CHAPTER 23

The next morning the future Mrs. Doggett awoke to find herself alone 
in bed.  "John?" she called out, expecting to hear his voice from the 
bathroom.  When she heard nothing, she threw on her bathrobe and 
grabbed her gun from the nightstand.  The living room and Gibson's 
room were both empty, so she opened the front door and peered around 
the doorjamb.

The complex was quiet, and as she scanned the horizon she heard the 
unmistakable crack of a gun being fired.  She cocked her gun and ran 
toward the ravine, the only direction not blocked by buildings or 
adobe walls.  She heard another gunshot as she approached the 
garage.  John's garage, she couldn't help thinking.  She crept 
alongside the long wall, staying in the shadow cast by the bright 
morning sun, and when she neared the corner, her gun drawn in front 
of her, she heard another shot.

"That was much better!" she heard John's enthusiastic voice cry out.

Monica lowered her gun and tiptoed to the front of the garage.  She 
saw John standing a few steps behind Gibson, sighting over the boy's 
shoulder as Gibson raised a gun and pointed it toward a line of tin 
cans atop a wall near the ravine.

"Now, this time, try not to let the recoil..." John started, but 
turned around to follow Gibson's eyes.  "Monica!" he jogged toward 
her, smiling broadly.  "What're you doing up so early?"

She put the safety on her gun and dropped it into her pocket, making 
a point of letting Doggett see that she'd been concerned.  "I woke up 
and you weren't there," she said accusingly.  "Then I heard shots..."

"I'm sorry.  I should have left a note," Doggett said contritely, 
holding her by the shoulders and kissing her gently on the 
lips.  "You were sleeping so peacefully..."

"It's my fault," Gibson said.  "I wanted to get an early start."

"Well," she said a little reluctantly.  "I'm just glad you're okay."

Gibson and John exchanged guilty glances, and Monica instinctively 
pulled her bathrobe tighter.  After an awkward silence, she forced a 
smile and said, "So how many tin cans have you killed?"

"Four!" Gibson answered excitedly.  "The second one almost didn't 
fall, but I knicked it and it twirled, then..."

Monica smiled as Gibson recounted each of his successes, and John 
looked on proudly.  When he'd finished, Monica said, "So let me see 
you knock another one down."

Gibson flashed an anxious glance at John, who led him to his mark and 
calmly whispered, "You know you can do it.  Just remember what I told 
you."  John patted Gibson on the shoulder then backed away and stood 
next to Monica.

Gibson took aim, sighted his target, and shot the center can squarely 
in the middle.  Monica applauded enthusiastically and shouted, "Yay!  
You did it!"  She rushed toward him and grabbed him from behind, her 
arms around his shoulders as she pulled him into a hug.  "That was 
great, Gibson!" she said.

John watched, admiring both Gibson's shot and Monica's reaction.  As 
Monica loosed her hold on Gibson, he turned to look at her, a broad 
smile across his usually sullen face.  Then, as if in slow motion, 
John saw Gibson lower the gun, its barrel pointed toward Monica's 
leg, and he remembered in horror that he hadn't given Gibson the 
safety lesson Monica would have wanted.  He knew what would happen 
next, and as he rushed forward, shouting "Gibson...," the gun went 
off, and Monica crumpled to the ground.

Monica's arm wrapped around her hurt leg as she rolled back and 
forth, moaning. Gibson bent forward, looking at the blood soaking the 
ground, then to Monica's face. His own face crumpled in sympathetic 
anguish, then panic as John rushed forward to be with Monica. 

"I'm sorry," Gibson said lamely to John. 

John jerked his head upward and glared at Gibson, but John said 
nothing, and turned his attention back to Monica. He pulled her robe 
away from her leg, then used it to wipe away the blood. "You'll 
live," he said to Monica. "But that's gotta hurt." 

She nodded tearfully, mustering her strength. "Help me up," she said, 
and John couldn't help feeling a thrill at her implicit trust in him. 
Yes, he realized, he would always be there for her if he could help 
it. He stood up, then reached for her hands and pulled her up by 
stages, until she could stand on her good leg with his support. 

"Let's get you to the infirmary," he said, smiling with patient 
concern. "Gibson... take the other side..." They looked around, and 
saw Gibson in the distance, running toward the ravine.

*************************

John brought his crippled partner to the infirmary, where they found 
Martha and Mary preparing for their arrival.  "We can take over 
here," Martha said officiously as she led Monica toward a bed.  "Go 
find Gibson!"  Monica looked over her shoulder, urging him to obey 
Martha.  Reluctantly, John left, guided by Mary's able arm on his.

Monica winced as Martha cleaned the wound and applied some of her 
antibacterial ointment.  Monica recognized the pungent smell and 
asked, "Is that good for everything?"

"Puncture wounds," Martha said curtly.  "They get infected if you're 
not careful."  She made a final wrap on the bandage then clasped 
it.  "We'll take another look just before dinner, but I think it'll 
be fine.  I've seen worse."  Martha rose to toss her gloves in the 
trash.

"You've seen worse?" Monica repeated.  "How many gunshot wounds have 
you seen?"

