for all that he could see now. Something snatched at his foot and he kicked hard.
A million tiny sonic booms echoed off the walls, and his mind struggled to hold on to the fact that there were walls. He struggled to remember that the thick gauze covering his body was from adrenaline, not oppressive, stifling humidity.
Bucket. Nails. Maybe screws.
The frenzied litany brought him back, because he couldn't go back there. Not now.
"You're in a garage," he muttered, and somehow the thought didn't slow his pounding heart.
The smell, though, was unmistakable. It focused him. And it was getting stronger by the second. When he saw the first bottle filled to the brim with cloudy liquid, the coil in his stomach wrenched painfully. He battled his earlier breakfast, which was now determined to make a grand reentrance into the world.
At the faint sound of footsteps, he swung his gun around. Its barrel landed with precision on a new arrival.
Brot lowered the gun and took a step forward. "Kid, what are you doing here?" he asked the small boy. "We've got to –"
The images of other small shadows seared his mind's eye. Small shadows with angelic faces and dark black backpacks.
Weapons.
He dove behind the table as the first bullet tore a chunk from the wooden leg where his own leg now rested. The second bullet confirmed the origins of that cloudy liquid as the shattered bottle and its contents rained on him with a miniature hailstorm of glass shards.
He'd finally found his meth lab, up close and personal.
####
"Thank you for staying with him this morning. As soon as I've finished with my patient, I'll be home. If you need anything, you can always reach me on my cell. Thanks again. Bye."
Cara's smile disappeared as she turned back to said patient. She continued her clinical assessment without missing a beat.
"…and the medication should help with your head pain. Most of the facial cuts have healed, so I don't foresee any danger of infection." She scribbled furiously on the pad, even as her words remained collected. Professional. "Before your…transfer, I have requested that you take part in a group physical therapy session. You've fallen behind since your stay here, and it should prove helpful toward your long-term –"
"Is everything okay…with him?"
Her hand stiffened at the question. "He's fine," she answered curtly.
"Keeping Hayward from him –"
"David is not a part of his son's life by his own choice." For the first time, she looked up at her patient, and, to her surprise, she didn't see the dead-eyed condescension she expected. "He's welcome to see our child any time. He did, after all, save our lives."
And every word was true. On some level, she could understand David's reasons. She always could, even though he'd never expressed them directly. The bittersweet storm in his eyes was evident the first and last time he'd held their little boy. She knew then that David's son wouldn't see his father again for a long time. For her son's sake, she hoped that a long time did not mean forever. She had firsthand experience with that pain. The lingering, quiet kiss David had pressed to his first son's forehead had promised Not again. He would save his son's life by taking himself out of it and maybe, just maybe, he would not pay the price of another dead child.
"I…I get it, okay?"
The strain in those words shook her from her thoughts. JR's voice still had that hint of hoarseness. It might have been attributed to the tube they'd just removed from his throat. She would attribute it to a lack of use. In the past few weeks, likely longer, the only visitors her patient had were herself and the guard perennially stationed outside the door. Given the circumstances, a lack of visitors was probably for the best. Judging by the looks her patient's hospital door had received from Jake and Frankie as they passed by, she was certain that the hospital staff was better off remaining inhospitable.
"Maybe at least now we can stop being all calm, cool, professional doctor/patient, when we both know we're anything but," JR said.
Perhaps in some meaningless act of defiance, she picked her pen back up and tapped it on the clipboard. "You have no right to run down David, especially considering your own circumstances."
He struggled to lift his head, and she struggled not to play nursemaid and adjust his pillow. "I was going to say that keeping Hayward from his son won't solve anything. Using a kid like that, it doesn't solve anything. Believe me, I know."
"Is it time for another round of JR's 'blame the victim' now?"
"No," he said simply, with both conviction and resignation.
The sterile white of the room was too bright, too blank, maybe too reflective. She wondered sometimes if it was meant to calm, to ease, or simply meant to prolong the stay. Against her impulse, she stood her ground and faced it.
"You tried to kill him, so you expect me to believe you're looking out for his welfare now?"
"No, I do and will always hate his guts. He…kept her away."
