Part 17
The medical center complex sprawled out over two full city blocks. Chris walked the whole way around it, hands tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders bent into the chill wind. The rain had stopped but the temperature had sharply dropped with the advent of nightfall, and a bite to the wind suggested the encroaching clouds carried more than just rain.
He moved at a swift, steady pace, concentrating on nothing but the pounding of his boots on the pavement, the chill touch of air against his face. His mind worked desperately at shoring up the walls he'd structured around himself so long ago. Those walls were in danger of crumbling; the bedrock in which they had been entrenched had partly been his deep-seated faith that no matter what happened, no matter what he did, or said, or didn't say, Buck Wilmington would always be there.
A fragment of verse fluttered across his mind. He had no idea where he'd learned it. He frowned, pace unconsciously slowing as he tried to remember. What was it?
Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow.
Don't walk behind me, I may not lead.
Just walk beside me, and be my friend.
He shivered.
The words could have been written with Buck Wilmington in mind.
He turned the corner and started downhill toward the front entrance of the hospital. The glass-fronted entrance was brilliantly lit, reaching out onto the dark pavement. A police car pulled away from the curb; stopped suddenly and reversed. The door opened and a figure stepped out.
"Larabee?"
Chris looked up at his name, eyes narrowing as he took in the figure stepping onto the lighted curb. "Hamilton." He could hear the ice in his tone. "What brings you here?"
The burly cop stuck his hands in his pockets. Surprisingly, given the weather, he wasn't wearing his heavy Denver PD-issue jacket but just his uniform with the long-sleeved shirt. "Drove your man Standish over."
Chris stopped in front of the other man; blinked; replayed the words in his mind. "What did you say?" He clenched his hands into fists to keep from grabbing the cop by the collar and pounding his face into the pavement, just for old time's sake.
"Standish." Hamilton smirked. "He found out about Wilmington."
Chris shook his head. "You mean they released him from the hospital?"
"More like he released himself. Discharged himself AMA." Incredibly, there seemed to be a hint of real admiration in the officer's sarcastic tone.
"How the hell did he find out?" Chris demanded harshly, taking a step forward.
Hamilton gave ground, his hands upheld. "Hey, it wasn't me that told him. Take it up with your buddies, the 'suits'. From what I figured out, he overheard a couple of them talking and pulled out the IV himself. Nothin' the doctor or that guy with the fancy cane said made any difference to him, he just out-talked them." No doubt about it, that was admiration in his voice. "I gave him a lift over here." He shrugged at Chris' glare. "Figured it was better than letting him take a bus or a cab. He was coming over any way, I just thought I'd make sure he got here safely."
Chris forced back the rage. He knew Ezra. The man was acting exactly to form. Actually, he was behaving the same way any other member of Team Seven would do under the circumstances. Their own health or safety would always take a backseat to that of a teammate. That was the very reason Chris had warned Montgomery not to tell Ezra about Buck. 'I'm going to shoot that SOB Montgomery. Assistant to the Assistant Director or not.' He looked at Hamilton and grudgingly nodded. "Thanks, Sergeant." He turned to walk into the hospital.
"Larabee."
Chris turned back.
Hamilton looked serious. "I hate your guts, Larabee. And I'm not crazy about Wilmington either. But...I never wanted something like this to happen to him. No matter what happened between us, you were good cops. You're probably good Feds. I hope Wilmington makes it."
Chris stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Thanks." He turned his back and entered the hospital.
Vin stared at Ezra. "Ezra, what 'n' the hell are you doing? You're supposed to be in the hospital!"
"I am in a hospital, Mr. Tanner," Standish pointed out. "How's Buck?" he added anxiously.
Vin shook his head, glancing over at the OR doors. "Don't know yet. He's still in surgery." He frowned. "How did you find out?"
Ezra dropped his gaze. His expression became carefully closed, shuttered. "I overheard Mr. Montgomery talking with young Agent Fewell."
