Carbines and Capacitors 14/14
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Epilogue
November 17, 2018
Maybe we were always going to end up here, John thought.
“Don’t you dare, John,” Joss warned.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“I know that look. You were wearin’ it the night we met. That’s your ‘Everything is pointless and I’m givin’ up on life’ look.”
“Joss-”
“Well, newsflash, Mr. Hopeless: I’m not leavin’ your side. So either we die here together, or we pull this off and live to meet our grandchildren. Do you hear me?”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “What’d I ever do to deserve you?”
“You took down a buncha punks on the subway, that’s what you did,” she replied, but the sparkle in her eye belied her gruff tone. Then she raised her Glock. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he replied and raised his own SIG Sauer.
“Uh, guys,” Root’s voice interjected in John’s ear, “I should probably point out-”
“Nobody asked you, Machine!” Joss snapped. “Just tell us where those storm troopers are!”
That had been one of the hardest things for the whole team to get used to in the last month: hearing Root’s voice without Root being at the other end. Shaw, in particular (and quite understandably), was taking Root’s death hard, but even though John wouldn’t have said he and Root were friends… it was sort of an “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face” thing. And he did have to admit that in the past five years, she’d come a long way from the black-hat hacker she’d been when they’d first met.
“It’s not the storm troopers I’m worried about,” replied the Machine. “Coeus Hyperion just launched-”
“Is this going to undermine my morale again?” John interrupted.
“… possibly?”
“Then let’s just worry about the storm troopers for now.”
“All right,” the Machine sighed. “I’ll help you as long as I can.”
Even without knowing for sure what Coeus Hyperion was up to, it was still hard for John to keep from wondering whether the fight against Decima would always have led to his standing on the roof of a skyscraper in downtown Manhattan, guarding the last iteration of the Machine as she uploaded herself to a satellite for the coup de grace against the evil AI Decima had tried to use to take over the world. He was reasonably sure having Joss by his side wasn’t fated, but the rest of it….
“Here they come,” the Machine warned, and then the shooting started. John and Joss each shot with deadly accuracy, thanks to the Machine putting them in God Mode for as long as she could, but they barely had time to reload when their magazines were empty. Decima had amassed a private army, and Coeus Hyperion was pitting a full battalion against the Machine’s two defenders, heedless of the number of bodies piling up on the roof.
“Upload status,” John finally commanded as he slammed his last spare magazine into his gun.
“Ninety-nine percent,” the Machine’s rapidly weakening voice replied. “Two missiles inbound. I can’t hold out much longer… I’m sorry, John….”
And suddenly the reports of the Decima troops’ weapons and Joss’ return fire were joined by the cracks of much older rifles and the distinctive rattle of a… Gatling gun?
“John! Joss!” bellowed a voice straight out of the past. “This way!”
John and Joss didn’t have to be told twice. Still firing, they bolted toward the portal that had opened behind them into what looked like the moonlit parade ground of a cavalry fort.
“Give ’em coverin’ fire, boys!” the voice ordered, and the cavalry obeyed.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. John shoved Joss through ahead of him, and a split second later, Kevlar-shredding rounds tore through him, and he fell headlong through the portal and into the dirt. He had just enough time to register Cheyenne Bodie lunging toward him when the missile strike rocked the ground… and everything went black.
“Get the doc, quick,” Cheyenne ordered as he picked himself up again. “There’s still time to save him!”
“Right,” Bronco agreed, clapped Cheyenne on the arm, and ran to the post hospital while the two nearest privates picked Reese up and carried him off in the same direction.
Then Cheyenne turned back, just in time to get hugged by Miss Carter. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my life, Cheyenne,” she said shakily.
“Hey,” Cheyenne replied and hugged her back. “There’s no need to keep count, Miss Carter.”
She shook her head. “Call me Joss, please. Besides, my last name’s not Carter anymore. John and I got married under the name of Hawke four years ago.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Joss.”
A polite throat clearing drew Cheyenne’s attention toward Tom and Lt. Morris, who were standing nearby. “Sorry to intrude, Cheyenne,” Tom began as Joss broke the hug, “but the lieutenant’s wonderin’ what to tell Maj. Wilson.”
“Well, the Hawkes are old friends of mine,” Cheyenne answered. “You can say they came under attack by unknown assailants and we rendered assistance, but… John’s been wounded, and now they’re stranded here.”
Lt. Morris nodded. “All right, that’s true enough. But what about…” He gestured toward the gate, presumably meaning the portal and the explosion. There was no sign of either now beyond spent brass and a few new holes in the logs.
“’Fraid you’re on your own there,” Cheyenne admitted. “Can’t explain that part of it myself. But be sure you emphasize that the Hawkes are friends of mine. I won’t stand for any insult to ’em, especially to Mrs. Hawke.” He knew Maj. Wilson had fought for the Union, hated the Klan, and was a staunch friend of the Buffalo Soldiers; but there were others among the troops and the settlers on the wagon train who were of a different mind, and Maj. Wilson’s word would go a lot further toward preventing trouble than Cheyenne’s own.
In fact, he could already hear one of the privates muttering, “Bad enough he’s an Indian lover-”
“That’s enough, Powell,” Lt. Morris barked over his shoulder before returning his attention to Cheyenne. “I’m sure we can find adequate quarters for Mrs. Hawke while her husband is in the hospital. And we’ll see that she’s not bothered.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Joss said.
Lt. Morris nodded and touched his hat to her, then turned and headed toward Maj. Wilson’s quarters, issuing orders as he went.
Cheyenne beckoned Tom closer. “Joss, this is Tom Brewster. I may have mentioned him a time or two.”
Joss looked puzzled, but then it clicked. “Oh, the lawyer! Right!”
Tom doffed his hat and shook her hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Heard a lot about you.”
“Heard some stories about you, too-especially you and your cousin… what was it, the Parakeet Kid?”
“Canary,” Tom corrected, shooting Cheyenne a reproachful look.
“I had a little girl to entertain,” Cheyenne explained.
“You couldn’t tell her about your own life?”
“She wouldn’t have believed it. ’Sides, she wanted to hear stories about spies, and those times you went undercover as Canary ain’t classified.”
Tom tilted his head. “You’ve got a point there.”
Joss chuckled. “Sameen still checks up on Gen every now and again.”
Cheyenne smiled. “How is she?”
“A lot better than she was while she was livin’ with her junkie cousin. Finch got her citizenship paperwork fast-tracked, and she just loves that school he got her into. She’s on her third foreign language and wants to major in communications when she gets to college.”
