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azombiewritesTitle: A Murder Hunt
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Ten
Chris Larabee pushed against the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the large interior of Inez’s Bar. He stood where he was, allowing the doors to swing shut behind him, and searched the room for his friends. Someone had dimmed the lights to match the bar’s mood, making his search more difficult than it should be. Amongst the many tables that littered the floor on the left side of the room, men and woman – some unrecognizable in the pale light – nursed their drinks while making quiet conversation. Larabee understood their reluctance to greet him with a wave or a few loud words; they were mourning the death of Henry Potter.
Finally, his search stopped at the table in the far left corner of the room where his friends were sitting, but Standish wasn’t with them. Larabee smiled at the sight of Nathan Jackson sitting next to Wilmington. Knowing that Standish had refused to go to the hospital, Wilmington had used his initiative and brought the Doctor with him. Jackson, though, would no doubt be the reason why Standish wasn’t sitting with them. As Larabee made his way through the maze of tables towards his friends, he nodded to the mourners, each of them returning his greeting with a nod of their own.
When he reached his friends, he couldn’t help but notice the empty bottles of beer that lined the table in front of Wilmington and Dunne. Both men seemed to have the same objective as Standish – to get very drunk – and Larabee couldn’t blame them. Death had come very close to taking the three men today, but it was going to take a lot more than a few hours of drinking to get over it.
Looking at Wilmington, Larabee asked, “Where is he?”
Wilmington put his drink down on the table and tilted his head to the side, “Over there.”
Larabee looked to the right where Wilmington had indicated, and found the man he was looking for; Standish was sitting at the bar with his back to the room, his head hanging low between his shoulders. The man looked miserable and he had every reason to.
“How’s he doing?” It was a stupid question and Larabee knew it.
“Can’t get a word out of him,” Wilmington answered.
“Except for when he told us to leave him alone,” Dunne said.
“Is he drunk yet?”
The worry Wilmington felt for his friend showed in the smile that crept over his face, “He’s getting there . . . slowly.”
"What do you mean by slowly?"
"He's still on his first drink," Wilmington explained.
"Yeah, except his first drink is a beer glass full of whiskey," Dunne said.
“What about you two?” Larabee looked at Dunne before returning his gaze to Wilmington. “How are you doing?”
Jackson slapped Wilmington on the shoulder and said,” Physically they’re both fine.”
“But we’re plannin’ on getting just as drunk as Ezra is,” Wilmington looked up at Larabee. “Looks like you’ll be driving us all home later.”
Larabee nodded. “What about Ezra, Nathan? Did you get a chance to look him over?”
“No,” Jackson shook his head, “he told me, in a very polite way, to go fuck myself.”
“Yeah,” Larabee almost smiled. “He hasn’t had a good day.”
“So I heard,” Jackson said. “You know he should be in a hospital, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know, but he won’t go and I’m not going to force him,” Larabee told Jackson. “Not until he’s ready.”
Dunne, knowing that Larabee could easily take his anger out on Jackson, tried to change the subject. “Where’s, Vin?”
“He’s on his way,” Larabee looked over the tables toward Standish, watching as the man appeared to sink even further into himself.
Wilmington knew what his friend was thinking and said, “Go talk to him, Chris. He needs to talk to someone.”
“You know Ezra, Buck. He won’t talk to anyone unless he wants to.”
“He’ll talk to you.”
“Maybe,” Larabee shrugged.
“Chris, go . . . and talk to him.”
Larabee nodded and without looking back at his friends, slowly made his way – again through the maze of tables – to the bar. As he got closer, Larabee could sense the tension building within Standish. It caused him to hesitate, stopping a few feet behind the man. After taking a few deep breaths to control his own emotions, Larabee sat down on the stool next to Standish. He laid his forearms on the bar before leaning forward to see his friend’s face.
The wound on Standish’s forehead looked ugly, the darkening bruise spreading out beneath the blood that covered the right side of his face. The swollen split lip made him look like he wore a permanent grimace and a layer of sweat covered his pale features. When Larabee noticed the fresh graze on Standish’s chin, he realized that Standish must have taken a fall – probably more than one – on his way here.
The fact that Standish hadn’t cleaned himself up before sitting at the bar, disturbed Larabee in a way that he wasn’t accustomed to. Larabee cursed himself. He considered Standish to be a friend and he had allowed the man to walk to the bar on his own, in a condition that would normally send a person to a hospital.