Martha and Mary exchanged nervous glances before Martha 
answered, "Things happen in the desert.  And considering the danger 
our guests are in..."

**********

John ran to the edge of the ravine and called out Gibson's name.  He 
ran down the wooden stairway, searching the ground below for 
footprints but finding none.  When he reached the bottom he heard 
faint sounds that could have been human, could have been something 
else.  Relieved to hear the sound was not coming from the magnetite 
factory, he followed it until he came to a small cave, obviously 
carved by human hands, its lower walls jutting out to form parallel 
benches.

Gibson sat at one side, his head in his hands, sobbing and gasping 
for breath.  John put a hand on the boy's shoulder, startling 
him.  "Gibson," John said kindly.  "It wasn't your fault."

Gibson pulled away from John's hand and put his face close to the 
cave wall.  "Go away," he pleaded.

"I mean it," John said to Gibson's shaking shoulders.  "It was my 
fault.  I didn't teach you..."

"You don't understand," Gibson sobbed.  "Just go away!"

"Then what?" John asked, pulling on Gibson's shoulders and turning 
him around.  "What don't I understand?"

Gibson wiped his nose on the top of his sleeve then removed his 
glasses and used the top of his T-shirt to dry his eyes.  "I'm okay," 
he said unconvincingly as he replaced his glasses.  "You don't have 
to worry about me."

"I don't have to but I do," John sighed.  "I'm responsible for what 
happened.  It's my fault Monica got hurt, and it's my fault you're 
upset."  He studied Gibson's face, the puffy eyes and reddened skin 
belying the boy's claim.  "It's understandable.  You were holding the 
gun.  But I forgot to teach you about the safety.  And Monica knows 
better than to..."

"You don't get it!" Gibson yelled.  He stood and moved into the 
protection of the shaded side of the cave.  "Okay, yes," he admitted 
more quietly.  "I feel bad that I hurt Monica.  I wish it hadn't 
happened.  But that's not why I came here."  He sat on the carved 
bench and put his head in his hands.  "Why do I bother?  You'll never 
understand," he sighed.

"Try me," John challenged, sitting down opposite the boy, his legs 
spread wide apart, supporting his elbows.  He clasped his hands and 
thrust his head forward in a listening posture.  "I'm all ears, you 
may have noticed."

Gibson laughed.  "I bet you hear everything."

"I found you, didn't I?"  John smiled.  "So if this isn't about 
Monica, what is it about?"

"It's about Monica," Gibson sighed shakily.  "It's about the way she 
felt.  And about the way you felt... and feel."  He sighed again and 
wiped a tear from one eye.  "It's too much."

"Too much?"  John took a moment to absorb Gibson's meaning, then 
said, "Our feelings were too intense?"

In the shadows, Gibson nodded, then pushed his back against the cave 
wall.  "She was in so much pain..." Gibson strained to say.  "It 
really hurt..."

"Yes, it did," John admitted.  "And me?  Why were my feelings so 
upsetting to you?"

"You were so scared... you were afraid for her," Gibson tried to 
control his feelings by remembering it objectively.  "You were afraid 
how badly she was hurt, and you were feeling, well.... bad!"  He 
broke off as the memory became too vivid for him.

"Yes, I felt bad," John concurred.  "I still do.  But you must be 
used to sensing this kind of feeling.  You've never experienced this 
before?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"No," Gibson said, crossing his arms.  "And I don't like it!"

"Bad things happen, it's just part of life," John said, as much to 
himself as to Gibson.  "And people feel badly about them, but they 
get over it."

Gibson sighed.  "You still don't get it," he declared.  "You just 
don't get it."

"Maybe I'm a little dense, Gibson," John said patiently.  "Why don't 
you spell it out for me?"

"I've been aware of other peoples' feelings all my life," Gibson 
asserted.  "But this is the first time I really CARED."  Gibson and 
John sighed simultaneously, and Gibson continued, "I don't like it."

"Ahhh," John said after a moment of reflection.  "So you weren't 
really running from our feelings, you were running from your own."  
It was a statement, not a question, yet it was also a 
challenge.  "And coming here?  Did it help?" he asked.

Gibson glared at his surrogate father.  "What do you know?  You don't 
know anything about it," he said as he stormed toward the cave's 
interior.

"I do know, Gibson," John shouted after him.  "And you know I do.  
That's why you're running away from me, too."  His words made Gibson 
pause, and John continued, "When you love someone you don't have to 
have special powers to feel their pain.  It's part of the price you 
pay.  It's part of being normal."  He could barely make out Gibson's 
form as the boy turned and walked toward him.  Lowering his voice, he 
added,  "And you can't block one without blocking the other.  You 
have to accept both."

"You haven't always done that," Gibson said accusingly, standing in 
front of the older man.  "How do you do it now?"

John stood and put an arm around Gibson's shoulder, leading him 
toward the mouth of the cave.  "It took time," he admitted.  "But 
Monica helped.  She can help you, too."  He patted the boy on the 
back then took his hand away.  "Now, let's check on her."

John took a few steps into the ravine, but Gibson stayed 
behind.  "This way's faster," he said, motioning toward the cave.