“Good. Reckon I oughta write some letters to send back with you.”
Joss nodded. “She’d like that.”
Tom looked around and coughed pointedly.
“The mess hall’s over this way,” Cheyenne said, taking the hint. “That’s probably the best place for us to talk.”
Joss sighed. “I don’t know if I can eat… but I could probably use some coffee.”
“I’ll make sure the kitchen’s still open,” Tom offered and ran ahead.
“So where are we?” Joss whispered as Cheyenne ushered her toward the commissary.
“Fort Bridger,” Cheyenne whispered back before continuing at a more normal volume, “Took us about three weeks to get here from Eightmile Lake, but we made it in time for Independence Day. Now we’re here, though, the Army’s been reluctant to let us continue on to Idaho Territory. Seems the gang John and I took out wasn’t the only one attackin’ travelers in this area, and Maj. Wilson doesn’t want us to leave until he’s sure the route from here to Fort Hall is clear. We’ve been here a little over two weeks.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“The post trader’s store is back that way,” he continued, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “When it opens in the mornin’, I’ll be happy to take you to get whatever you need to get by while you’re here.”
She shook her head. “I can’t ask that.”
“You don’t have to. There was a big reward out for that gang-$2,000 a head.”
Her jaw dropped. “Seriously?! What’d they do?”
“Killed a judge and two federal marshals and robbed the Army payroll office in Denver. And that was before they took to robbin’ wagon trains.”
She whistled.
“Half o’ that reward money belongs to you an’ John,” he went on. “That should more than cover clothes an’ food and anything else you need. Besides, you folks looked after me back in New York. Now it’s my turn.”
She smiled and threw up her hands in mock surrender. “All right. Thanks, Cheyenne.”
He smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
“So what are you gonna do with your share?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know yet. There was a letter waitin’ when I got here from some folks plannin’ a new town in the Dakotas, up north of Bismarck. Said they’re gonna call it Bullfrog, but I dunno if that’ll stick.”
She laughed. “I’ve heard worse.”
“So have I. Anyway, they’re lookin’ for a sheriff who can keep the peace with the Sioux as well as in the town. If I like it up there, why, I might buy myself a ranch an’ some Herefords.”
“And get married?”
He shrugged. “I’m not opposed to the idea, if the right woman comes along. Might even take a Sioux wife-I’ve thought about it a time or two. Just have to see what the Boss has in mind,” he concluded with a glance heavenward.
She nodded, smiling. “Well, I hope it works out for you.”
“You know, if you two end up bein’ here a while, you’d be welcome to come with me. I’ve just about talked Tom into it; Bronco’s got another year left with the Marshals.”
“Thanks. I’ll have to talk it over with John.”
“’Course. Wasn’t expectin’ an answer tonight. Just wanted to offer.”
“I appreciate it, really.”
“So how long has it been?” he asked as they walked into the mess hall past the stares of the infantrymen.* “You said you’d been married four years now.”
She nodded. “It’s been five years almost to the day. Taylor graduated from college in May, married a real nice girl last year. They live in Nashville now, and my mom’s moved down there to be near them. And, uh….” Her smile turned a little shy as they sat down at a table and one of the mess privates set coffee, sugar, and cream in front of them and put a set of flatware at each place. “It was just after their wedding that we found out Taylor was about to be a big brother.”
Cheyenne grinned. “Well, congratulations!”
“Thanks!” She nodded her thanks to the private and poured cream into her coffee like always. “Big surprise at my age, and it was a pretty rough pregnancy, but she’s totally worth it.”
“A girl?”
Her smile brightened. “Cheyenne Leona.”
He ducked his head, embarrassed. “Y’know, with all the friends I have, I don’t think anyone’s named a baby after me before. I’ll have to write her a letter, too.”
“Oh, she’ll love that when she’s old enough.” Her smile dimmed a little, and she lowered her voice. “’Course, then she might start askin’ questions about why she can meet her Uncle Lionel but not her Uncle Cheyenne.”
“Well, let’s be honest,” he said at the same volume. “I might live to see 100, but 180’s a lot to ask of any man.”
That surprised a laugh out of her. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you, too, not that I’ve had much time for it.”
“All right,” Tom interrupted, arriving at the table with two plates and another mess private, who was carrying another coffee cup and a basket. “Are you sure you don’t want anything, Mrs. Hawke?”
Joss nodded. “I’m sure. Thanks.”
“In that case…” Tom set one plate in front of Cheyenne and the other at the place beside him. “Wasn’t much left, Cheyenne, but Cook fried up some salt pork to go with the last of the taters. And Mrs. Hawke, I brought some biscuits in case you change your mind.” He took the basket from the private and set it next to Joss, then collected the coffee cup and a set of flatware and sat down next to Cheyenne.
Joss peeked in the basket. “Ooh, sourdough! Maybe I will have a biscuit.”
Tom smiled triumphantly. “I figured somethin’ light might sit well. Coffee’s kinda hard on an empty stomach.”
“Would you like a plate, Joss?” Cheyenne asked.
Joss considered. “That might be a good idea, mostly to catch the crumbs.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the private and left to get one.
“It sure is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Tom said once the private was out of earshot. “I was really afraid Cheyenne had been out in the sun too long when he told us about what happened. Bronco thought he was just plumb loco.”
Joss laughed. “Yeah, he got that in New York, too.”
“Once it was even on purpose,” Cheyenne added. “Which reminds me, what happened to Arthur Claypool?”
Joss’ smile turned sad. “He went downhill pretty fast after he let go of Samaritan. By the end of the shiva, Sameen told Finch he really shouldn’t be moved. He rallied at Thanksgiving, which was also the first night of Hanukkah, but by the last night, he could barely walk. I don’t think he even made it another week after that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“But at least he died among friends, and neither Control nor Decima got what they wanted from him. It was probably a good thing Sameen had him to focus on after you left, too. We couldn’t even mention your name without her gettin’ mad until after Christmas-but Finch had your scrubs framed and gave ’em to her, and that helped.”
Cheyenne sighed. “I definitely owe her a letter, then.”
Tom blinked in confusion. “Why would she be so mad at you?”
Cheyenne tried to think how to explain. “Well, you know how there’s some music boxes that can play several different tunes with the same cylinder and there’s a switch you move to select the tune you want?”
“Yeah.”
“Sam’s switch gets stuck.”
“Especially when she’s grieving,” Joss added in a tone that said Sam was grieving something more recent than Cheyenne’s departure. That didn’t sound good.
