Chapter Text
There was nothing left for him. He had worked with the team to find the forces that led to Lizzy’s death. He’s been successful in that endeavor, at least. It gave him a small measure of satisfaction to have eliminated some of them, to have gotten some answers. But, the main player behind the debacle, Scottie Hargrave, had disappeared, as had Tom with Agnes in tow. Red knew what some of the taskforce didn’t fully realize – that fighting against Scottie Hargrave was fighting against their own, in essence. Scottie had the support of those beyond reproach. Why, exactly, he didn’t know. Truth be told, he didn’t care. He had taken that investigation as far as he could. The rest was for Harold and the team. Not for him. Not if it no longer pertained directly to Lizzy. He had no interest beyond her. There was just no fun in it without her – he remembered telling her that once. He didn’t understand then the depth of truth that statement held. He thought he did, but he was wrong. He was wrong about many things. Many, many things. Had been for years.
He called Marvin again. He told him to continue managing things for the foreseeable future. He engaged Dembe in the effort more directly this time. He was going away. For good.
“Raymond. It is important that someone know where you are,” Dembe insisted.
“No, it isn’t. Now, are we clear on the accounts and all other business,” Red asked, as he put on his hat and walked toward the door.
“Yes. I understand. Everything. But, Raymond, there are those of us who care for you. We want to be there for you, to help you.”
“No one can help me, Dembe,” he said, before turning back toward his friend. “But, thank you. Thank you for wanting to try.”
With that, Red was gone.
***
Red understood Dom’s wounded animal crawling into the wilderness metaphor. He wanted to hide and die, too – alone in his misery. He did. When all you live for falls away, there is no way forward. It’s not that he hadn’t tried to find one. He had – at Cape May, at Dom’s cabin, through his work with the taskforce. But, now he knew that was no way forward. He couldn’t find it, because it didn’t exist. And, that was a new horror all its own.
So, he rented a car with cash and drove across the country. He had no destination in mind. He just drove until he wanted to stop, which happened to be somewhere in the mountains of Utah. He started hiking the national parks there, because he needed the activity. He stayed in nondescript cabins on the edges of majestic peaks and valleys. He breathed the clean air and walked mile upon mile of trails that wound around beauty so fine he’d have to stop to catch his breath sometimes.
He shed his suits, exchanged his fedora for a baseball cap, bought a sturdy hiking staff and the right boots and blended in with the throng of summer tourists looking for their share in the wonders of the natural world. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, no one knew his name, and he could just be lost. Just him. He was alone with his thoughts, his memories, his anguish. He couldn’t move forward, but he could dwell in the dark recesses of his mind. He could push himself physically every day until he fell into a dreamless sleep each night. It was a purposeful, necessary stagnancy.
He did not drink, he did not smoke, and he did not use any drugs. He wanted none of those things that clouded his mind; he needed clarity; he needed it – for her. He needed to have her at the forefront of his mind at all times, he needed to be clear on what happened to her. To inhibit reality would lead Red to places he could not go – he could never think her to be alive; he could never forget her stillness in the face of his pleading for her to stay, the hard, unforgiving gurney on which she died, her cold hand pressed against his face. Because if he forgot these truths, if he thought even for a moment, while altered by drugs or alcohol, that she lived, and then had to rediscover her death upon his sobriety, he would crumble absolutely. He needed to know she was dead every minute of every day. He needed to remember.
Eventually, he established a permanent residence for himself in Utah, as much for the beauty and vastness of the place as for his lack of motivation to think of somewhere else to go. His existence was singular. But, he kept busy in his way. He grew tan and lean. He chopped wood for the wielding of an axe, hiked for the burning of his thighs, read Russian novels for the exercise of his mind, and repaired musical instruments found at antique shops for the patience and attention to detail it forced upon him. It wasn’t much of an existence, but it was what he could manage. He had no plan, no directed course of action. He was not Raymond Reddington, Concierge of Crime. Not anymore. And never again. And, that truth, unburdened him in ways he never expected. He was just a man now. A man who mourned his great love. A man who had no one to protect. A man who had no one to be better for, to fight for, to be there for. Just me, he thought. It’s just me.
A year into his solitude, he found a peace settle within himself. He had reconciled with the life he’d lived, the choices he’d made for her. He had failed her ultimately, but he had loved her and his every effort was for her happiness and safety. In his heart, the one that belonged only to her, he knew that if Lizzy were before him, she would forgive him. Raymond, I do love … . Despite it all, she’d cared for him. He could finally let himself believe that, and it brought him a measure of comfort. In the measure of a man, it was no small thing to have a good woman’s love. And, she had been a good woman, a good, strong, brave, loving and forgiving woman.
Two years into his new life, with the sun warm upon his shoulders, the sky a bright and perfect blue above, and the gentle breeze billowing his t-shirt just so, he took a deep breath and drew an ax above his head. He brought it down swiftly and at the perfect angle to split the thick log down the middle. He piled the wood on top of the other freshly cut pieces. He lifted a new log for cutting, positioned it just right, and bought the ax above his head again. It was then that he heard something – a human noise, something between a gasp and a yelp, carried along on an echo.
He quickly turned his head toward the sound. He was in front of his barn, nearly 100 yards from his farmhouse. With the sun in his face and his clothes and bed sheets on the clothesline dancing in the wind obstructing his full view of the house, he could only make out movement near it, a shadow, a person walking toward him. He squinted to better see, the ax hanging from his hand, his arm now at his side, but the dark silhouette came in and out of his view with the breeze and white cotton, a mystery. At nearly fifty yards out, he knew it was a woman, her long hair catching in the wind and trailing behind her, a rich brown, and her butter-colored wind-whipped dress pushing close against her trim and gently curved body. She looked so like, so like his … and then his mind went blank.
The woman broke into a run. The ax dropped to the ground. As the yards fell away, and she got closer, he closed his eyes, just for a second, a cleansing blink. He opened them when she was but ten yards away and blue eyes were in sharp reveal, rosy cheeks were in full bloom and pink lips were trembling before him. Before him. The impact of her rocked him. Arms wrapped around him so tightly, so tightly. He felt her sobs, her laughter, her awed words. “Raymond. Raymond. I found you. Oh, thank God, I found you. I have looked for you for so long. For so, so long. Where have you been? I worried something had happened to you. Oh, Raymond, Raymond.”
Her tears wet his t-shirt. Her hands clutched his back through his shirt. Her legs bracketed one of his, gripping it tightly. And, he couldn’t breathe. He. Couldn’t. Breathe. Because what he was experiencing couldn’t be. What he felt surrounding him, what he smelled, the voice he heard couldn’t be. Had he finally, finally succumbed? Had he finally died? What sweet, welcomed mercy.
“Raymond? Red?” She pulled back enough just enough to see his face and pleaded. “Please. Speak to me.”
Her tear-stained face swam before his misty eyes. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
“Red?” Her voice trembled, her eyes wide and desperate. “Please. I’m so sorry. So very sorry for what I’ve put you through. I know. I know. I do. I know what I’ve done to you, and I am so, so sorry. I want you to understand why I did it. Why I had no choice. What I did was to protect Agnes, to protect you. Please understand. I had no choice.”
He swallowed and then he breathed, because now he knew. He knew he wasn’t dead. “There’s always a choice, Elizabeth,” he whispered.