"Hell, Ez, I'm sorry," Vin said softly. Standish's head jerked up. Vin went on, "You shouldn't've found out like that. I was gonna come back and tell you, but...hell, I didn't want to leave Chris until-sorry, Pard."
"That's all right, Vin," Ezra said quietly. "Your place right now is with Mr. Larabee." He studied Tanner with a worried expression on his face. "Are you all right?"
"Me? I'm not the one who was pukin' up a lung!" Vin tried to grin. His head throbbed and he winced. "Can't believe they released you," he added. Then he took a good luck at the other man and groaned. "Shit. They didn't, did they? You snuck out?"
Ezra settled back gingerly against the upholstery. "You overestimate me, Mr. Tanner. Even I can't escape with a guard on my door and needles and wires stuck into every orofice."
Vin snorted. "Sure you could, if'n you put your mind to it."
"Well...to be honest, I didn't have quite enough energy to expend manufacturing a suitable scenario," Ezra admitted. "So I took a more direct approach."
"And that was?" Vin grasped at the conversation to keep his mind off his pounding headache and the churning feeling of panic in his gut every time he closed his eyes and saw Buck's battered body lying on the floor of the loft.
Ezra had closed his eyes. He looked bad. Exhaustion dragged at his words. "Surely you are aware, Mr. Tanner, that in this great country of ours it is against the law to retain a person against his or her will for treatment in a medical care facility unless said person has been deemed incompetent in a court of law or otherwise ordered to the treatment facility by authorized Agents of the law." Then he had to stop and breathe heavily.
Vin had the distinct suspicion Ezra had rehearsed that little speech on the way over. He thought about what Ezra had said, and then felt a slow smile cross his bruised and aching face. "Y'mean...you just told the doc you were goin' to leave?"
Ezra didn't look at him. "I wouldn't plan on using such a technique the next time you are injured or otherwise incarcerated in a hospital."
"Why not?"
"Because it is only effective if those around you are not willing to resort to brute force to keep you there for treatment." Ezra opened his eyes and translated, "In other words, had Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Sanchez, or, God forbid, our esteemed Mr. Larabee, been there-I wouldn't have had-in the vernacular-a hope in Hell."
Vin frowned. 'Well, shit.'
Then he took another look at the southerner. "Umm...nice threads, Ez. Don't somehow seem your style, though."
Ezra was wearing gray sweat pants and a bright red T-shirt advertising a local tennis club; both hung loosely on his slender frame. He had on a pair of dingy white Nikes that Vin suspected had at least two pairs of heavy socks stuffed in the toes, and a heavy Denver PD jacket that practically swallowed him up.
"Well, when the esteemed Dr. Baker came to the correct conclusion that he was no longer going to be able to detain me, he decided there was some provision of the Hippocratic Oath that required him to procure appropriate attire for me. Well...at least more suitable than that deplorable hospital gown."
Two sets of double doors banged open at once. Chris Larabee strode in one set, his eyes shooting flames as he fixed his gaze on the undercover agent.
"Ah, damn," Ezra groaned, apparently recognizing the look.
And the doors to the operating rooms opened and Dr. Culver stepped out and headed in their direction.
Everyone froze.
Dr. Culver looked at Vin, then Chris; he frowned as he glanced at Ezra, then looked back at Chris. "Mr. Wilmington is quite a fighter. He made it through the surgery."
7777777
Chris was dizzy. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Relief swam over him, weakening his knees. He dropped to the sofa next to Ezra. His mind filled with one thought. 'He's alive. He's alive.' He looked at his two friends. Vin was smiling widely in spite of the ugly black bruises that were starting to come out on his face. And Ezra-the undercover agent had leaned his head back against the nubby mauve upholstery and quite simply looked like he was going to pass out.
Chris exchanged relieved glances with Vin over Ezra's body and then switched his attention back to the doctor. What he saw there sent the fear rushing through his veins again. "Doctor-" he couldn't remember the man's name-"He made it through the surgery. That's good. He's out of danger?"