When Larabee saw the bartender approaching, he shook his head, his body language telling the man that he wouldn't be drinking tonight. He continued to sit in silence, waiting for Standish to make the first move. He didn’t have to wait very long. One minute and twenty-three seconds to be exact – Larabee had been counting.
Without looking at Larabee, Standish said, “Go away.”
“No,” Larabee said.
“Go back to your fucking friends and leave me alone!”
“They’re your friends too, Ezra.”
Standish sighed, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “I don’t know how to deal with this . . . with them.”
“I know, Ezra.” Larabee reached across and squeezed Standish’s shoulder. “I made an appointment for you to see Anderson tomorrow.”
Standish lifted his head and looked at Larabee. “No . . . I’m not going through that again.”
Larabee frowned. “Through what?”
Instead of answering, Standish took a long drink from the beer glass filled with whiskey and hissed at the pain it caused when the alcohol touched his split lip.
“Ezra?”
“I’m not going to see a shrink . . . I won’t go through that again . . . I can’t.”
“You won’t go to a hospital, you won’t talk to any of your friends, and you won’t talk to a shrink!” Larabee growled. “I’m sick of hearing the ‘won’t’ word, Ezra.”
“Fuck you, Larabee! I don’t need this shit right now!” Standish began to stand up but Larabee grabbed his shoulder, forcing him back down onto his seat.
“It’s exactly what you need right now, so sit down and shut the fuck up!” Larabee knew that a passive approach wouldn’t work with Standish. “You are going to see the shrink tomorrow! Besides, it’s mandatory. You won’t be able to go back to work until you do.”
“Who says I want to go back to work?”
“What are you saying, Ezra?” The tears shimmering in Standish’s eyes reminded Larabee of Dan Stone. There were times – like now – that he forgot Standish was only thirty-three.
“That maybe I’m through.” Standish looked away and wiped a hand across his eyes, hating himself for not being able to control his emotions as his mother had taught him to.
“I won’t let you quit, not over something like this.”
“Something like this!” Standish lowered his hand so he could glare at Larabee. When he noticed that he had acquired the attention of the bar’s patrons, he lowered his voice. “You make it sound like someone with purple hair tried to run me over with their walking frame.”
Larabee leaned over, putting himself in Standish’s personal space, and said, “You know that’s not what I meant, Ezra. I’m talking about Sanchez. I’m not going to let him win. You’re not going to let him win. It’s over, Ezra. You’re safe . . . you’ll be okay. You just need to give yourself some time.”
"Just like last time?"
Larabee knew Standish had said something, but the man's voice had been so low, he hadn't been able to hear him.
Standish waved to get the bartender’s attention and when he achieved his goal, he ordered another drink.
“And getting so fucking drunk that you won’t be able to think for a week, isn’t going to help,” Larabee said. “This is something you’re going to remember for the rest of your life, Ezra. What you have to do, is accept it the best way you can and move on. It won’t be easy, Ezra, but it’s something you need to do. You need to talk to someone.”
“The rest of my life, Chris,” Standish turned back to face Larabee, “could have ended today. I don’t--”
“I thought my life had ended when some sick bastard murdered my wife and son, and like you, I came straight here and got so fucking drunk that I couldn’t stand up for almost a week. It didn’t help, it only made things worse.” Larabee took a few slow breaths before continuing. “Buck had to take control because I refused to. He arranged their funeral, Ezra . . . I almost missed my wife and son’s funeral because I couldn’t--”
“You can’t deal with something like that, Chris, not in a week,” Standish said. “You’d be a cold son-of-a-bitch if you did.”
“I didn’t, I couldn’t,” Larabee said. “Two years, Ezra. I was drunk for two years. It would have broken Sarah’s heart if she saw me like that. If it wasn’t for Buck . . . he was the one who finally pulled me out of it . . . of course I fought him all the way. He convinced me to go and see Anderson. Two fucking years, Ezra. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
“To Buck,” Standish raised his glass before taking a drink, grimacing once more at the pain. “What I went through today . . . doesn’t even come close to what you went through, so I doubt I’ll be spending the next two years drunk.”
Larabee turned in his seat, his knees brushing against Standish’s thigh. “Yes, our situations are different, but that doesn’t make yours or mine, any less traumatic and I don’t expect you to deal with it by the end of the week.”
Standish stared at Larabee, his respect for the man growing with each passing second.
“You need to talk to someone about what happened today,” Larabee said.
“Can’t I talk to you?” Standish whispered.
“You can talk to me any time, Ezra, and I’ll listen, you know that . . . but you still have to talk to the Department’s shrink. They won’t let you back on the job until you do.”