The private came back with the plate then but seemed disinclined to leave after he’d delivered it, so Tom said grace, and the three civilians ate quietly until Joss had nibbled her way through half a biscuit and declared herself finished. Then Tom gestured for the private to come take her plate and thanked him pointedly.
“Sir, are you sure-” the private began.
“We can clear our own things,” Cheyenne stated. “That’ll be all.”
“Yes, sir,” the private answered and left, closing the door behind him.
Cheyenne lowered his voice. “Joss, what happened?”
Joss sighed heavily. “We shoulda known Decima wouldn’t give up after Samaritan was destroyed. There was another AI that survived after the government shut down all the programs besides Northern Lights. Decima found it before Christmas, but it wasn’t anywhere close to complete back then. It took over three years for them to finish Coeus Hyperion, and the first thing it did was kill its creator.”
Tom hissed.
“And they didn’t shut it down?!” Cheyenne asked.
Joss scoffed. “Are you kiddin’? Greer was thrilled.”
“Greer?”
“John Greer-that’s right, you never met him. He was Decima’s head of operations, but he had this dream about AIs ruling the world and perfecting humanity and….” She shook her head. “Anyway, by that time, Control wasn’t nearly as twitchy about the idea that the Machine would stop producing relevant numbers, and there was a new administration tryin’ to clean house. It took Greer another year to finally sell the right people on givin’ Coeus Hyperion a chance with a twenty-four-hour test… and in the first hour, it escaped onto the Internet an’ started huntin’ the Machine and us. Root found a way to blind it, but… not before it had Collier killed.”
“So he did turn over a new leaf.”
“Yeah, turned state’s evidence against Vigilance after Claypool died. Feds put him in Witness Protection, but he kept workin’ with Root even after that. May have been what did him in.”
Tom was tapping his fingers on the handle of his cup, trying to do the math. “So… for you, that was….”
“Six months ago,” Joss answered. “I was havin’ a lot of complications with the baby, so John had just moved Mom and me to Nashville so I could be near Taylor-there’s a world-class hospital there. Elias and his man came with us ‘for protection,’ but I don’t know whether that was supposed to be my protection or his. Then the Machine gave John a new clean cover as Det. John Riley, and he went back to New York to work as Fusco’s partner.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Fusco calls me a couple times a week to complain. ‘Hey, partner, you’ll never guess what Wonderboy did today,’” she added in a decent approximation of Fusco’s voice.
Cheyenne laughed.
Tom was still trying manfully to keep up. “So this Cussin’ Hyper thing….”
“Coeus Hyperion,” Joss corrected and drank the last of her coffee.
“It… got loose, an’ then….”
Joss sighed again. “Well, I’m not sure even Cheyenne would understand what happened then. But the short version is, it was causing chaos, and Decima refused to even try to stop it, even after Root sacrificed herself to kill Greer. So Finch made a backup of the Machine and unleashed another program that would destroy Coeus Hyperion, no matter where it tried to hide-only it found a way to hide in space.”
Tom nearly choked on his coffee. “You mean like on the moon?!”
Joss smiled a little. “Between Earth and the moon, actually. We have things called satellites that orbit Earth.”
Tom turned to Cheyenne. “You didn’t tell us about those!”
“Never quite understood ’em myself,” Cheyenne admitted. “And you didn’t believe what I did tell you.”
“But what do they do?”
“Can that wait until Joss has a chance to tell us about the fight?”
Tom grimaced. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Joss’ smile grew. “That’s all right.”
Cheyenne got back to the subject at hand. “I’m guessin’ if Coeus Hyperion could jump to a satellite, so could the Machine.”
Joss nodded. “That was the idea, but there was only one way to make it work. Someone had to take her backup to the roof of one specific skyscraper in Manhattan that had a link to that satellite and upload her directly. Finch was gonna do it himself, but he got shot, and John convinced her to guide Finch to the wrong building.”
“And you went back to New York just for that?”
Joss looked Cheyenne in the eye. “The Machine and I both knew John was losin’ hope. That’s an awful good way to get yourself killed. I couldn’t let him go up there alone.”
Cheyenne nodded slowly. “And now here you are.”
“Here we are,” Joss agreed with a wry smile.
Cheyenne sighed. “Sounds like I didn’t change that much after all.”
“You did, Cheyenne.” Joss reached across the table and put a hand on Cheyenne’s wrist. “You gave us three years of peace, of life, that we would never have had without you. We saved a hundred lives directly in that time, and who knows how many other lives we saved indirectly because we were able to focus on stopping mundane problems like a new gang war instead of fightin’ Samaritan. That was three years the Machine had to grow and learn, so she was able to fight Coeus Hyperion much better than she could have otherwise. And that’s just us. Root made an app so the Machine could recruit more teams to save irrelevant numbers in other cities. Mike Laskey’s on one of ’em.”
Cheyenne accepted that news with a smile. “Is everyone else all right?”
“Far as I know. Zoe’s managed to keep her head down. Sameen and Fusco were off fightin’… somebody else. I didn’t follow what the Machine said.”
“And Miss Hendricks?”
“She’s in Tulsa. Finch was gonna send her to Italy, but Coeus Hyperion crashed an airliner, and… anyway, at least he got her out of New York.” Joss brightened suddenly. “And you are in the National Cowboy Hall of Fame!”
That startled Cheyenne. “I’m what?!”
Joss pulled her telephone out of her pocket, and Tom’s jaw dropped. “Well, you were a few months ago, anyway,” she said, fiddling with the screen. “Finch got Grace an invitation to display that painting of you in the Prix de West art exhibition an’ sale. Can’t remember if he bought the painting or if Elias did. But Taylor took me down to Oklahoma City to see it, and I got a picture.” And she handed the telephone across to Cheyenne.
The painting was a watercolor; Cheyenne wasn’t well versed in art, but he knew that much. The background was soft and somewhat blurry, although he could still recognize the trees from the park, the city landscape beyond them, the coffee cart, some of the people who’d been there, and even Reese beside him. But the image of Cheyenne himself in the foreground was sharper and more distinct, more solid somehow. Miss Hendricks had even painted a blue-and-white morning star medallion on the sleeve of his jacket that hadn’t been on the real one.
He showed it to Tom. “That was at a park in New York.”
“Washington Square,” Joss added. “I don’t think Grace recognized John from behind, or she probably woulda called it ‘The Cowboy and the Detective’ or put somethin’ about ‘the Man in the Suit’ in the title. As it is, she called it somethin’ like ‘Waiting for Coffee.’”
Tom shook his head. “I… I don’t… I can’t believe it.” He laughed. “That’s amazin’.”