"Who?"
His eyes closed, and she could see the same frenetic motion behind them that she'd seen that night at the prison. "Have you ever had someone die in your arms? Watched the life, the light, every tiny little inconsequential yet so very consequential moment just…disappear. Slowly, like it'll never end, and the only thing that stays is the -"
"Pain," Cara muttered. "Yes, I do know."
Her mind pulled and tugged her brother's dying face from her memory. All the while, her heart kept his mischievous smile at the forefront: the perfect shield. When she opened her own eyes again, she found another pair upon her.
"I never knew until they read the charges against me." His mouth twisted, but he continued. "Must've been about a year ago, maybe in this very same room. They had to wait until I was ready. Conscious. They began with several counts of attempted murder, and I almost believed it could end there."
She could see his throat visibly clutch, and she fought to keep her own from doing the same. "Turns out that was just the warm-up. When the next roll-call began, they…they started with him."
"And you thought no big deal, right? Nobody I know." She turned around quickly and rubbed at her face, breathing deeply because, damn it, she would not do this. Not in front of him.
"'I'm sorry.'" The words and the voice carrying them were simple, and anything but. "That's what I thought, it's the only thing I could think when the names kept coming. Names on a list, some cold criminal protocol, but people….people I respected, admired…people I used to love and still loved….family."
She turned back at the last nearly inaudible word. A whisper that could have been a shout.
"They saved my sister for last. One final exclamation point. And there wasn't this great crushing weight, there was just…something hollow inside, and this dull ache that just seems like second nature now. And all, all I could hear echoing in that hole was the world's most useless, meaningless words: 'I'm sorry.'" He studied the ceiling, the sterile white. "I won't dishonor him by saying those words to you now."
The bastard wouldn't deprive her of the chance to let him know that all the sorries in the world wouldn't or couldn't matter. She advanced until she stood over him, until he had no choice but to watch her walk away.
When she opened her mouth, though, the recriminations would not come. Other words, long-held questions, found their voice instead. "Why?" she asked. She couldn't keep out the plea, the desperate need for understanding.
Just as he couldn't give it to her. "I don't know."
"They said there was one bullet left in your gun after Jesse shot you. Who was it?" She couldn't say why it was important. She couldn't say why her next breath hinged on the answer. "Who was that last bullet meant for?"
"It was my one certainty, and I would have made sure the job was done, unlike like the good chief." His eyes moved until they locked on hers. "I saved the last 'dance' for me."
####
Brot took the quickest survey he could manage. The next bullet whizzing past his ear ensured the survey lasted roughly 1.5 seconds.
That eyeblink was enough to confirm that the boy still stood rooted to his spot, a look of abject terror in his eyes.
The human shield.
They knew he couldn't return fire, not with the boy in the way. Right now, his gun was about as useful as a twig.
A silence every bit as choking as the dank air and the foul odor reestablished its presence. Brot preferred it to the alternative, though. The steady sound of gunfire would pull him back to two distinct locations, and he had no desire to revisit either.
Barely turning his head, he had to hope the loud whisper would be just enough to accomplish its goal. "On three, get under the table."
The quiet non-reply was the only chance he, or they, had.
"One." He closed his eyes, said the quick-time prayer he'd perfected as a kid.
"Two." He raised the gun. Assumed the runner's sprint.
"Three."
He grabbed the small arm now lodged against his side and pulled. At the same instant, he sent the table hurtling into the quietest corner.
A hail of gunfire shattered the silence.
Brot could only hear the steady pounding of their footfalls as they raced toward the tiny blue square framed by white marshmallow clouds. They burst into a marshmallow as a fiery flame roasted behind them.
He felt the unfamiliar rip of a bullet lodging into his back.
The heated hands pushing them from the ground, however, were familiar.
All too familiar.
Once again, his eyelids fluttered against a brilliant blue sky. And once again, the brightness was marred by a vague outline growing larger and more defined.
"Ryan, what are you –" His question would have to wait, as would the man hovering over him mouthing formless words. The approaching black haze was his new commander.
####
Kendall pulled the small compact from her purse. It was small but made of stainless steel. Strong.
