DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television shows "Sons of Thunder" or "Walker Texas Ranger." They were created by Chuck and Aaron Norris and belong to them, CBS, Stranglehold Productions, TopKick Productions, and Norris Productions.
 
 
 
 

It would have taken an act of God to get him out the door with 'Old Eagle Eyes' watching his every move.

Not that any of his other guardian angels were easy to outwit. So, he had waited them all out; waited until the wheelchair had become a luxury rather than a necessity and quietly planned the great escape.

Katie Malloy had finally decided her son could be trusted to rest without her constant hovering--enough that she gave in to the urgings of her best friend to hit the sales at the mall. She, in her mother hen mode, had left explicit instructions: lunch in the fridge, heat on high for five minutes, don't eat it too fast or it will burn your mouth; drink lots of fluid, the doctor said so; do NOT get out of bed except for...well, you know.

Trent had patiently taken the mothering, agreeing to everything, quite convinced that the Geneva Convention had nothing on his mother when it came to corralling recalcitrant POWs.

Tommy was at school, so he couldn't narc on his older brother. Carlos had been dragged away to follow up leads on a case he had already put into the dead file. Alex was busy doing D.A. things. Walker and Trivette were off somewhere fighting for justice and the American Way. Okay, okay, he conceded, inactivity had made him a little testy. Trent Malloy was not used to sitting on a couch, his feet propped up, juice and cookies carefully arranged on a table within easy reach, and being held captive by the Jerry Springer Show. He could feel his brain cells dying with the each new 'guest' that entered the daytime slugfest that passed for entertainment.

A mini-lecture from Carlos, a cautious 'feeling him out' from Walker--both had served only to dredge up memories that he wanted to keep securely buried in the darkest recesses of him mind. Living the memory was like poking at an abscessed tooth, just to see if it still hurt.

It still hurt.

Now how to get there.

At least that was easy enough to arrange. A call to the local cab company had his ride at the front door within fifteen minutes. It took him almost that long to hobble his way down to the cab, the driver drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Trent dropped wearily into a seat in the back. He couldn't remember ever having to rely on a cab for transportation before and he wasn't sure if he was supposed to get in the front seat or the back. Back seemed appropriate.

He was tired. The court thing had emptied him of any energy. It was worth it, though, just to get the slimebag off the streets before anyone else got in his way. Anger sparked like an ember left too long when he pictured Sally's trusting face and knew that only God's intervention and Carlos and Walker had prevented her from becoming Riggs' next victim.

He gave the address, then leaned wearily back in the hard-cushioned seat, trying to tease his kinetic thoughts into some sort of order. He was tired. He was angry. And if he admitted it, he was just a little scared.

He glanced out the window and absently watched the city streets mutate into grassland.

Carlos had been the first. "You gotta start carrying a gun, Trent, or next time we may not be able to pull you back. You could get killed. Do you think Alan would want that?"

Then there was Walker...Trent had always idolized the ranger, would generally take anything he said at face value and then try to live up to it. Too much like his relationship with his own father--loving him, wanting to make him proud, but always feeling just that last step short of what they might want him to be.

It's all in your head, Trent, he chided himself. They never put too much pressure on you. You did that all by yourself. And now that his father was gone...there was no way to explain, to try to find that balance between them.

He felt a tear begin its lonely trek down his cheekbone and he brushed it away impatiently. That would be the last reaction his father would expect...or condone, he thought with a twinge of regret.

Then there were his friends, Carlos especially. They had been friends since childhood. Carlos wanted him to carry a gun. He'd been there that night, that awful, terrifying night. Why couldn't he understand? Trent couldn't, he simply couldn't, pick up a gun without seeing Alan's face as the bullet tore into his chest. He wouldn't do it, couldn't, no matter how well meaning his friends were.

With Walker, he was confused, drawing a blank. He didn't know what the Ranger wanted of him, wasn't sure that even Walker knew himself. The subject had been broached in the safety of his mother's house. But Trent knew that wasn't the battle ground for this particular dilemma.

The cab slowed, then turned in between the pillared gates, the cabby following the jerky directions of his fare. A glance in the rear view mirror showed a cautious, concerned face.

Trent knew what he looked like, using a cane, old bruises fading to a yellowish-green on his face. He offered no explanation, just dug into his pocket and paid the fare, adding a generous tip to the bills he shoved into the man's hands.

"You be all right here?" the cabby asked, his brow wrinkled and his mouth downcast into a concerned frown. "I can wait if you want."

"No, thanks," Trent rejected the offer. "I'll be fine."

He walked the few steps to the small plot. The tombstone read just the same as it had years ago. The passage of time no longer mattered here in this tiny piece of earth. Trent sank to one knee, then brushed away some of the weeds and dirt that encroached upon the small slab of marble that held the name, date of birth, date of death and nothing more. As if a young life hadn't been shattered, unfulfilled potential wasted. A friend laid forever beneath the earth.

He let the tears come then.

"I'm sorry, Alan," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I can't ever make it up to you. I'm..."

"Maybe he doesn't expect that," came a soft voice from behind him. "Maybe he knows that it was a mistake and that you still love him."

Trent dropped from his knee to sit in the dew-wet grass. Tears coursed unnoticed down his cheeks, his fingers groped absently at the growth of grass that marked the small grave. "How does he know if I never told him?" he asked, helpless in his grief, alone in his own abandonment. "It happened so fast I never got to...to...to.." the words broke off into a stutter as emotion overwhelmed control.

Cordell Walker knelt beside his young friend and slipped an arm around trembling shoulders. "He knew, Trent," he offered. "You don't need any more than to know that he knew."

Hitching in a deep breath, Trent gave himself into the embrace of a friend while his tears fell over the memory of another friend.