“Which part,” Cheyenne asked, “the photo, the painting, or the telephone?”
“All of it!” The door opened just then, and as it closed again, Tom looked up and called gleefully, “Hey, Bronco, come look! She’s got a pocket telephone, a real one!”
“So does he,” Bronco said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hospital as he walked up to the table.
Joss took her telephone back and looked up at Bronco. “How is John?”
Bronco sat down next to Tom with a groan. “Doc’s still workin’ on ’im, but he says there’s a good chance he’ll pull through. Lost a lot of blood, though. Doc thinks he’ll need a transfusion.”
“Sounds like I’m about to get a new blood-brother,” Cheyenne told Joss.
“Sameen will be so mad,” Joss agreed and snapped a picture of Cheyenne, Tom, and Bronco before Cheyenne could get up from the table.
Harold returned to awareness sluggishly, to the tune of dueling heart monitors. Frankly, he hadn’t expected to return to awareness at all. He vaguely remembered the Machine guiding him down from the rooftop before the missile strike, and he thought he remembered being met on the ground by EMTs, but he wasn’t sure. He was sure that there hadn’t been time for John and Joss to get to safety themselves.
He couldn’t bear to wake up in a world without two more of his closest friends. But despite his groan of protest, his body was waking him up anyway.
“Hey, here he is,” said Det. Fusco’s voice with more gravel in it than usual. “You back with us, Glasses?”
“Unfortunately,” Harold mumbled.
“Finch,” Ms. Shaw chided, and he felt his glasses slide onto his face. “C’mon. Wakey, wakey.”
“I’m beginning to understand Mr. Bodie’s complaints about your bedside manner, Ms. Shaw,” Harold groused but peeled his eyes open a crack.
Ms. Shaw, sitting beside his bed, tilted her head with half a smile. “How do you even remember that?”
“When you’re my age, you’ll be surprised at the things you remember.”
Det. Fusco’s crackling chuckle drew Harold’s attention to the other bed, where the detective lay, pale-faced but alert and texting to someone.
“What happened?” Harold asked him.
Det. Fusco shrugged a little. “Ah, I got knifed by one of those creeps Coeus Hyperion sent after us. Doc Tillman says we’ll both be out in a couple days.”
Harold wasn’t at all sure he wanted to leave the hospital. Trying to go back to his old life now seemed fruitless.
“Finch,” Ms. Shaw said firmly, “you have visitors.”
Harold blinked at her owlishly. “What?”
There were footsteps in the hall then, footsteps he thought he should recognize but interrupted by the tak-tak-tak of a cane striking the floor. When the couple they belonged to came within sight of the door, all Harold could see at first were figures out of a Western, the white man with the cane wearing a black suit and a string tie, the black woman wearing a striking mauve dress and a matching hat with a tall plume of feathers. But then they entered the room-and all of Harold’s gloom was shattered.
“Mr. Reese!” he cried.
Mr. Reese looked a bit pale, but his quiet laugh was a balm to Harold’s soul. “Missed you, too, Finch.”
“What… how….”
“We took a little detour to Fort Bridger,” Det. Carter said with a twinkle in her eye and reached into her handbag. “You’ve got mail, too.” She drew out a thick envelope and handed it to Harold.
Harold examined it. The paper was thicker than modern stationery, though probably relatively cheap for its day, and though the back read only Mr. Finch, he still recognized Mr. Bodie’s firm antique handwriting, made all the more natural by the dip pen with which it was written.
He looked up at John and Joss again. “Was he well?”
“Yeah, he’s fine,” said John and nudged Ms. Shaw out of the chair. “When we left, he was about to take a job as the first sheriff of Bullfrog, North Dakota.”
Det. Fusco laughed.
“Show him the picture,” Ms. Shaw urged Joss.
“You jealous he’s got his own friends?” Joss teased as she took her phone out of her handbag.
“No, but that Bronco guy’s hot.”
Harold didn’t know why he’d expected the image on Joss’ phone to be in sepia tones, but seeing Mr. Bodie with his two best friends in living color was something of a shock. They all looked tired-Harold supposed it was late at night, judging from the lighting-and Mr. Brewster and Mr. Layne appeared startled by the picture-taking, yet even so, Mr. Bodie seemed far more at ease than he ever had been in New York. And that, in turn, eased a worry Harold didn’t know he’d been carrying for five years.
“Thank you, Joss,” he said and handed the phone back.
“Cheyenne said to tell you he’s still got his bulletproof vest,” Joss reported as she put the phone away. “He forgot he had it on until he got back to Rawlins that night and went to take a bath at the hotel. He said he’s definitely gonna wear it on the job from now on.”
That eased Harold’s mind further, and he nodded. “Good. Thank you.”
“So how long were you at Fort Bridger?” Det. Fusco asked.
“About six weeks,” Joss replied, and she and Ms. Shaw moved over to his bed to talk.
But Harold returned his attention to the best friend he’d feared he’d lost forever. “I am inordinately glad to see you, John,” he said quietly.
John smiled. “I’m glad to see you, too, Harold. Kinda glad to see anybody right now, but especially you.”
“I take it you were wounded?”
“Yeah, and had to suffer through nineteenth-century meatball surgery. It’s a miracle nothing got infected. We had Dr. Tillman check me over when we got back about an hour ago, and she said it looks like everything’s healing all right, but I’m probably stuck with this”-he gestured with his cane-“for a while yet. Joss thinks it’s time we both retired.”
Harold nodded. “I’m just glad you’re still alive. And I may be retiring myself.”
“Which reminds me, Shaw called someone else once she found out where you were. Should be arriving any time now.”
“Someone else?”
As if on cue, other footsteps sounded in the hall, and Harold caught a flash of familiar red hair just past John’s shoulder a moment before there was a gasp-and John got out of the way at the cry of “HAROLD!” before Grace raced into the room and flung herself sobbing into Harold’s arms.
“Grace,” Harold choked out. “Darling, I’m so sorry-”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Sameen told me everything. I forgive you.”
Harold sobbed in turn. “I should have told you myself a long time ago.”
“Shh.” Grace tightened her grip on him. “It’s okay. I’m here. We can start over. We’re going to be okay.”
Harold looked up at John, who smiled contentedly down at him. And past John somewhere, Harold fancied he could see Cheyenne Bodie touch his hat with a smile and a wink and ride off into the sunset.
* Fort Bridger was actually an infantry fort, not cavalry-but since Cheyenne had been a cavalry scout and most Westerns focus on cavalry adventures, it would make sense for John to assume their rescuers were cavalry until he found out where they were.
