By Carolyn & Shellie
Sarah held him; her hands warmed his skin. Burying his face in her hair, he breathed deeply. She laughed; the delicate bell sound echoed in his ears and tickled something deep inside his chest. A smile came unbidden to his face; he felt happy.
The dream shattered with the phone ringing by his bed. With a groan, Chris rolled to his side and picked up the receiver. "Yeah?" His sleep-gruffened voice rose in his throat like air bubbles toward the surface.
"Larabee. It's Travis. I've found Evans."
It was disturbing how that name brought an instant flood of anger and pain, evoking feelings of helplessness and betrayal.
"Where?"
"A little over three hours from you, near Batesville."
"Why tell me? Call the local cops, they'll handle it." Chris relaxed his shoulders and readjusted his fingers on the phone, getting ready to hang up.
"He's experimenting again."
Abruptly he grew cold and shivered slightly. He closed his eyes, replacing the darkness of his room with a remembered blackness he'd give his right arm to forget. A tidal wave threatened to crash over his head. He held the memories back with an effort. "Where, exactly?"
"He's bought an old clinic outside the town limits. A papermill moved in about thirty miles outside of Batesville and the town dried up, everyone moved away. All the businesses eventually shut down, including the clinic. There's no one there to stop him, no one to keep him from doing it all over again."
"Then I guess it's time for a road trip." The words were sharp, all hint of sleepiness gone. "I'll tell the boys in the morning. We'll get started soon as we've got everything ready and know what we're heading into." He imagined Travis tucking his chin into his chest, an expression of approval decorating his craggy old face.
"I'll send you what I have through fax."
"Good enough." Knowing the conversation was over, Chris hung up the phone. He rolled to his back, letting his thoughts travel paths that had been forged through pain and despair so many months before.
The memories were like deep trenches he couldn't escape. Every time he thought he'd climbed high enough to freedom, something sent him crashing back to the bottom. Remembering pushed him back through time, pulling him along in its deadly swift current tumbling head over heart in fear.
Even as he resisted, a memory assaulted his senses. The hospital smells of medicines and antiseptic, cold fluorescent lighting, a small, bare cot, and Buck, curled up against the wall and restrained in a straightjacket. The images returned in startling detail. Horror had locked him in place when he'd walked into the room. With all his worrying, he could have never imagined Buck forced to such a state.
Buck had been the only person who had cared enough to put up with Chris' grief. Despondent and unable to deal with the loss of his wife and child, Chris allowed Buck to talk him into answering the invitation of the Agency. It was time they learned why they were different, his friend said, time they learned what they could do with their special abilities. Chris didn't agree, really, he just didn't care one way or the other.
Silence had been his best friend since the funeral. Later he realized that it had been Buck all along -- Buck and his determination to stand by him, even when Chris pushed him away. Buck had tolerated the silence, keeping all intruders at bay, offering ballast in the torrential flood of grief.
The vivid memory of discovering Buck, broken and shaken, several months later in one of the labs, had long since been banished along with others -- a fire, rubble where a house once stood, a singed tricycle. But if this image could return with such clarity, bringing with it such frightening emotion, couldn't those as well?
When Chris found him that day, Buck sat hunched in a corner of that sterile Agency room. Usually such a strong and fearless man, it was nearly unbelievable what Evans' experiments had done to his confidence. Chris had received visions of discord between Evans and Buck, and Evans and Tanner, but it had never been clear enough so that he could act on it.
He'd learned how to control his visions long ago -- entertaining them just long enough to gain needed information then releasing the images. Painful lessons had taught him that if a vision came to mind unbidden, he needed to give it his full attention. Experiments at the Agency had stretched his limits, forcing him to fight constantly for control and knocking his tenuous balance out of sync. He'd been unable to pull himself together quick enough to help his friends. While he knew Evans could prove to be trouble for Vin or Buck, he wouldn't have dreamed of this.
In the back of his thoughts, Chris registered the beginnings of a headache -- one that would surely torment him by daybreak. He knew he should get up and take something before it worsened, but the memoories tied him too tightly for him to shake them off and take logical action.
He hurried to Buck and slowly knelt beside him. "Buck?" Buck wouldn't lift his head; he kept his face pressed to his knees. Tentatively, Chris eased closer but didn't touch him. "It's me. It's Chris." Receiving no response, Chris rested his hand on Buck's back. Buck trembling violently. "Easy there, pard. You're all right." He growled over his shoulder at Travis and indicated the straightjacket binding Buck's arms to his body. "Who put him in this?"
"I don't know." Travis' voice sounded flattened with shock. "I didn't know what they were doing, Larabee. I didn't know they were doing this to him."
Ignoring the unspoken plea for forgiveness, Chris kept his hand on Buck's back. "You don't need this jacket, do you?" His throat tightened when Buck didn't answer. He reached for the buckles in the back of the jacket. "Listen to me. I'm gonna get you out of here." He glanced over his shoulder, determination tightening his words. "I'm gonna get us all out of here." Turning back, he shifted his touch to Buck's neck. "Are you hurt anywhere?"