Standish nodded, and then asked, “What time tomorrow?”
“Your appointment is at eleven, Buck’s appointment is at one, and mine,” Larabee smiled, “is at two. We’ll pick you up in the morning--”
“I’ll be walking.”
“Ezra--”
“Why do you have to see the shrink?”
Larabee sighed and ran his right hand through his hair. “Anger management problems . . . apparently.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hit the boss, knocked him on his ass and broke his nose.”
Standish raised his eyebrows and groaned at the resulting pain. “Why would you do something so stupid?”
“Hey, Bob,” Larabee called to the bartender. “Can you bring us a couple of coffees? Thanks.”
“And I’ll have another one of these,” Standish pointed to his glass.
“Ezra . . .”
“You were going to explain to me why you hit our boss,” Standish reminded Larabee.
“Yeah, um . . . when Sanchez first took you hostage,” Larabee nodded to Bob when the bartender placed the two cups of coffee in front of him. He pushed one of the cups toward Standish, even though he knew the man wouldn’t drink it, “he wanted to make a deal. I refused. Hasaknee didn’t, he let Sanchez go. We argued about my negotiation skills . . . well I argued about his, and then I hit him. Hasaknee fired me--”
“He fired you!” Standish straightened his back so fast the resulting nausea caused him to lose his balance and he began to tumble towards the floor. Larabee grabbed his upper arm, keeping him steady. “Sorry.”
Larabee ignored the apology and once he was sure Standish wasn’t going to fall down, blew into his coffee before taking a sip. It didn’t help. The liquid still burned his tongue. “He re-hired me, and then he suspended me for a month without pay.”
“Why did he re-hire you?”
“He knows that I’m good at my job, I get results . . . apparently . . . I’m so good at my job that the town can’t do without me . . . apparently.”
What Standish wanted, was to continue to drown in his own self-pity, and as much as he tried not to, he smiled at Larabee’s use of the word ‘apparently’. Pain tore through his bottom lip causing the smile to vanish as quickly as it had appeared but Larabee had noticed it. Standish wiped the fresh blood on the sleeve of his coat. “Don’t make me smile, it hurts when I smile.”
“Not a problem,” Larabee stood up. “Come on, Ezra, the others are worried about you.”
“I can’t walk to the table, Chris, I--”
“Ezra, I thought we just went through this.”
“No . . . if I stand up, I’ll fall flat on my face.”
Larabee grabbed Standish by the arm, pulling him off the stool and onto his feet, and when Standish’s knees buckled, he held him upright. Just as he had done in Krinkly’s apartment, Larabee helped Standish to walk as they made their way to the other side of the room. As they passed the occupied tables, the patrons spoke words of encouragement to Standish, telling him they were glad he was okay. Larabee hoped that Standish heard the words and took them for what they were; the people of Four Corners liked the Detective and they were worried about him, just like his friends were.
Larabee noticed that at some time during his conversation with Standish, Tanner had arrived and sat at the table with the rest of his friends. Larabee led Standish to the empty chair next to Jackson and when Standish began to fight him, he easily forced the smaller man into the chair. He kept his hand on Standish’s shoulder, keeping him in place while Jackson began to examine Standish’s facial injuries.
“You need stitches,” Jackson informed the Detective.
“Really,” Standish said and when he reached forward for his drink, he realized that he had left it at the bar. “My drink,” he looked up at Larabee. “I forgot my drink.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking with a head wound,” Jackson warned Standish.
Dunne sunk lower in his seat, his hand reaching up to cover his own head injury.
“What head wound?” Standish asked.
“That head wound,” Jackson pointed at the injury on Standish’s forehead. “You could have a concussion, you should be in a--”
“I have a head wound?”
“Yes, you have a head wound.” Jackson was beginning to remember the reason why he didn’t like Standish. “It needs stitc--”
“If I wanted a medical opinion, Doctor Jackson, I would have gone to a hospital!”
“Ezra,” Larabee squeezed Standish’s shoulder before moving away and sitting in the one remaining chair next to Tanner, “play nice.”
“Is no one going to get me a drink?”
“You’ve had enough to drink, Detective Standish.” Jackson told him.
“I haven’t even finished my first drink!”
“It was a big drink for a little man,” Jackson smiled at him.
“And who invited you to this party of misery?”
“I did, Ezra.” Wilmington toasted Standish before emptying his bottle of beer with one swallow. “You wouldn’t go to the Doctor so I brought him to you.”