Epilogue
November 17, 2018
Maybe we were always going to end up here, John thought.
“Don’t you dare, John,” Joss warned.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“I know that look. You were wearin’ it the night we met. That’s your ‘Everything is pointless and I’m givin’ up on life’ look.”
“Joss-”
“Well, newsflash, Mr. Hopeless: I’m not leavin’ your side. So either we die here together, or we pull this off and live to meet our grandchildren. Do you hear me?”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “What’d I ever do to deserve you?”
“You took down a buncha punks on the subway, that’s what you did,” she replied, but the sparkle in her eye belied her gruff tone. Then she raised her Glock. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he replied and raised his own SIG Sauer.
“Uh, guys,” Root’s voice interjected in John’s ear, “I should probably point out-”
“Nobody asked you, Machine!” Joss snapped. “Just tell us where those storm troopers are!”
That had been one of the hardest things for the whole team to get used to in the last month: hearing Root’s voice without Root being at the other end. Shaw, in particular (and quite understandably), was taking Root’s death hard, but even though John wouldn’t have said he and Root were friends… it was sort of an “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face” thing. And he did have to admit that in the past five years, she’d come a long way from the black-hat hacker she’d been when they’d first met.
“It’s not the storm troopers I’m worried about,” replied the Machine. “Coeus Hyperion just launched-”
“Is this going to undermine my morale again?” John interrupted.
“… possibly?”
“Then let’s just worry about the storm troopers for now.”
“All right,” the Machine sighed. “I’ll help you as long as I can.”
Even without knowing for sure what Coeus Hyperion was up to, it was still hard for John to keep from wondering whether the fight against Decima would always have led to his standing on the roof of a skyscraper in downtown Manhattan, guarding the last iteration of the Machine as she uploaded herself to a satellite for the coup de grace against the evil AI Decima had tried to use to take over the world. He was reasonably sure having Joss by his side wasn’t fated, but the rest of it….
“Here they come,” the Machine warned, and then the shooting started. John and Joss each shot with deadly accuracy, thanks to the Machine putting them in God Mode for as long as she could, but they barely had time to reload when their magazines were empty. Decima had amassed a private army, and Coeus Hyperion was pitting a full battalion against the Machine’s two defenders, heedless of the number of bodies piling up on the roof.
“Upload status,” John finally commanded as he slammed his last spare magazine into his gun.
“Ninety-nine percent,” the Machine’s rapidly weakening voice replied. “Two missiles inbound. I can’t hold out much longer… I’m sorry, John….”
And suddenly the reports of the Decima troops’ weapons and Joss’ return fire were joined by the cracks of much older rifles and the distinctive rattle of a… Gatling gun?
“John! Joss!” bellowed a voice straight out of the past. “This way!”
John and Joss didn’t have to be told twice. Still firing, they bolted toward the portal that had opened behind them into what looked like the moonlit parade ground of a cavalry fort.
“Give ’em coverin’ fire, boys!” the voice ordered, and the cavalry obeyed.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. John shoved Joss through ahead of him, and a split second later, Kevlar-shredding rounds tore through him, and he fell headlong through the portal and into the dirt. He had just enough time to register Cheyenne Bodie lunging toward him when the missile strike rocked the ground… and everything went black.
“Get the doc, quick,” Cheyenne ordered as he picked himself up again. “There’s still time to save him!”
“Right,” Bronco agreed, clapped Cheyenne on the arm, and ran to the post hospital while the two nearest privates picked Reese up and carried him off in the same direction.
Then Cheyenne turned back, just in time to get hugged by Miss Carter. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my life, Cheyenne,” she said shakily.
“Hey,” Cheyenne replied and hugged her back. “There’s no need to keep count, Miss Carter.”
She shook her head. “Call me Joss, please. Besides, my last name’s not Carter anymore. John and I got married under the name of Hawke four years ago.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Joss.”
A polite throat clearing drew Cheyenne’s attention toward Tom and Lt. Morris, who were standing nearby. “Sorry to intrude, Cheyenne,” Tom began as Joss broke the hug, “but the lieutenant’s wonderin’ what to tell Maj. Wilson.”
“Well, the Hawkes are old friends of mine,” Cheyenne answered. “You can say they came under attack by unknown assailants and we rendered assistance, but… John’s been wounded, and now they’re stranded here.”
Lt. Morris nodded. “All right, that’s true enough. But what about…” He gestured toward the gate, presumably meaning the portal and the explosion. There was no sign of either now beyond spent brass and a few new holes in the logs.
“’Fraid you’re on your own there,” Cheyenne admitted. “Can’t explain that part of it myself. But be sure you emphasize that the Hawkes are friends of mine. I won’t stand for any insult to ’em, especially to Mrs. Hawke.” He knew Maj. Wilson had fought for the Union, hated the Klan, and was a staunch friend of the Buffalo Soldiers; but there were others among the troops and the settlers on the wagon train who were of a different mind, and Maj. Wilson’s word would go a lot further toward preventing trouble than Cheyenne’s own.
In fact, he could already hear one of the privates muttering, “Bad enough he’s an Indian lover-”
“That’s enough, Powell,” Lt. Morris barked over his shoulder before returning his attention to Cheyenne. “I’m sure we can find adequate quarters for Mrs. Hawke while her husband is in the hospital. And we’ll see that she’s not bothered.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Joss said.
Lt. Morris nodded and touched his hat to her, then turned and headed toward Maj. Wilson’s quarters, issuing orders as he went.
Cheyenne beckoned Tom closer. “Joss, this is Tom Brewster. I may have mentioned him a time or two.”
Joss looked puzzled, but then it clicked. “Oh, the lawyer! Right!”
Tom doffed his hat and shook her hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Heard a lot about you.”
“Heard some stories about you, too-especially you and your cousin… what was it, the Parakeet Kid?”
“Canary,” Tom corrected, shooting Cheyenne a reproachful look.
“I had a little girl to entertain,” Cheyenne explained.
“You couldn’t tell her about your own life?”
“She wouldn’t have believed it. ’Sides, she wanted to hear stories about spies, and those times you went undercover as Canary ain’t classified.”
Tom tilted his head. “You’ve got a point there.”
Joss chuckled. “Sameen still checks up on Gen every now and again.”
Cheyenne smiled. “How is she?”
“A lot better than she was while she was livin’ with her junkie cousin. Finch got her citizenship paperwork fast-tracked, and she just loves that school he got her into. She’s on her third foreign language and wants to major in communications when she gets to college.”
“Good. Reckon I oughta write some letters to send back with you.”
