Chapter Thirty

Frank Trudeau grew paler and whiter, the further his eyes scanned down the report. When he was finished, he set the file down on his desk and moved – wraith-like – toward the window, his back to the group.

"So....?" Hansen queried. "Who killed him?"

"He died of a broken neck," Trudeau responded without turning around.

"Then we've got Austin dead-to-rights," Hansen surmised. "We can throw away the key. Frank....?" When Trudeau didn't answer, Hansen picked up the file himself and began to read. Below the actual cause of death...he found it. After digesting the information himself, he read it aloud.

"Guards report decedent enraged the afternoon of his death, the result of emergence delirium from Sodium Pentothal administered during questioning by Frank Trudeau, Federal Bureau of Investigation...."

Three jaws threatened to hit the floor in shock as three heads turned accusingly toward the FBI man. Oscar could barely speak. "You....you caused all of this!"

"He died of a broken neck," Trudeau repeated.

"Maybe so," Russ added, "but none of this would've happened if you hadn't worked him into a fury – and then left him alone."

"He seemed fine when I left him..."

"The delirium may not have fully set in yet," Hansen growled. "Dammit, Frank! There should've been a doctor there to supervise – and you should've told us about all of this!"

Trudeau finally turned around. "I...didn't know..." he said feebly.

"Steve Austin was merely defending Mrs. Marchetti against a monster – a lethal monster – that you created." Jack picked up the phone and insistently held it out until Trudeau took the receiver. "Make it right," Hansen demanded.

"This is Frank Trudeau," the beaten-down Suit said quietly. "Get me Ben Simmons at Federal Holding." His fingers tapped anxiously on the desk as he waited, withering under three angry glares. "Ben? Frank. Release Colonel Austin immediately. All charges have been dropped. That's right – immediately."

- - -

Jaime and Jenn sat together in silence for a very long time, both thinking about the two men who had been so abruptly removed from their lives – one gone forever and the other's future uncertain. Still unaware of what the autopsy report might reveal, Jaime stared blankly at her hands, reflecting that for all she knew, they had quite possibly become the instruments of her own husband's death. A guilt she didn't dare give voice to threatened to consume her.

Jenn saw the shift in her friend's gaze and reacted immediately, grasping both of Jaime's hands gently in her own. "These are good hands," she reiterated softly. "Loving hands. Hands that defended you when you had no other choice – and I thank God for that."

Jaime nodded, forcing herself not to cry. "I really....loved him," she whispered.

"I know."

"Maybe if I had tried a little harder....gave him a little more attention or was a little more loving -"

"Jaime, you are one of the most loving, caring people I've ever met. There was nothing you could've done differently -"

"Maybe if I'd -"

"Maybe if you'd flapped your arms hard enough, you could've flown to the moon," Jenn said kindly. "That would've been more likely than stopping the speeding freight train named Michael."

"I think any trips to the moon would best be left to me," a cheerful voice called from the doorway.

"Steve!" Jenn flew into her husband's arms while Jaime beamed at them both from the bed. "How did you...?"

"Long story," Steve told her, leading back over to Jaime's bedside. "How're you doing?" he asked.

"Better now," Jaime confirmed. "You...made bail?"

"I'm free."

"It's over?" both women asked in near-perfect unison.

Steve nodded, smiling jubilantly. "It's over." He dipped Jenn low for a joyful, passionate kiss, then kissed Jaime on her forehead. "Time to get you well...and outta here!"

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