Part 8
Chris blinked at Vin's repetition of his name. "Sorry...guess my mind wandered for a minute."
His friend looked at him out of the corner of his eyes but didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The silence spoke for both of them.
Sighing, Chris looked at the dashboard clock again. He fumbled for his cell phone, first hitting the speed dial for Buck's cell phone, then Ezra's. No answer from either number. Then he punched in Buck's home phone; getting the machine, he disconnected. He'd already left a half-dozen messages of the "Where are you, call me now!" variety on both men's answering machines. But, just in case, he called Ezra's condo once again, with no answer.
He felt the vehicle show down and looked up at Vin's soft curse. "Looks like we got a problem," the sharpshooter said simply.
Up ahead were flashing lights, and a man in a bright rain slicker waving an orange beacon. He came trotting up to the truck and Vin rolled down the window. "Sorry, guys," the man said breathlessly. "Bridge is out. You'll have to double back to Highway 98 and take the detour through Terrytown."
"How far is that?" Chris snapped.
The man shrugged. "Thirty miles, maybe more. But it's the only way. This rain we've been having, the river is close to flood stage and they've closed down all the bridges except the one below Terrytown."
Chris fell back in the seat. "Damn."
Denver
"Mr. Wilmington?"
"How is he, Doc? Is he going to be okay?" Buck started to stand up but the doctor waved him back down and perched on the seat opposite him.
"He's in pretty rough shape. We've got him on IV fluids and oxygen, he was having some trouble breathing. And he's in a lot of pain." The doctor frowned. "When did this supposed food poisoning occur?"
Buck had to think. "Saturday night."
Doctor Baker looked puzzled. "I just don't understand-his initial labwork is very strange. It doesn't jibe with the food poisoning that was reported at that restaurant. Unless...was he sick before?"
"No, not sick," Buck admitted. "But he was...on an assignment. A long one, and he doesn't always eat or sleep real well when he's..."
"...undercover?" the doctor asked.
Buck glanced at him, surprised. The doctor shrugged. "I did my internship at Walter Reed in DC. We got a lot of FBI, CIA agents there, worked with the Occupational Stress Center at Quantico."
Buck hesitated. "He does some undercover work," he finally admitted.
The doctor seemed to understand Buck couldn't go into many details. He looked back down at the clipboard he held in his hands. "Well, as I said before he's in pretty rough shape-nothing we can't clear up given time and treatment." He looked back up at Buck. "Which is part of the problem. He really doesn't want to let us do anything. He's pretty out of it but anytime we try to touch him he gets very agitated. I don't know if he's delirious or does he just really not like doctors?"
Buck closed his eyes. He could hear Ezra's voice in his mind, "Sometimes I wake up and I don't know who I'm supposed to be or who I can trust... I'm afraid I'm going to say something that will blow my cover or yours or someone else's..." Ezra had been drunk that night, one of maybe three times Buck had ever seen him that way, and exhausted-he hadn't used any of his multi-syllable words and the poker mask of his face had disappeared to be replaced by real fear.
"Mr. Wilmington?"
Buck opened his eyes at the doctor's voice. "Sorry...my mind wandered."
Dr. Baker looked at him keenly. "You're not feeling well yourself, are you?"
"No...I'm okay." Buck straightened up. "Let me see Ezra, I'll try to get him calmed down some." The doctor nodded and started to stand up. "Oh, and Doc?" He waited until the younger man looked at him before he grinned. "Ezra really doesn't like doctors...or hospitals. If you want to keep him in here, you're going to have to let me stay with him...'cause otherwise, he'll be out of here before you know it."
The doctor looked skeptical. "He's not in any shape to leave under his own power."
Buck grinned even wider. "That's never stopped him before. Trust me on this one, doc...or if you don't, call over to Four Corners or Mercy General...they can tell you about Ezra Standish...he's famous for his escapes!"
~+~+~+~
Pain.
Waves of it, rolling through his belly. His legs cramped up, his head pounded-even his eyes hurt.
Strange people, people he didn't know, surrounding him, touching him. Unfamiliar voices in a clamor around him. Bright lights overhead, searing his tender eyes.
The pain stabbed through his stomach again and he heard his own voice moaning, protesting. He bit his lip to keep from saying anything. He didn't know where he was, something was wrong...this might not be a safe place...
Someone touched his shoulder. He twisted away, trying to escape the touch as well as the agony in his own body. Another voice spoke...quiet, soothing.
Familiar.
The voice of a friend.
A voice that meant it was safe. He wasn't alone.
"Easy, Ez...just try to relax. You're goin' to be okay. They're going to give you something to help the pain..."
He stiffened. The hand slipped from his shoulder down to grasp his hand. "It's okay, Pard, you hear me? I'm right here. Just relax and let go. I'll be here."