Joss nodded. “She’d like that.”
Tom looked around and coughed pointedly.
“The mess hall’s over this way,” Cheyenne said, taking the hint. “That’s probably the best place for us to talk.”
Joss sighed. “I don’t know if I can eat… but I could probably use some coffee.”
“I’ll make sure the kitchen’s still open,” Tom offered and ran ahead.
“So where are we?” Joss whispered as Cheyenne ushered her toward the commissary.
“Fort Bridger,” Cheyenne whispered back before continuing at a more normal volume, “Took us about three weeks to get here from Eightmile Lake, but we made it in time for Independence Day. Now we’re here, though, the Army’s been reluctant to let us continue on to Idaho Territory. Seems the gang John and I took out wasn’t the only one attackin’ travelers in this area, and Maj. Wilson doesn’t want us to leave until he’s sure the route from here to Fort Hall is clear. We’ve been here a little over two weeks.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“The post trader’s store is back that way,” he continued, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “When it opens in the mornin’, I’ll be happy to take you to get whatever you need to get by while you’re here.”
She shook her head. “I can’t ask that.”
“You don’t have to. There was a big reward out for that gang-$2,000 a head.”
Her jaw dropped. “Seriously?! What’d they do?”
“Killed a judge and two federal marshals and robbed the Army payroll office in Denver. And that was before they took to robbin’ wagon trains.”
She whistled.
“Half o’ that reward money belongs to you an’ John,” he went on. “That should more than cover clothes an’ food and anything else you need. Besides, you folks looked after me back in New York. Now it’s my turn.”
She smiled and threw up her hands in mock surrender. “All right. Thanks, Cheyenne.”
He smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
“So what are you gonna do with your share?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know yet. There was a letter waitin’ when I got here from some folks plannin’ a new town in the Dakotas, up north of Bismarck. Said they’re gonna call it Bullfrog, but I dunno if that’ll stick.”
She laughed. “I’ve heard worse.”
“So have I. Anyway, they’re lookin’ for a sheriff who can keep the peace with the Sioux as well as in the town. If I like it up there, why, I might buy myself a ranch an’ some Herefords.”
“And get married?”
He shrugged. “I’m not opposed to the idea, if the right woman comes along. Might even take a Sioux wife-I’ve thought about it a time or two. Just have to see what the Boss has in mind,” he concluded with a glance heavenward.
She nodded, smiling. “Well, I hope it works out for you.”
“You know, if you two end up bein’ here a while, you’d be welcome to come with me. I’ve just about talked Tom into it; Bronco’s got another year left with the Marshals.”
“Thanks. I’ll have to talk it over with John.”
“’Course. Wasn’t expectin’ an answer tonight. Just wanted to offer.”
“I appreciate it, really.”
“So how long has it been?” he asked as they walked into the mess hall past the stares of the infantrymen.* “You said you’d been married four years now.”
She nodded. “It’s been five years almost to the day. Taylor graduated from college in May, married a real nice girl last year. They live in Nashville now, and my mom’s moved down there to be near them. And, uh….” Her smile turned a little shy as they sat down at a table and one of the mess privates set coffee, sugar, and cream in front of them and put a set of flatware at each place. “It was just after their wedding that we found out Taylor was about to be a big brother.”
Cheyenne grinned. “Well, congratulations!”
“Thanks!” She nodded her thanks to the private and poured cream into her coffee like always. “Big surprise at my age, and it was a pretty rough pregnancy, but she’s totally worth it.”
“A girl?”
Her smile brightened. “Cheyenne Leona.”
He ducked his head, embarrassed. “Y’know, with all the friends I have, I don’t think anyone’s named a baby after me before. I’ll have to write her a letter, too.”
“Oh, she’ll love that when she’s old enough.” Her smile dimmed a little, and she lowered her voice. “’Course, then she might start askin’ questions about why she can meet her Uncle Lionel but not her Uncle Cheyenne.”
“Well, let’s be honest,” he said at the same volume. “I might live to see 100, but 180’s a lot to ask of any man.”
That surprised a laugh out of her. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you, too, not that I’ve had much time for it.”
“All right,” Tom interrupted, arriving at the table with two plates and another mess private, who was carrying another coffee cup and a basket. “Are you sure you don’t want anything, Mrs. Hawke?”
Joss nodded. “I’m sure. Thanks.”
“In that case…” Tom set one plate in front of Cheyenne and the other at the place beside him. “Wasn’t much left, Cheyenne, but Cook fried up some salt pork to go with the last of the taters. And Mrs. Hawke, I brought some biscuits in case you change your mind.” He took the basket from the private and set it next to Joss, then collected the coffee cup and a set of flatware and sat down next to Cheyenne.
Joss peeked in the basket. “Ooh, sourdough! Maybe I will have a biscuit.”
Tom smiled triumphantly. “I figured somethin’ light might sit well. Coffee’s kinda hard on an empty stomach.”
“Would you like a plate, Joss?” Cheyenne asked.
Joss considered. “That might be a good idea, mostly to catch the crumbs.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the private and left to get one.
“It sure is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Tom said once the private was out of earshot. “I was really afraid Cheyenne had been out in the sun too long when he told us about what happened. Bronco thought he was just plumb loco.”
Joss laughed. “Yeah, he got that in New York, too.”
“Once it was even on purpose,” Cheyenne added. “Which reminds me, what happened to Arthur Claypool?”
Joss’ smile turned sad. “He went downhill pretty fast after he let go of Samaritan. By the end of the shiva, Sameen told Finch he really shouldn’t be moved. He rallied at Thanksgiving, which was also the first night of Hanukkah, but by the last night, he could barely walk. I don’t think he even made it another week after that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“But at least he died among friends, and neither Control nor Decima got what they wanted from him. It was probably a good thing Sameen had him to focus on after you left, too. We couldn’t even mention your name without her gettin’ mad until after Christmas-but Finch had your scrubs framed and gave ’em to her, and that helped.”
Cheyenne sighed. “I definitely owe her a letter, then.”
Tom blinked in confusion. “Why would she be so mad at you?”
Cheyenne tried to think how to explain. “Well, you know how there’s some music boxes that can play several different tunes with the same cylinder and there’s a switch you move to select the tune you want?”
“Yeah.”
“Sam’s switch gets stuck.”
“Especially when she’s grieving,” Joss added in a tone that said Sam was grieving something more recent than Cheyenne’s departure. That didn’t sound good.