Standish tried to think of a nasty retort, but couldn’t come up with one. Ignoring the look Jackson was giving him, he stared at Larabee across the table and said, “You never did answer Sanchez’s question.”
“What question was that,” Larabee looked over Standish’s shoulder, he could see Bob making his way toward the table, carrying both cups of coffee and Standish’s drink on a tray. He sighed. He couldn't stop Standish from drinking himself into a stupor but he could be there for him when he came out of it in the morning.
Larabee thanked Bob, when the bartender placed his coffee and Standish’s drink on the table, and then waited while everyone else ordered another round of drinks. Before moving away, Bob told them that the next round would be on the house. The men around the table cheered; everyone except Standish. From the moment, Standish had entered the bar, the patrons had arranged for all of his drinks to be on the house. He didn’t like it, but they hadn’t given him much of a choice in the matter.
“How did you find us?”
“You’ve got Dan Stone to thank for that.”
“Before I thank him, can you tell me who he is?”
“The kid in the Toyota Camry,” Tanner answered for Larabee.
Standish nodded in understanding. “He okay?”
“Found God, today,” Larabee smiled. “Said he was going to start going to church.”
“He left his cell phone in the glove compartment--” Tanner tried to continue but Dunne interrupted him.
“He was downloading mp3 files onto his cell phone, and he needed to make a connection to do that . . . so.”
Wilmington hit Dunne on the back of the head. “Don’t interrupt, JD.”
“Sorry,” Dunne apologized to Tanner.
Tanner smiled, “Don’t worry about it, JD. You tell it, you understand it more than me.”
“Nothing more to tell,” Dunne shrugged. “I was able to locate its GPS, get an address . . .”
“Sanchez parked the Camry in Krinkly’s garage,” Larabee said. “Man was more confident than he should have been.”
“If it had taken you a few more minutes to find me . . .” Standish swallowed his fear before taking a drink.
“I know, Ezra,” Larabee kept his own fear from his voice. “We found you, you’re okay.”
“Krinkly isn’t.”
Larabee refused to look at Standish; instead, he glanced over at Wilmington. His friend nodded back at him.
“Hasn’t been a good day for any of us,” Wilmington said.
“You’re tellin’ me!” Dunne’s words tumbled together.
“I’m telling you alright,” Wilmington retorted. “I got shot today, almost died. A damn dog saved my life”
“Yeah, well . . . I woke up to a priest giving me my last rights,” Dunne said. “That’s gotta be worse than getting tongued by a dog.”
Tanner choked on the drink he had taken from Dunne earlier; he hadn’t known about Wilmington's encounter with a dog's tongue.
“I love my dog.”
“Your dog?” Jackson was confused. He thought Maxine had belonged to Potter.
“She is now . . . took to me like a duck to water.”
Dunne leaned closer to Tanner and said, “More like a dog to another dog’s ass.”
Larabee smiled at his friends. They all needed to talk and by talking, they could help each other. “I broke Hasaknee’s nose today."
“Isn’t it, Haskee?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, but we call him, has-a-knee,” Tanner said.
“Oh . . .”
“Wow, Chris, you’re my hero.” Wilmington bowed toward his friend, and then grunted in pain when his head hit the table. He sat up quickly and rubbed the pain from his forehead.
“I was abducted and fondled by a serial killer,” Standish hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud.
“Fuck,” Wilmington whispered.
“That too . . . almost.”
“Damn, Ezra,” Tanner said. “You win hands down.”
“Don’t I always,” Standish muttered.
“You did this time, Ezra,” Larabee said. “You’re still alive.”
Standish couldn’t stop himself, he snorted. “For a while there . . . I thought that man . . . was going to fuck . . .” he waved away the rest of his words. “Physically I’m fine, but emotionally, I feel like I’ve been dragged behind a truck, and then thrown off a very high cliff.”
“It’ll get better,” Jackson assured him.
Standish glared at the man, “A year ago, someone else said the same thing to me . . . turned out to be a lie.”
“Not this time, Ezra,” Dunne said. “This time you’ve got friends to make sure it’ll get better.”
“To friends,” Wilmington waited for his friends to raise their drinks, “dogs, cell phones, mp3 thingies and lady luck.”
“Or in Ezra’s case, the luck of the Devil,” Tanner smiled across the table at Standish.
“Better than no luck at all, Mr. Tanner.”
“So, Buck . . . you plan on dating, Maxine,” Tanner asked.
“Fuck you, Tanner!”
“As long as you don’t fuck the dog.”
“Anything’s better than being fucked by a serial killer . . .”
“Why do you call him, Hasaknee?”
