There was a numbness in his limbs that had nothing to do with the biting wind that lanced through his clothing. His hair whipped about his face, stinging his reddened eyes. It didn't matter, he wasn't really looking where he was walking anyway. He was just walking. Out of the antiseptic-smelling emergency room. Out into the dark, Denver night.He stood at the curb for a moment, realizing suddenly that he didn't remember how he'd gotten there. Then it all came back as the piercing cry of an ambulance touched his ears and grew louder. Soon, he saw the red, flashing lights, reflecting off the white walls of the hospital building, the dirty snow piled along the edge of the sidewalk and the wet, black pavement of the road.
He stared, transfixed, as the ambulance drew closer, pulling up beneath the awning in front of the emergency room. He watched until the back doors swung open and the paramedic and the emergency medical technician yanked a gurney out into the cold. Snowflakes fell on the charcoal-gray blanket that covered the patient. Vin couldn't see a face, didn't know if it was a man or a woman, young or old.
His heart beat hard and unsteady in his chest. A cold sweat broke out beneath his layered shirts. His knees felt disconnected and unsteady.
"You need a taxi?" a man asked.
"What?"
"A taxi? You waiting for a taxi?"
"Um..." Vin shut his eyes tight, then refocused them on the face of the man leaning out of the driver's side window of a yellow and blue taxicab. "I didn't call—"
"That's okay. I just dropped someone off. You need a taxi?" the man repeated.
Vin found himself opening the door and sliding into the back seat, behind the driver. The plastic-covered upholstery was cold against the back of his thighs, but a jet of hot air was hitting him in the face. It smelled heavily of pine and Vin found it difficult to breath. He coughed, turning his head away. He stared out of the window, not seeing the snow as it fell ever more heavily. His feet tingled as feeling began to return, but he barely noticed.
"Where to?" the man asked. "Hey, mister, where to?"
The taxi had already pulled away from the curb, was already heading down the road. Vin had to think where the truck was parked. He fumbled with the manila envelope the nurse had given him. Inside, he found the ring of keys. His throat tightened, but he fought against it when he heard the man asking him again: "Where to?"
"Fifteenth Street," he said. His voice sounded hoarse and ill used. He didn't remember yelling, except at that one woman, but that had been hours ago, at least it seemed like hours. He wasn't sure.
"Can you be more specific? That street'll take you out of the city if you follow it far enough."
Vin had to think again. They'd been downtown. A bit of last minute shopping. A nice dinner at Maggiano's: Chris ordered the pesto and had ended up with a greasy green stain on his tie; Vin had drank too much red wine and was glad Chris had been driving.
"Fifteenth and Market," Vin finally said.
They'd been heading home when Chris had pulled suddenly to the curb. He remembered Chris telling him to wait in the truck where it was warm. Outside, the wind whipped snow off the ground and into the air, but no new flakes were falling yet. The sun had crept out late that afternoon, but now, long after sunset, the wet roads were turning slick with patches of ice. Vin hadn't minded waiting in the truck.
He wished now that he hadn't. Maybe if he'd braved the cold and gone with Chris...
Suddenly, he found himself wondering what it was that Chris had needed at the store, what it was he'd forgotten that was so important. They had two ratings of sun block, shaving cream, razors, piña colada-flavored lubricant.... Vin had double checked the list just that morning. They had everything they needed for their Bermuda vacation. But still, Chris had gone out in the dark and cold, needing to get something from the drug store.
A disposable camera? No, Vin had already purchased three: one regular, one panoramic, and one underwater.
He couldn't think what had been so important. So important that Chris had to stop. And why had he wanted Vin to wait in the truck? He hadn't asked him to, he'd told him: "Wait here — it's warmer. I'll be right back." There'd been no question about Vin tagging along; Chris had left him with a big smile and no option.
Vin clutched the manila envelope to his chest as he continued to stare out the now-fogged window. Hazy patches of orange from the street lamps flashed by at regular intervals, occasionally interrupted by a beacon of frayed red as they passed through an intersection.