The private came back with the plate then but seemed disinclined to leave after he’d delivered it, so Tom said grace, and the three civilians ate quietly until Joss had nibbled her way through half a biscuit and declared herself finished. Then Tom gestured for the private to come take her plate and thanked him pointedly.
“Sir, are you sure-” the private began.
“We can clear our own things,” Cheyenne stated. “That’ll be all.”
“Yes, sir,” the private answered and left, closing the door behind him.
Cheyenne lowered his voice. “Joss, what happened?”
Joss sighed heavily. “We shoulda known Decima wouldn’t give up after Samaritan was destroyed. There was another AI that survived after the government shut down all the programs besides Northern Lights. Decima found it before Christmas, but it wasn’t anywhere close to complete back then. It took over three years for them to finish Coeus Hyperion, and the first thing it did was kill its creator.”
Tom hissed.
“And they didn’t shut it down?!” Cheyenne asked.
Joss scoffed. “Are you kiddin’? Greer was thrilled.”
“Greer?”
“John Greer-that’s right, you never met him. He was Decima’s head of operations, but he had this dream about AIs ruling the world and perfecting humanity and….” She shook her head. “Anyway, by that time, Control wasn’t nearly as twitchy about the idea that the Machine would stop producing relevant numbers, and there was a new administration tryin’ to clean house. It took Greer another year to finally sell the right people on givin’ Coeus Hyperion a chance with a twenty-four-hour test… and in the first hour, it escaped onto the Internet an’ started huntin’ the Machine and us. Root found a way to blind it, but… not before it had Collier killed.”
“So he did turn over a new leaf.”
“Yeah, turned state’s evidence against Vigilance after Claypool died. Feds put him in Witness Protection, but he kept workin’ with Root even after that. May have been what did him in.”
Tom was tapping his fingers on the handle of his cup, trying to do the math. “So… for you, that was….”
“Six months ago,” Joss answered. “I was havin’ a lot of complications with the baby, so John had just moved Mom and me to Nashville so I could be near Taylor-there’s a world-class hospital there. Elias and his man came with us ‘for protection,’ but I don’t know whether that was supposed to be my protection or his. Then the Machine gave John a new clean cover as Det. John Riley, and he went back to New York to work as Fusco’s partner.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Fusco calls me a couple times a week to complain. ‘Hey, partner, you’ll never guess what Wonderboy did today,’” she added in a decent approximation of Fusco’s voice.
Cheyenne laughed.
Tom was still trying manfully to keep up. “So this Cussin’ Hyper thing….”
“Coeus Hyperion,” Joss corrected and drank the last of her coffee.
“It… got loose, an’ then….”
Joss sighed again. “Well, I’m not sure even Cheyenne would understand what happened then. But the short version is, it was causing chaos, and Decima refused to even try to stop it, even after Root sacrificed herself to kill Greer. So Finch made a backup of the Machine and unleashed another program that would destroy Coeus Hyperion, no matter where it tried to hide-only it found a way to hide in space.”
Tom nearly choked on his coffee. “You mean like on the moon?!”
Joss smiled a little. “Between Earth and the moon, actually. We have things called satellites that orbit Earth.”
Tom turned to Cheyenne. “You didn’t tell us about those!”
“Never quite understood ’em myself,” Cheyenne admitted. “And you didn’t believe what I did tell you.”
“But what do they do?”
“Can that wait until Joss has a chance to tell us about the fight?”
Tom grimaced. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Joss’ smile grew. “That’s all right.”
Cheyenne got back to the subject at hand. “I’m guessin’ if Coeus Hyperion could jump to a satellite, so could the Machine.”
Joss nodded. “That was the idea, but there was only one way to make it work. Someone had to take her backup to the roof of one specific skyscraper in Manhattan that had a link to that satellite and upload her directly. Finch was gonna do it himself, but he got shot, and John convinced her to guide Finch to the wrong building.”
“And you went back to New York just for that?”
Joss looked Cheyenne in the eye. “The Machine and I both knew John was losin’ hope. That’s an awful good way to get yourself killed. I couldn’t let him go up there alone.”
Cheyenne nodded slowly. “And now here you are.”
“Here we are,” Joss agreed with a wry smile.
Cheyenne sighed. “Sounds like I didn’t change that much after all.”
“You did, Cheyenne.” Joss reached across the table and put a hand on Cheyenne’s wrist. “You gave us three years of peace, of life, that we would never have had without you. We saved a hundred lives directly in that time, and who knows how many other lives we saved indirectly because we were able to focus on stopping mundane problems like a new gang war instead of fightin’ Samaritan. That was three years the Machine had to grow and learn, so she was able to fight Coeus Hyperion much better than she could have otherwise. And that’s just us. Root made an app so the Machine could recruit more teams to save irrelevant numbers in other cities. Mike Laskey’s on one of ’em.”
Cheyenne accepted that news with a smile. “Is everyone else all right?”
“Far as I know. Zoe’s managed to keep her head down. Sameen and Fusco were off fightin’… somebody else. I didn’t follow what the Machine said.”
“And Miss Hendricks?”
“She’s in Tulsa. Finch was gonna send her to Italy, but Coeus Hyperion crashed an airliner, and… anyway, at least he got her out of New York.” Joss brightened suddenly. “And you are in the National Cowboy Hall of Fame!”
That startled Cheyenne. “I’m what?!”
Joss pulled her telephone out of her pocket, and Tom’s jaw dropped. “Well, you were a few months ago, anyway,” she said, fiddling with the screen. “Finch got Grace an invitation to display that painting of you in the Prix de West art exhibition an’ sale. Can’t remember if he bought the painting or if Elias did. But Taylor took me down to Oklahoma City to see it, and I got a picture.” And she handed the telephone across to Cheyenne.
The painting was a watercolor; Cheyenne wasn’t well versed in art, but he knew that much. The background was soft and somewhat blurry, although he could still recognize the trees from the park, the city landscape beyond them, the coffee cart, some of the people who’d been there, and even Reese beside him. But the image of Cheyenne himself in the foreground was sharper and more distinct, more solid somehow. Miss Hendricks had even painted a blue-and-white morning star medallion on the sleeve of his jacket that hadn’t been on the real one.
He showed it to Tom. “That was at a park in New York.”
“Washington Square,” Joss added. “I don’t think Grace recognized John from behind, or she probably woulda called it ‘The Cowboy and the Detective’ or put somethin’ about ‘the Man in the Suit’ in the title. As it is, she called it somethin’ like ‘Waiting for Coffee.’”
Tom shook his head. “I… I don’t… I can’t believe it.” He laughed. “That’s amazin’.”