The End.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten
Master Fan Fiction List
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Ten
Chris Larabee pushed against the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the large interior of Inez’s Bar. He stood where he was, allowing the doors to swing shut behind him, and searched the room for his friends. Someone had dimmed the lights to match the bar’s mood, making his search more difficult than it should be. Amongst the many tables that littered the floor on the left side of the room, men and woman – some unrecognizable in the pale light – nursed their drinks while making quiet conversation. Larabee understood their reluctance to greet him with a wave or a few loud words; they were mourning the death of Henry Potter.
Finally, his search stopped at the table in the far left corner of the room where his friends were sitting, but Standish wasn’t with them. Larabee smiled at the sight of Nathan Jackson sitting next to Wilmington. Knowing that Standish had refused to go to the hospital, Wilmington had used his initiative and brought the Doctor with him. Jackson, though, would no doubt be the reason why Standish wasn’t sitting with them. As Larabee made his way through the maze of tables towards his friends, he nodded to the mourners, each of them returning his greeting with a nod of their own.
When he reached his friends, he couldn’t help but notice the empty bottles of beer that lined the table in front of Wilmington and Dunne. Both men seemed to have the same objective as Standish – to get very drunk – and Larabee couldn’t blame them. Death had come very close to taking the three men today, but it was going to take a lot more than a few hours of drinking to get over it.
Looking at Wilmington, Larabee asked, “Where is he?”
Wilmington put his drink down on the table and tilted his head to the side, “Over there.”
Larabee looked to the right where Wilmington had indicated, and found the man he was looking for; Standish was sitting at the bar with his back to the room, his head hanging low between his shoulders. The man looked miserable and he had every reason to.
“How’s he doing?” It was a stupid question and Larabee knew it.
“Can’t get a word out of him,” Wilmington answered.
“Except for when he told us to leave him alone,” Dunne said.
“Is he drunk yet?”
The worry Wilmington felt for his friend showed in the smile that crept over his face, “He’s getting there . . . slowly.”
"What do you mean by slowly?"
"He's still on his first drink," Wilmington explained.
"Yeah, except his first drink is a beer glass full of whiskey," Dunne said.
“What about you two?” Larabee looked at Dunne before returning his gaze to Wilmington. “How are you doing?”
Jackson slapped Wilmington on the shoulder and said,” Physically they’re both fine.”
“But we’re plannin’ on getting just as drunk as Ezra is,” Wilmington looked up at Larabee. “Looks like you’ll be driving us all home later.”
Larabee nodded. “What about Ezra, Nathan? Did you get a chance to look him over?”
“No,” Jackson shook his head, “he told me, in a very polite way, to go fuck myself.”
“Yeah,” Larabee almost smiled. “He hasn’t had a good day.”
“So I heard,” Jackson said. “You know he should be in a hospital, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know, but he won’t go and I’m not going to force him,” Larabee told Jackson. “Not until he’s ready.”
Dunne, knowing that Larabee could easily take his anger out on Jackson, tried to change the subject. “Where’s, Vin?”
“He’s on his way,” Larabee looked over the tables toward Standish, watching as the man appeared to sink even further into himself.
Wilmington knew what his friend was thinking and said, “Go talk to him, Chris. He needs to talk to someone.”
“You know Ezra, Buck. He won’t talk to anyone unless he wants to.”
“He’ll talk to you.”
“Maybe,” Larabee shrugged.
“Chris, go . . . and talk to him.”
Larabee nodded and without looking back at his friends, slowly made his way – again through the maze of tables – to the bar. As he got closer, Larabee could sense the tension building within Standish. It caused him to hesitate, stopping a few feet behind the man. After taking a few deep breaths to control his own emotions, Larabee sat down on the stool next to Standish. He laid his forearms on the bar before leaning forward to see his friend’s face.
The wound on Standish’s forehead looked ugly, the darkening bruise spreading out beneath the blood that covered the right side of his face. The swollen split lip made him look like he wore a permanent grimace and a layer of sweat covered his pale features. When Larabee noticed the fresh graze on Standish’s chin, he realized that Standish must have taken a fall – probably more than one – on his way here.
The fact that Standish hadn’t cleaned himself up before sitting at the bar, disturbed Larabee in a way that he wasn’t accustomed to. Larabee cursed himself. He considered Standish to be a friend and he had allowed the man to walk to the bar on his own, in a condition that would normally send a person to a hospital.