Tears leaked unheeded down his cheeks. His raw eyes burned with the hot, dry air blowing from the vents in the dash. His toes now ached with the chill that seeped up through the metal floor.
"Market's the next street. You want off at the near corner?" the taxi drive asked.
Vin wondered if the man had said anything else during the drive. Vin hadn't heard him if he had.
"Yeah, that's fine."
The driver pulled the cab over, saying, "That'll be a whopping four-forty."
Vin dug into his pocket; he found a ten dollar bill, a five, and a bunch of ones. He handed over the ten without a word. He didn't ask for any change and the driver didn't offer. Vin slid across the seat and got out at the curb.
He climbed over the small bank of snow, but then just stood on the sidewalk as the taxi pulled away. To get his bearings, Vin glanced at the opposite corner and found the drug store, as expected. Then his eyes drifted toward the intersection. Fresh snow had been falling. Wet lines from car tires revealed stripes of dark pavement. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see.
But Vin saw it anyway.
The light had been green for Chris. Vin had been inside the truck; he'd looked up just as Chris had stepped off the curb. A flash of silver caught his eye, causing Vin to turn his head. Somehow he knew the car wasn't going to stop, knew as its tail-end drifted slightly sideways that it had hit a spot of black ice. He watched as it slid into the crosswalk, clipping Chris and tossing him into the intersection, into the path of an on-coming car.
Vin didn't see him hit the ground. He'd been tugging at his seatbelt, yanking open the door, running down the block...
Chris was just lying there, still, by the time Vin arrived. Thick, dark blood was melting the icy patch of snow beside his head.
"Call 9-1-1," he yelled at some woman who was simply standing there, staring.
"I-I don't have a phone," she told him.
Vin ripped the mobile phone from his own belt and shoved it into her hands. "Call 9-1-1. Now! He needs an ambulance!"
Vin turned back to Chris, but he didn't know where to begin. He'd had first-aid training with the ATF, but that had been a few years ago now, even longer since he'd actually used it. The last time had been for a gunshot wound, a graze to someone's thigh that a Boy Scout could have treated.
He tried to think. Chris wasn't moving. Vin laid a hand on his chest and felt a slight rise. He pulled off his heavy coat and laid it over Chris — he had to be cold, lying in the ice and snow, on the hard, wet pavement. He pulled off his jacket, quickly folding it up to use as a pillow. He tried to gently lift Chris's head, but it was so heavy, so still, so loose.... It wasn't like lifting Chris's head from his lap when he'd fallen asleep in front of the television; there was no active muscle behind it.
Vin felt suddenly hollow and alone.
"I think he's dead."
The words hit Vin like cold water to the face.
"He's not dead! He's not dead!" he yelled at the stupid woman. "Get an ambulance. Now! Right now!"
Vin heard the woman repeat his words into the phone, but he was already looking back at Chris, telling him to hang on, telling him it would be okay.
"We'll get you fixed at the hospital. They'll fix you — they will — just like always. Just hang on, Chris. Please." He believed his own words; he couldn't have said them if he hadn't.
He noticed booted feet shuffling nearby, people staring down as he huddled over Chris, whispering those words over and over, assuring him it would be okay, telling him he loved him, pleading with him to hold on. The hollowness he felt was being replaced by a sick churning, the red wine he'd had with dinner turning to vinegar in his belly.
He heard the sirens long before he saw the lights, too long before the ambulance and police actually arrived. It was a blur now: the waiting, the EMT pulling him out of the way, the ride to the hospital, and then more waiting. Police had questioned him. He couldn't remember what they'd asked or what he'd said. All he could think about was Chris, just lying there. All he could feel was a growing, overwhelming unease, a dread that gripped his heart and his lungs and his mind.
He looked at the intersection now. Few cars were still parked along the curb. Fewer cars were on the road. Vin forced himself to turn away from the intersection, much as he'd forced himself to leave the hospital, unaware how long he'd actually been there, holding Chris's hand, stroking his face, telling him he loved him, not wanting to believe that Chris wasn't there anymore to hear him.