The other two must have sensed his tension. They both looked at the doctor.
"He's goin' to be okay, right?"
Ezra didn't say anything, just stared at the doctor through green eyes that were too-large in his pale face.
"Mr. Wilmington is still in very critical condition," the doctor said carefully.
Chris listened numbly as the doctor went through a seeming laundry-list of injuries. Concussion. Shock. Blood loss. Fractured femur. Busted ribs. Internal injury. Collapsed lung.
He replayed the last bit the doctor had said. Ice cold chills shivered inside him. "What did you say? About his breathing?"
The doctor looked at him with sympathy. "We still have him on a respirator. He's not breathing on his own right now."
"Hey, Chris." Buck stuck his head inside the door. "You busy?"
"Since when does that stop you?" Chris waved Buck to come on in. It was Buck's first day back in Denver after his ATF training. After Chris had left the Denver PD, Buck had gone to work on the Bomb Squad. He'd been there ten months when Chris had been tapped by AD Travis to form a special ATF team, a regional emergency management – aka Remtef – team.
Buck knew it was coming. He and Chris had talked about it at dinner the week before. Chris assumed Buck realized he'd want him on the team. It surprised the hell out of Larabee that-when he'd called Buck to tell him the team was a "go"- Buck had seemingly been surprised Chris was expecting him to join.
That shock had lasted maybe twenty seconds. Buck handed in his resignation that same day.
Chris was reviewing files. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for in this new team of his, but he knew-just as he'd known he needed Buck on it-that he'd know when he saw people if they'd fit. Each ATF team had specialists: Undercover, Computers, Profiler, Surveillance, Weapons, Sharpshooter...but Chris was looking for someone who could be a team member first, and a specialist second.
"What's up?" he asked Buck, seeing some papers in the other man's hand.
Buck hesitated. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days. Irritated the hell out of Chris. Since when did Buck not just blurt out whatever he was thinking?
"It's this Medical Power of Attorney thing," the taller man said finally. "You mind me putting your name down?"
Now Chris was really confused. "Hell, no. I've always been your POA, haven't I?" They'd been friends partners since they were rookies on the Denver PD. Buck didn't have any blood next of kin; Chris was as close as it got. Somehow, even in the black days after Sarah and Adam died, when Chris' grief and rage had swallowed him and sent him seeking oblivion anywhere he could find it-he'd never expected that to change. The thought that it had made him nervous suddenly, uneasy. What else had changed between them?
"You always have been," Buck confirmed quietly. "Even when-" he stopped. "I just-wanted to make sure you didn't mind."
"Just don't make me have actually to do anything with it, and I won't mind," Chris cracked, desperate to lighten the tension.
It worked. Buck's grin broke out. "Do my best, Cowboy." He started out the door, then hesitated, turned back. "Chris...just in case it ever does come down to it...I don't want to be kept alive by machines, okay? Not like-" he stopped quickly but Chris knew what he was thinking about. Those four days in the burn ward with Adam. Buck had been there the whole time..."If I can't do it on my own, Pard, just let me go. Okay?"
~~~~
'Well, forget it, Buck,' Chris thought harshly. 'You'd better start breathin' on your own cause I'm not giving permission to take you off that respirator. Not now.'
He broke into the doctor's carefully measured words. "When can we see him?" His voice was firm. He eyed the doctor challengingly, almost daring him to say they couldn't see Buck. Chris was spoiling for a fight, for something to release his temper on. One tiny bit of sane control left kept him from lashing out at Vin or Ezra, knowing neither of them were in any condition for it.
The doctor apparently wasn't either. "He'll be settled in ICU in about an hour. He'll be on the fourth floor; I'll have the nurse notify you when you can see him."
'Fourth floor ICU. Oh, shit.'
Suddenly Chris remembered what he'd been trying to ignore for hours. University Medical Center. Where Adam had died.
In the burn unit. Next to the fourth floor ICU.
tbc...