When Larabee saw the bartender approaching, he shook his head, his body language telling the man that he wouldn't be drinking tonight. He continued to sit in silence, waiting for Standish to make the first move. He didn’t have to wait very long. One minute and twenty-three seconds to be exact – Larabee had been counting.
Without looking at Larabee, Standish said, “Go away.”
“No,” Larabee said.
“Go back to your fucking friends and leave me alone!”
“They’re your friends too, Ezra.”
Standish sighed, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “I don’t know how to deal with this . . . with them.”
“I know, Ezra.” Larabee reached across and squeezed Standish’s shoulder. “I made an appointment for you to see Anderson tomorrow.”
Standish lifted his head and looked at Larabee. “No . . . I’m not going through that again.”
Larabee frowned. “Through what?”
Instead of answering, Standish took a long drink from the beer glass filled with whiskey and hissed at the pain it caused when the alcohol touched his split lip.
“Ezra?”
“I’m not going to see a shrink . . . I won’t go through that again . . . I can’t.”
“You won’t go to a hospital, you won’t talk to any of your friends, and you won’t talk to a shrink!” Larabee growled. “I’m sick of hearing the ‘won’t’ word, Ezra.”
“Fuck you, Larabee! I don’t need this shit right now!” Standish began to stand up but Larabee grabbed his shoulder, forcing him back down onto his seat.
“It’s exactly what you need right now, so sit down and shut the fuck up!” Larabee knew that a passive approach wouldn’t work with Standish. “You are going to see the shrink tomorrow! Besides, it’s mandatory. You won’t be able to go back to work until you do.”
“Who says I want to go back to work?”
“What are you saying, Ezra?” The tears shimmering in Standish’s eyes reminded Larabee of Dan Stone. There were times – like now – that he forgot Standish was only thirty-three.
“That maybe I’m through.” Standish looked away and wiped a hand across his eyes, hating himself for not being able to control his emotions as his mother had taught him to.
“I won’t let you quit, not over something like this.”
“Something like this!” Standish lowered his hand so he could glare at Larabee. When he noticed that he had acquired the attention of the bar’s patrons, he lowered his voice. “You make it sound like someone with purple hair tried to run me over with their walking frame.”
Larabee leaned over, putting himself in Standish’s personal space, and said, “You know that’s not what I meant, Ezra. I’m talking about Sanchez. I’m not going to let him win. You’re not going to let him win. It’s over, Ezra. You’re safe . . . you’ll be okay. You just need to give yourself some time.”
"Just like last time?"
Larabee knew Standish had said something, but the man's voice had been so low, he hadn't been able to hear him.
Standish waved to get the bartender’s attention and when he achieved his goal, he ordered another drink.
“And getting so fucking drunk that you won’t be able to think for a week, isn’t going to help,” Larabee said. “This is something you’re going to remember for the rest of your life, Ezra. What you have to do, is accept it the best way you can and move on. It won’t be easy, Ezra, but it’s something you need to do. You need to talk to someone.”
“The rest of my life, Chris,” Standish turned back to face Larabee, “could have ended today. I don’t--”
“I thought my life had ended when some sick bastard murdered my wife and son, and like you, I came straight here and got so fucking drunk that I couldn’t stand up for almost a week. It didn’t help, it only made things worse.” Larabee took a few slow breaths before continuing. “Buck had to take control because I refused to. He arranged their funeral, Ezra . . . I almost missed my wife and son’s funeral because I couldn’t--”
“You can’t deal with something like that, Chris, not in a week,” Standish said. “You’d be a cold son-of-a-bitch if you did.”
“I didn’t, I couldn’t,” Larabee said. “Two years, Ezra. I was drunk for two years. It would have broken Sarah’s heart if she saw me like that. If it wasn’t for Buck . . . he was the one who finally pulled me out of it . . . of course I fought him all the way. He convinced me to go and see Anderson. Two fucking years, Ezra. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
“To Buck,” Standish raised his glass before taking a drink, grimacing once more at the pain. “What I went through today . . . doesn’t even come close to what you went through, so I doubt I’ll be spending the next two years drunk.”
Larabee turned in his seat, his knees brushing against Standish’s thigh. “Yes, our situations are different, but that doesn’t make yours or mine, any less traumatic and I don’t expect you to deal with it by the end of the week.”
Standish stared at Larabee, his respect for the man growing with each passing second.
“You need to talk to someone about what happened today,” Larabee said.
“Can’t I talk to you?” Standish whispered.
“You can talk to me any time, Ezra, and I’ll listen, you know that . . . but you still have to talk to the Department’s shrink. They won’t let you back on the job until you do.”