It would do.
They placed the mirror on the bed tray.
"Okay," Erica said, waving her hand and motioning her daughter over. "Get over here."
Kendall sat on one side of the bed. She adjusted the mirror until they were both in view, then took her mother's hand.
Erica squeezed back, cherishing the warmth. She looked over to her empty hand. Her breath caught as she felt the tiniest tug, accompanied by the same full warmth. Mother. Her eyes rose and she smiled.
All present and accounted for, except –
"Got room for one more?"
Her smile widened, settled when her gaze moved to the doorway. "Always," she said, motioning once more.
When her other daughter joined her, they made a perfect semi-circle. The circle grew a little wider when a certain gal pal tried to excuse herself. All three grabbed her hand, insisting that the honorary member take her rightful place. At the apex was an empty space that was never truly empty. It was the foundation.
Erica did not recite the pledge this time. She left it to the youngest Kane women, who joined them by phone.
Miranda knew the words by heart. She even put the proper dramatic flourish at just the right instant. Sometimes, Erica thought, the little girl had embraced her Kaneness just a bit too enthusiastically. This brought the memory of her mother's one-time warning, about how certain traits may skip to future generations. She both rejoiced and prayed for her youngest daughter if that was the case.
"I'll see you so soon, sweeties. And always remember, grandma loves you."
She frowned. "That's strange. It sounded like they dropped the phone."
Erica addressed a matching trio of frozen, gaping mouths and her frown deepened. "My goodness, what's the matter?" she asked.
"You, you said—" Kendall sputtered off.
"Well, gal pal, I never –" Opal added a head shake to the proceedings.
"Um, I'm sure they…wow." Bianca's wide eyes accompanied the 'wow.'
Erica picked the phone up again and was met by a dial tone. She shrugged. "They must've gotten preoccupied with one of their shows. And yes, I know, I know. I refused to say goodbye."
The gathered group shared a look. Kendall stepped forward. "Yes, that's what surprised us. Right, guys?"
Two quick nods accompanied the assertion.
Kendall's voice lowered but also gathered strength. She took Erica's hand again, gently rubbing a large, prominent vein that at one time might've had Erica in fits. Now, she valued its presence: its affirmation of life.
"And we get it, Mom. We're not gonna say it either. So, see you later."
Erica gazed into the eyes before her now and saw only two things. Her daughter.
And love.
She pulled Kendall in for a lingering hug, savoring every second. "Tell him, Kendall. Tell your husband all of your hopes and dreams, and never, ever stop reaching for them."
"I will," her daughter whispered. She pulled back, dabbing at her eye. "First thing I've gotta tell him is that he won the bet."
"What bet?" Erica asked.
Those three shared another one of those looks.
"Last night's hockey game," Opal offered. "When Zach's team hit that home run, right, Kendall?"
"Right," Kendall said, followed by a quick whisper to her sister. The two exchanged something Erica hadn't witnessed in too long, something priceless: a grin. And just like that, everything else was forgotten.
Her oldest and dearest friend came to her side. The odd couple, some might call them. She'd prefer to think of them as complementary. Like peanut butter and jelly, as Opal might say.
She gave her complementary half one piece of advice as they shared their own hug: "You keep the new old coot on his toes, and give him a run for his money."
Opal stood up with a sniffle. "You got it, sister."
No gal pal, but Erica rather fancied the alternative.
As Kendall winked at her mother and led Opal out the door, a rather pronounced bugle sound could be heard. Erica chuckled in unison with her one remaining guest.
"I'm glad you came."
"I…I have a therapy session in a few minutes, but I should be done before…" Her youngest daughter finally lifted her eyes. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."
Erica raised herself up so she could scoot down the bed, but the pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her halted the effort. Held her firmly in place. "Remember what you said, mom. Don't give up. Please."
Stroking her daughter's hair, she didn't just offer a promise, but a guarantee. "I won't." She settled back and the pad of her thumb waited patiently to capture a lone drop. "And neither will you."
One forehead touch sealed their pact.
Erica watched Bianca leave, and the hallway window framed a picture of her daughter embracing a new arrival. This particular snapshot was either fit for a postcard or a warning guide.