Travis cut in. "I'll get one of the doctors."
"No! I don't trust any of them." He looked up to ensure his message was clear. "Give us a few minutes."
Travis nodded. "I'll be right outside."
He waited until the heavy door thudded closed, then carefully, gently, lifted Buck's head. "Aw, Buck . . ."
Buck wouldn't look at him, but Chris could tell he'd resisted whatever the researchers had wanted him to do. Bruises mottled his face and circled his eyes like some bizarre mask. He touched him carefully. "Look at me."
Finally, after an eternity, Buck opened his eyes. Wrinkles folded around his features as he squinted in an expression of pain. Chris vowed revenge on the people responsible for Buck's suffering.
"It's all right." Chris cleared his throat of the gruffness roughing his words. "It's gonna be fine."
Confusion drew deep lines across Buck's forehead. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. He squeezed his eyes shut and brimming tears escaped to roll down his cheeks.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
Buck opened his eyes and looked at Chris with disbelief. "You're hurt."
"What? I'm not --"
Buck leaned forward, pressing closer. Agitation tightened his words. "They hurt you." Before Chris could say anything, Buck swallowed and continued. "You were hurt and I couldn't help you. I tried, Chris, I swear, but I couldn't get a lock on you. He used some kind of neural transmitter, I think, to keep blocking me."
"Who? Who wouldn't let you?"
Pulling his head away from Chris, he dropped his gaze to the floor. "I wanted to get to you before it was too late." A shuddering breath shook his frame. "I tried to get to Vin, too. They were killing him. They were killing him and I couldn't stop it; I couldn't accept his pain, but I could read -- see -- feel -- everything. Every detail opened in my mind . . . felt like it twisted my gut and tore me out." Buck's head lifted and he focused intense eyes on Chris. "They were killing him, killing you both."
A cold fury churned as Chris began to understand what had happened. "It's all right. Vin's all right. He's not hurt."
Buck turned tortured eyes back to Chris. "No, he's dead. He's dead."
"He's not."
"He's dead. I -- I felt him die."
"How? Were you in the room?"
Buck shook his head. "But I was close, I had to be close. Evans wanted to know if I could -- " Buck trembled. His voice wavered, grew tremulous. "He wanted to know if I could mind-read someone through death, see if II could sense them after death." His eyes squeezed shut and his chin dropped to his chest. "Why did he want to know something like that?"
"Because he's sick. He's a twisted son of a bitch. He didn't need to know that."
"Why did he have to use a friend?" Buck sounded so weak.
Chris gripped Buck's neck tightly. "Look at me." When Buck turned to him he spoke deliberately. "Vin Tanner is alive. He's fine. I don't know who it was, but you sensed someone else. It wasn't me, and it wasn't him."
"Are you sure?"
"I've never lied to you. I'm sure. I saw him today."
Buck shook his head slowly. "Thank God."
"Why the jacket?" Chris finished with the buckles and started untying the straightjacket that bound Buck's arms too tightly.
"I fought. Since I couldn't draw his pain away, I tried to get to him instead."
It seemed unlikely that Evans would do anything this crazy; it would blow the whole project if he were discovered. Why did he torture Buck, how could he justify putting his subject in a straightjacket and no one question his tactics? Nothing made sense, but a sudden chill raced through him to realize Evans felt secure enough to chance something this dangerous and remain confident no one at the Agency would take action against him.
His thoughts were interrupted when Buck groaned loudly.
"How long have you been in the jacket?"
"Don't remember."
He squeezed Buck's shoulder and continued pulling the jacket off, careful of sore joints and bruises.
"Vin's alive?" Buck repeated his earlier question and Chris hid his worry.
"Yeah. I'll take you to him. He's fine."
"And you're all right?"
He eased the jacket off the rest of the way and shifted around to face Buck. "I'm fine. We need to get you to a doctor, though. You may have been drugged or something." Buck shifted to stand and Chris scooped a hand under his arm and pulled him from the floor. The injured man leaned heavily against him, stumbling drunkenly as he stood. He clamped trembling fingers to Chris' arm.
"Just take me home, Chris, okay?"
Momentarily confused, Chris glanced around the room. "You mean back to your room?"
"No." Buck stared intently into Chris' eyes. "I want out of here. I want to go home."
Chris nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay, Buck. I'll take you."
Subsequent tests proved that Buck had been drugged, but within the parameters of legitimate prescriptions. Still, Chris and the others had learned since the incident that drugs had a strikingly different effect on mind readers and empaths. Evans clearly knew this and took advantage of it. The more Chris learned about Evans' unauthorized experiments the angrier he became.
Evans had preyed on Buck's vulnerability -- his compassion for other people -- and used it to torture him. Chris had feared for Buck's recovery. Hearing a friend had died was bad enough; actually *feeling* that friend die was entirely different. Thanks to steady friends like Nathan Jackson, Buck had recovered. He and Josiah spent hours with Buck and had managed to heal his spirit. Chris would be eternally grateful for that.