Standish nodded, and then asked, “What time tomorrow?”
“Your appointment is at eleven, Buck’s appointment is at one, and mine,” Larabee smiled, “is at two. We’ll pick you up in the morning--”
“I’ll be walking.”
“Ezra--”
“Why do you have to see the shrink?”
Larabee sighed and ran his right hand through his hair. “Anger management problems . . . apparently.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hit the boss, knocked him on his ass and broke his nose.”
Standish raised his eyebrows and groaned at the resulting pain. “Why would you do something so stupid?”
“Hey, Bob,” Larabee called to the bartender. “Can you bring us a couple of coffees? Thanks.”
“And I’ll have another one of these,” Standish pointed to his glass.
“Ezra . . .”
“You were going to explain to me why you hit our boss,” Standish reminded Larabee.
“Yeah, um . . . when Sanchez first took you hostage,” Larabee nodded to Bob when the bartender placed the two cups of coffee in front of him. He pushed one of the cups toward Standish, even though he knew the man wouldn’t drink it, “he wanted to make a deal. I refused. Hasaknee didn’t, he let Sanchez go. We argued about my negotiation skills . . . well I argued about his, and then I hit him. Hasaknee fired me--”
“He fired you!” Standish straightened his back so fast the resulting nausea caused him to lose his balance and he began to tumble towards the floor. Larabee grabbed his upper arm, keeping him steady. “Sorry.”
Larabee ignored the apology and once he was sure Standish wasn’t going to fall down, blew into his coffee before taking a sip. It didn’t help. The liquid still burned his tongue. “He re-hired me, and then he suspended me for a month without pay.”
“Why did he re-hire you?”
“He knows that I’m good at my job, I get results . . . apparently . . . I’m so good at my job that the town can’t do without me . . . apparently.”
What Standish wanted, was to continue to drown in his own self-pity, and as much as he tried not to, he smiled at Larabee’s use of the word ‘apparently’. Pain tore through his bottom lip causing the smile to vanish as quickly as it had appeared but Larabee had noticed it. Standish wiped the fresh blood on the sleeve of his coat. “Don’t make me smile, it hurts when I smile.”
“Not a problem,” Larabee stood up. “Come on, Ezra, the others are worried about you.”
“I can’t walk to the table, Chris, I--”
“Ezra, I thought we just went through this.”
“No . . . if I stand up, I’ll fall flat on my face.”
Larabee grabbed Standish by the arm, pulling him off the stool and onto his feet, and when Standish’s knees buckled, he held him upright. Just as he had done in Krinkly’s apartment, Larabee helped Standish to walk as they made their way to the other side of the room. As they passed the occupied tables, the patrons spoke words of encouragement to Standish, telling him they were glad he was okay. Larabee hoped that Standish heard the words and took them for what they were; the people of Four Corners liked the Detective and they were worried about him, just like his friends were.
Larabee noticed that at some time during his conversation with Standish, Tanner had arrived and sat at the table with the rest of his friends. Larabee led Standish to the empty chair next to Jackson and when Standish began to fight him, he easily forced the smaller man into the chair. He kept his hand on Standish’s shoulder, keeping him in place while Jackson began to examine Standish’s facial injuries.
“You need stitches,” Jackson informed the Detective.
“Really,” Standish said and when he reached forward for his drink, he realized that he had left it at the bar. “My drink,” he looked up at Larabee. “I forgot my drink.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking with a head wound,” Jackson warned Standish.
Dunne sunk lower in his seat, his hand reaching up to cover his own head injury.
“What head wound?” Standish asked.
“That head wound,” Jackson pointed at the injury on Standish’s forehead. “You could have a concussion, you should be in a--”
“I have a head wound?”
“Yes, you have a head wound.” Jackson was beginning to remember the reason why he didn’t like Standish. “It needs stitc--”
“If I wanted a medical opinion, Doctor Jackson, I would have gone to a hospital!”
“Ezra,” Larabee squeezed Standish’s shoulder before moving away and sitting in the one remaining chair next to Tanner, “play nice.”
“Is no one going to get me a drink?”
“You’ve had enough to drink, Detective Standish.” Jackson told him.
“I haven’t even finished my first drink!”
“It was a big drink for a little man,” Jackson smiled at him.
“And who invited you to this party of misery?”
“I did, Ezra.” Wilmington toasted Standish before emptying his bottle of beer with one swallow. “You wouldn’t go to the Doctor so I brought him to you.”
Standish tried to think of a nasty retort, but couldn’t come up with one. Ignoring the look Jackson was giving him, he stared at Larabee across the table and said, “You never did answer Sanchez’s question.”