Even as her next visitor strode through the door, she still couldn't quite be sure which.
"Stunning as always, Erica."
"Why David, I actually think you mean that."
The doctor only grinned as he took his place on the bed. "When it comes to you, darling, I always say exactly what I mean."
Erica crossed her arms. "Then why don't you tell me what that hug you just shared with my daughter was about. Or what this little visit is about, for that matter. I only have a few minutes before the surgery prep team arrives."
Normally, she would relish being the center of attention, but the steady stream of stares-turned-quick-turn-aways that had encompassed her public appearances over the last few weeks had admittedly reversed that affinity.
David's steady evaluation should have had the same effect, but somehow it didn't. "Bianca wanted me to talk to you about the possibility of taking you on as a patient for Orpheus."
Erica smiled, shaking her head. "She really is this crazy combination of me and my mother. It shouldn't work…"
"But somehow it does."
She nodded. "I appreciate the thought, but you've said yourself that your miracle cure days are over, and we both know that it wouldn't matter anyway."
"My methods are the greatest medical advancement in the last, oh, I'll say fifty years…give penicillin a little nod…"
She knew his bravado too well for a laugh. After all, the statement wasn't meant as a joke. "But they can't beat cancer."
"At least not yet," David said. "So I decided to bring you an even greater medicine, a motivator like no other." That ever-present twinkle in his eye remained. "Me."
"Whatever would I have done without it?" The softness of the words did not quite do their job to sharpen the sarcastic edge.
He reached into his jacket. "In lieu of yet another vase from that five-and-dime downstairs, I brought you something else."
The rather bulky blue wrapping had her both intrigued and more than a little wary. "Something blue, how quaint," she observed.
When he unwrapped the contents, the next quip died on her tongue.
"Just think of it as a little reminder of the take-no-prisoners, fierce diva with the five-inch stillettos and the iron will to match. I know I nor my hand…" He gave his arm an exaggerated shake. "…will not soon forget her."
When he rose to go, she called him back. "David…"
"Thank you." Although she was strangely touched, this was one parting that sure as hell wasn't going to end with a tender hug. "And if you hurt my daughter, I will hunt you down and -"
"Kill me?"
She patted the vise, lifting an eyebrow. "No, I have other methods."
The twinkle in his eye brightened . "The cancer doesn't stand a chance."
####
She couldn't think about her mother and the hope David might or might not provide her, or the surgery that might or might not change everything.
She wouldn't think about the call she'd just overheard about an incoming downed officer nor about the family who might or might not get the most devastating news of their lives in a few short minutes.
The world was full of too damn many mights.
She would focus on the one thing she could control: herself. She could take the elevator and leave right now. Easy. Simple.
Or she could roll herself through that door and fall, probably fail, but do. Act. Participating in the new therapy program for paraplegics – and hadn't she always loved the cold technicality of that word - was the hard choice.
It was also the only choice.
She wheeled into the room, answered the assistant's greeting, and scanned her surroundings: the parallel bars she was well acquainted with and the roomful of faceless strangers…save for the one face she knew all too well.
It may have been a little puffier, a year older, with the remnants of a few fading cuts and bruises (the hires had done their job well), but the cold steel eyes now shifting in her direction were unmistakable. They were vintage JR Chandler.
###
She waited. She waited until David was gone. She waited until the voices receded into murmurs and, finally, to silence. She waited until the blinds were shut and the door closed before she invited it in. It coiled, as it always did, around her stomach before moving through her chest – stopping at soft tissue she cupped, once her pride, now her enemy– before settling against her closed eyelids.
She let the fear find its silent voice, distinguished not by words but by harsh hitches of breath. The waves in her throat churned and Erica reached for the pan. She coughed until the waves abated, until her mouth was dry. Raw.
Until a calloused hand brushed away phantom strands of hair. She recoiled at a tender touch she hated but never needed more.
"I'm sorry, doctor, I'm still feeling a bit –"
Perhaps she should have been surprised, humiliated, angry, ecstatic, devastated.
She was none of those things, and she was all of them when she faced her final visitor.
"Jack."