“Which part,” Cheyenne asked, “the photo, the painting, or the telephone?”
“All of it!” The door opened just then, and as it closed again, Tom looked up and called gleefully, “Hey, Bronco, come look! She’s got a pocket telephone, a real one!”
“So does he,” Bronco said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hospital as he walked up to the table.
Joss took her telephone back and looked up at Bronco. “How is John?”
Bronco sat down next to Tom with a groan. “Doc’s still workin’ on ’im, but he says there’s a good chance he’ll pull through. Lost a lot of blood, though. Doc thinks he’ll need a transfusion.”
“Sounds like I’m about to get a new blood-brother,” Cheyenne told Joss.
“Sameen will be so mad,” Joss agreed and snapped a picture of Cheyenne, Tom, and Bronco before Cheyenne could get up from the table.
Harold returned to awareness sluggishly, to the tune of dueling heart monitors. Frankly, he hadn’t expected to return to awareness at all. He vaguely remembered the Machine guiding him down from the rooftop before the missile strike, and he thought he remembered being met on the ground by EMTs, but he wasn’t sure. He was sure that there hadn’t been time for John and Joss to get to safety themselves.
He couldn’t bear to wake up in a world without two more of his closest friends. But despite his groan of protest, his body was waking him up anyway.
“Hey, here he is,” said Det. Fusco’s voice with more gravel in it than usual. “You back with us, Glasses?”
“Unfortunately,” Harold mumbled.
“Finch,” Ms. Shaw chided, and he felt his glasses slide onto his face. “C’mon. Wakey, wakey.”
“I’m beginning to understand Mr. Bodie’s complaints about your bedside manner, Ms. Shaw,” Harold groused but peeled his eyes open a crack.
Ms. Shaw, sitting beside his bed, tilted her head with half a smile. “How do you even remember that?”
“When you’re my age, you’ll be surprised at the things you remember.”
Det. Fusco’s crackling chuckle drew Harold’s attention to the other bed, where the detective lay, pale-faced but alert and texting to someone.
“What happened?” Harold asked him.
Det. Fusco shrugged a little. “Ah, I got knifed by one of those creeps Coeus Hyperion sent after us. Doc Tillman says we’ll both be out in a couple days.”
Harold wasn’t at all sure he wanted to leave the hospital. Trying to go back to his old life now seemed fruitless.
“Finch,” Ms. Shaw said firmly, “you have visitors.”
Harold blinked at her owlishly. “What?”
There were footsteps in the hall then, footsteps he thought he should recognize but interrupted by the tak-tak-tak of a cane striking the floor. When the couple they belonged to came within sight of the door, all Harold could see at first were figures out of a Western, the white man with the cane wearing a black suit and a string tie, the black woman wearing a striking mauve dress and a matching hat with a tall plume of feathers. But then they entered the room-and all of Harold’s gloom was shattered.
“Mr. Reese!” he cried.
Mr. Reese looked a bit pale, but his quiet laugh was a balm to Harold’s soul. “Missed you, too, Finch.”
“What… how….”
“We took a little detour to Fort Bridger,” Det. Carter said with a twinkle in her eye and reached into her handbag. “You’ve got mail, too.” She drew out a thick envelope and handed it to Harold.
Harold examined it. The paper was thicker than modern stationery, though probably relatively cheap for its day, and though the back read only Mr. Finch, he still recognized Mr. Bodie’s firm antique handwriting, made all the more natural by the dip pen with which it was written.
He looked up at John and Joss again. “Was he well?”
“Yeah, he’s fine,” said John and nudged Ms. Shaw out of the chair. “When we left, he was about to take a job as the first sheriff of Bullfrog, North Dakota.”
Det. Fusco laughed.
“Show him the picture,” Ms. Shaw urged Joss.
“You jealous he’s got his own friends?” Joss teased as she took her phone out of her handbag.
“No, but that Bronco guy’s hot.”
Harold didn’t know why he’d expected the image on Joss’ phone to be in sepia tones, but seeing Mr. Bodie with his two best friends in living color was something of a shock. They all looked tired-Harold supposed it was late at night, judging from the lighting-and Mr. Brewster and Mr. Layne appeared startled by the picture-taking, yet even so, Mr. Bodie seemed far more at ease than he ever had been in New York. And that, in turn, eased a worry Harold didn’t know he’d been carrying for five years.
“Thank you, Joss,” he said and handed the phone back.
“Cheyenne said to tell you he’s still got his bulletproof vest,” Joss reported as she put the phone away. “He forgot he had it on until he got back to Rawlins that night and went to take a bath at the hotel. He said he’s definitely gonna wear it on the job from now on.”
That eased Harold’s mind further, and he nodded. “Good. Thank you.”
“So how long were you at Fort Bridger?” Det. Fusco asked.
“About six weeks,” Joss replied, and she and Ms. Shaw moved over to his bed to talk.
But Harold returned his attention to the best friend he’d feared he’d lost forever. “I am inordinately glad to see you, John,” he said quietly.
John smiled. “I’m glad to see you, too, Harold. Kinda glad to see anybody right now, but especially you.”
“I take it you were wounded?”
“Yeah, and had to suffer through nineteenth-century meatball surgery. It’s a miracle nothing got infected. We had Dr. Tillman check me over when we got back about an hour ago, and she said it looks like everything’s healing all right, but I’m probably stuck with this”-he gestured with his cane-“for a while yet. Joss thinks it’s time we both retired.”
Harold nodded. “I’m just glad you’re still alive. And I may be retiring myself.”
“Which reminds me, Shaw called someone else once she found out where you were. Should be arriving any time now.”
“Someone else?”
As if on cue, other footsteps sounded in the hall, and Harold caught a flash of familiar red hair just past John’s shoulder a moment before there was a gasp-and John got out of the way at the cry of “HAROLD!” before Grace raced into the room and flung herself sobbing into Harold’s arms.
“Grace,” Harold choked out. “Darling, I’m so sorry-”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Sameen told me everything. I forgive you.”
Harold sobbed in turn. “I should have told you myself a long time ago.”
“Shh.” Grace tightened her grip on him. “It’s okay. I’m here. We can start over. We’re going to be okay.”
Harold looked up at John, who smiled contentedly down at him. And past John somewhere, Harold fancied he could see Cheyenne Bodie touch his hat with a smile and a wink and ride off into the sunset.
* Fort Bridger was actually an infantry fort, not cavalry-but since Cheyenne had been a cavalry scout and most Westerns focus on cavalry adventures, it would make sense for John to assume their rescuers were cavalry until he found out where they were.