Waves of soothing darkness beckoned, warmth spread up from his hand to his whole body, pushing aside the pain, the fear. The voice said it was safe. He could relax...
Ezra slid into the comforting darkness.
Northern Colorado
Chris Larabee knew Hell. He'd been there before.
Hell was coming up that rainy road and seeing the burning hulk of his own pickup.
Hell was seeing the small, badly burned body strapped to the stretcher and rushed to the waiting ambulance.
Hell was seeing the filled black body bag being carried to the coroner's wagon. Knowing that the bag contained his wife, his love.
His soul.
Hell was four days sitting next to his dying son in the Burn Ward. Hell was hearing him scream from the pain of his burns. Holding him as he took his last breath and finally slipped away from the agony of his body.
Leaving behind Chris Larabee, an angry, bitter man, lashing out at the world around him
His sojourn in Hell had been a long one. Only gradually had he started the climb back to life.
And now he was in Hell again.
Helpless in this vehicle, a hundred miles and hours from where he needed to be. Not knowing where two of his men were.
No.
Two of his family.
He prayed to a God he'd long since turned his back on.
'Let them be okay.'
He glanced at the clock on the dash.
Ten twenty two.
Denver
Buck napped fitfully, trying to curl his six-foot-four body into a comfortable position in the plastic-seated chair. Every few minutes he'd wake, to focus bleary eyes first on Ezra's still figure in the bed, and then on the small arsenal of machines surrounding him. Nathan, Josiah, or even Ezra himself would know what they were for. Buck recognized the heart monitor only because he'd asked a nurse what the leads on Ezra's chest were for. Either because she was very nice or because she'd succumbed to his charm-he suspected the former because, hell, he just didn't feel well enough to be charming-she'd explained that Ezra's heartbeat and breathing had both been irregular when he was admitted and pointed out the machines that were monitoring each of them. The same nurse had come in later to start an IV in Ezra's hand, commenting that Standish's veins had "plumped up" enough to do so. For a few minutes all Buck could think of was some hot dog commercial where the motto was "they plump when you cook 'em." He'd laughed. The nurse had given him a rather strange look and left, but she'd reappeared a few minutes later with a glass of orange juice and a blanket for Buck, and reassured him that Ezra was stable at the moment and that he should go down to the cafeteria for something to eat. Buck accepted the juice and blanket but shook his head at the cafeteria. Not only did he not want to leave Ezra-sedated or not, he wouldn't put it past the ornery cuss to disappear the minute his back was turned-but his stomach churned uneasily at the mere thought of food.
Now he opened his eyes again. His vision was still blurry. Pushing the blanket aside, Buck hauled himself to his feet and stepped into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face and neck. He filled the plastic cup with water and drank, trying to eliminate the taste in his mouth. His face in the mirror was pale, grayish, with circles under his eyes and harsh lines around the mouth. Shaking his head, he turned off the light and returned to the chair.
He studied the figure in the bed. Ezra had been restless when they'd first settled him in this room, obviously in pain and fighting the sedation. Over the last few hours he'd quieted, but now he seemed to be rousing again, shifting uneasily in the bed and moaning. His free hand came up to swipe at the oxygen tube under his nose.
Buck caught the hand. "Leave it be, Ez." He leaned closer to the bed, still holding his friend's hand. "Ez? Can you hear me?"
Ezra mumbled incoherently.
"Come'n, Ez," Buck coaxed. "Wake up for a minute for me."
Eyelids fluttered and for a second Buck was sure they'd open. But they didn't. Ezra sighed and moved his head on the pillow, then seemed to slip into a deeper sleep.
'Damn.' Buck knew Ezra needed rest, but he was worried about the other man. Seemed like if Ezra would just wake up for a few minutes, Buck could be sure he was going to be okay.
With a final squeeze he placed Ezra's hand on the bed. He leaned back in the chair, winced, changed position and tried to find a comfortable way to sit. His whole body ached and he was getting a horrendous headache.
He needed to get up. Move around. Maybe find some coffee. Surely that would help fight this groggy, tired feeling. And he needed to call Chris. He really needed to call Chris. Larabee would be pissed if he knew Ezra was in the hospital and Buck hadn't called. He was going to be pissed anyway that Buck waited so long to call.
On the other hand...it was late. Buck didn't know for sure what time it was, but he knew it was well after eleven-shift change at the hospital. Chris and Vin might already be asleep. Both of them tended to be early risers and being on vacation at the cabin wouldn't change that. 'Vin's probably been gettin' up before sunrise to get after them fish.'
Buck stood up, then quickly dropped back down into the chair as a wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him. His head pounded in time with his pulse. Suddenly even the dimly lit hospital room seemed too bright, the beeping monitors too loud. The tall man squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his temples.
Slowly the pain receded slightly. He dropped his hands but kept his eyes closed. 'Just need some rest. Just a little rest...'
tbc...