“What question was that,” Larabee looked over Standish’s shoulder, he could see Bob making his way toward the table, carrying both cups of coffee and Standish’s drink on a tray. He sighed. He couldn't stop Standish from drinking himself into a stupor but he could be there for him when he came out of it in the morning.
Larabee thanked Bob, when the bartender placed his coffee and Standish’s drink on the table, and then waited while everyone else ordered another round of drinks. Before moving away, Bob told them that the next round would be on the house. The men around the table cheered; everyone except Standish. From the moment, Standish had entered the bar, the patrons had arranged for all of his drinks to be on the house. He didn’t like it, but they hadn’t given him much of a choice in the matter.
“How did you find us?”
“You’ve got Dan Stone to thank for that.”
“Before I thank him, can you tell me who he is?”
“The kid in the Toyota Camry,” Tanner answered for Larabee.
Standish nodded in understanding. “He okay?”
“Found God, today,” Larabee smiled. “Said he was going to start going to church.”
“He left his cell phone in the glove compartment--” Tanner tried to continue but Dunne interrupted him.
“He was downloading mp3 files onto his cell phone, and he needed to make a connection to do that . . . so.”
Wilmington hit Dunne on the back of the head. “Don’t interrupt, JD.”
“Sorry,” Dunne apologized to Tanner.
Tanner smiled, “Don’t worry about it, JD. You tell it, you understand it more than me.”
“Nothing more to tell,” Dunne shrugged. “I was able to locate its GPS, get an address . . .”
“Sanchez parked the Camry in Krinkly’s garage,” Larabee said. “Man was more confident than he should have been.”
“If it had taken you a few more minutes to find me . . .” Standish swallowed his fear before taking a drink.
“I know, Ezra,” Larabee kept his own fear from his voice. “We found you, you’re okay.”
“Krinkly isn’t.”
Larabee refused to look at Standish; instead, he glanced over at Wilmington. His friend nodded back at him.
“Hasn’t been a good day for any of us,” Wilmington said.
“You’re tellin’ me!” Dunne’s words tumbled together.
“I’m telling you alright,” Wilmington retorted. “I got shot today, almost died. A damn dog saved my life”
“Yeah, well . . . I woke up to a priest giving me my last rights,” Dunne said. “That’s gotta be worse than getting tongued by a dog.”
Tanner choked on the drink he had taken from Dunne earlier; he hadn’t known about Wilmington's encounter with a dog's tongue.
“I love my dog.”
“Your dog?” Jackson was confused. He thought Maxine had belonged to Potter.
“She is now . . . took to me like a duck to water.”
Dunne leaned closer to Tanner and said, “More like a dog to another dog’s ass.”
Larabee smiled at his friends. They all needed to talk and by talking, they could help each other. “I broke Hasaknee’s nose today."
“Isn’t it, Haskee?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, but we call him, has-a-knee,” Tanner said.
“Oh . . .”
“Wow, Chris, you’re my hero.” Wilmington bowed toward his friend, and then grunted in pain when his head hit the table. He sat up quickly and rubbed the pain from his forehead.
“I was abducted and fondled by a serial killer,” Standish hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud.
“Fuck,” Wilmington whispered.
“That too . . . almost.”
“Damn, Ezra,” Tanner said. “You win hands down.”
“Don’t I always,” Standish muttered.
“You did this time, Ezra,” Larabee said. “You’re still alive.”
Standish couldn’t stop himself, he snorted. “For a while there . . . I thought that man . . . was going to fuck . . .” he waved away the rest of his words. “Physically I’m fine, but emotionally, I feel like I’ve been dragged behind a truck, and then thrown off a very high cliff.”
“It’ll get better,” Jackson assured him.
Standish glared at the man, “A year ago, someone else said the same thing to me . . . turned out to be a lie.”
“Not this time, Ezra,” Dunne said. “This time you’ve got friends to make sure it’ll get better.”
“To friends,” Wilmington waited for his friends to raise their drinks, “dogs, cell phones, mp3 thingies and lady luck.”
“Or in Ezra’s case, the luck of the Devil,” Tanner smiled across the table at Standish.
“Better than no luck at all, Mr. Tanner.”
“So, Buck . . . you plan on dating, Maxine,” Tanner asked.
“Fuck you, Tanner!”
“As long as you don’t fuck the dog.”
“Anything’s better than being fucked by a serial killer . . .”
“Why do you call him, Hasaknee?”
The End.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten
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