Vin was inside the truck before he realized he'd been fumbling with the key and the lock. He just sat for a moment, thinking he should tell someone.
He reached for his phone, but then realized that woman had never given it back to him. He leaned across the seats and popped open the glove box. Inside was Chris's phone; after they'd left the restaurant, he'd tossed it in there, along with his gun. Vin put them both on the passenger seat, then started the truck as he wondered whom to call.
The old team was gone. Orin Travis, passed long ago. Mary, finally driven back to where-ever her parents lived. Ezra, deep undercover and unheard from in years. Josiah, somewhere in Tibet, on sabbatical from Quantico. Nathan and Rain, relocated to Baltimore, or was it Philadelphia? JD, probably still with the agency, probably still with Casey, probably still out in California, probably. Even Buck was out of touch, having quit the ATF to be with some politician's pretty aide — he could be in Sacramento, or even D.C., for all Vin knew.
He supposed he should call Chris's boss, but Vin wasn't on good terms with the man. He'd been the one to disband the team after taking over for the late Orin Travis; he'd been the one that had railroaded Vin into a dead-end job at the Denver agency's firing range. It was because of him that Chris worked such long hours, buried in paperwork, wasting the talents that had made him one of the ATF's top field agents in the first place.
That was all supposed to end this spring. Chris was going to take early retirement. Vin had already quit to spend time fixing up the ranch. They were going to have horses again. They had it all planned.
Tears welled in Vin's eyes as he thought about this, about Chris's dream, about how happy Chris had been when they'd realized they could make it work. And now Chris was gone. It seemed impossible, unreal. There'd been a time when they'd lived with the possibility of injury and death every day, but that was a long time ago — so long ago that it felt like someone else's life. Chris was a paper pusher now, Vin a ranch hand.
It wasn't real. It couldn't be. But Vin knew it was — knew by the aching that gripped his heart and pervaded his chest, knew by the faint tingling of every nerve-ending and by the all-consuming thoughts in his head.
He drove the icy, black highway home, aware of his surroundings but not fully conscious of them. The beams of the truck's headlights glanced off the bank of snow beside the winding road out to the ranch, but the darkness swallowed the tracks of the four-by-four along with Vin's memory of the drive.
He pulled up to the garage and then cut the engine, habit alone dictating his movements. But then he just sat, staring at the dark house. Knowing Chris wasn't inside. Knowing Chris wouldn't set foot inside ever again.
Grief overcame him suddenly. Tears quickly filled his eyes, blurring his vision. Sobs tightened his throat and contorted his face.
Chris was dead and he was alone.
"I want you back," he sobbed. He didn't care about anything else, couldn't think of anything else. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he gasped for breath between sobs that shook his body violently. He'd never cried before, not like this. He'd never loved anyone before, not really, not like he loved Chris. And no one had ever loved him, except Chris.
He didn't want to do this without Chris. He couldn't. He couldn't be alone again. He didn't want to run the ranch without him. He couldn't be with anyone else. Not ever. No one wanted him anyway. He couldn't do this alone. He shouldn't have to.
His hand found the gun on the passenger seat. His fingers stripped it from its holster, checked the clip, flipped off the safety, and chambered a round. He could do this blindfolded — he had, for years and years, first as a soldier, then as a bounty hunter, and finally as an ATF agent. There was no thought involved. No effort. No question about his decision.
The metal of the barrel was cold against his lips, the taste of the oil residue acrid in his mouth. His thumb moved to the trigger. In his mind he saw Chris, lying on the table in the ER, motionless. His fine hair was soft to the touch, where blood hadn't caked it to his head. He remembered Chris's body still feeling warm, despite the absolute silence in his chest.
Vin took a breath, the sobs gone as suddenly as they'd overcome him. He slowly exhaled, but only halfway, just as he'd been trained. With Chris's image still firmly in his mind, Vin squeezed the trigger and was gone.