Feedback: Yes! Yes! Yes! Please? ;)
Dark Skies
"How are you doing, Sharon?"
She looked up with a start, then gave him a shaky smile. "Much better, Lieutenant Sloan. Thank you."
"I thought I asked you to call me Steve." He returned his own rather charming smile.
She laughed. "So you did. Steve it is then."
He sat down on the couch beside her, for a moment just admiring the way her green eyes shone when she smiled. Her short brown hair curled around her ears, giving her a mischievous, pixie look. "It's good to hear you laugh."
"Feels good to me, too." She let out a breath. "Ever since you brought me here, I've been telling myself I can relax, that Russell can't find me here. I guess I'm just having a hard time adjusting to police protection."
"I understand. We try to make it as painless as possible, but I guess we're not exactly unobtrusive."
She shook her head. "No, it's not you at all, really. I just-- I would rather be in my own home. There, I could go out to the garden, or do aerobics, or-I don't know. Hell, I even miss going to work at this point!"
Steve offered a sympathetic smile. "Just another week or two and the trial will be over. After you testify, you'll start a whole new life. No more looking over your shoulder."
"And then I leave my friends, my job..." She glanced at him and chuckled ruefully. "I guess it beats being dead."
Steve laughed. He had really grown to like this woman over the last few weeks. She was straightforward and strong, even when she had to be terrified one of her ex-husband's hired guns was going to find her any minute. After only four months of marriage, she had found out her beloved husband, Russell Dane had been laundering money for a South American drug cartel. Apparently without a second thought, she had stolen his computer hard drive and taken it straight to the police. The case had quickly become federal jurisdiction, but protecting the key witness was still up to the local police department. Steve Sloan was the primary officer assigned to her protection, with only a handful of others providing relief and perimeter watches. The number of people who even knew where they were was kept to a minimum, and so far, it seemed to be going smoothly.
"Why don't you try to get some sleep," he suggested gently.
She yawned. "That sounds like a brilliant idea, Lieutenant." She stood and smiled down at him.
"That's why they pay me the big bucks, Ma'am." He returned.
Her smile widened. "All right, you win. I'll remember to call you Steve if you promise to stop calling me Ma'am. It makes me feel old."
"Deal."
She nodded firmly and strode into the bedroom. Steve watched her until she closed the door behind her. "You're a far cry from being old, lady," he muttered.
Easing back on the couch, he was reaching for the TV remote when he heard a muted click. He stood quickly, his gun in his hand before he had even reached his feet. He crept to the front window and peered through the drapes. He let his eyes adjust to the illumination cast by the streetlights, but he could see no movement. Slowly, he opened the front door, and stepped out. Working his way around the side of the safe house, he concentrated on keeping his footsteps quiet and studying each shadow for a shape that didn't belong. Suddenly, one shadow separated from the others and the figure of a man with a silenced gun moved towards a window. Sharon's bedroom window. Steve took careful aim at the center of his target and announced his presence.
"Police Officer! Stop right there!"
The man turned abruptly, obviously caught by surprise. He brought his weapon to bear, but before he could pull the trigger, Steve fired.
***
"Captain, the only way he could have found her is if there's a leak in the department. You have to let me move her to a more secure location."
Captain Newman looked at his detective. "Like where? Your place?"
Steve scowled. "More like someplace where I am the only one who knows where she is. I will take full responsibility for her safety."
"You do that and anything happens to her, it's your career, Lieutenant."
"I'm aware of that, sir. I'm also aware that if we don't do something right now, she's going to end up dead. Along with God knows how many officers." He leaned over the captain's desk, pressing both palms into the surface. "It's the right thing to do, and you know it."
Newman glared at him for a moment, then looked down at his paperwork with a sigh. "Fine. It's your butt, Sloan. Don't get it shot off."
He straightened, nodding. "Thank you, sir."
"Just make sure she's in court on time to testify."
***
"Your dad really did that?" Sharon stared at Steve over her pepperoni pizza. She was laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes.
Steve nodded as he took another bite. "I couldn't believe it. I mean, here is this supposedly rational, sane man, and he goes and does something so incredibly stupid as that." He smiled, with no small amount of pride she saw. "Brave, but stupid."
"Like father, like son." She grinned mischievously.
"Hey, now-" He grinned back at her. "I'm not here alone, am I?"
She laughed again, and set down her pizza. "I guess that settles it then. We're two incredibly brave, stupid people. We should be given medals, and locked up for our own good."
"What you did, it really took guts."
She snorted. "No it didn't. I was scared to death. But I was even more afraid to stay in that house with Dane, wondering if he'd find out I knew. The only thing I could think of was to get the hell out of there." She shook her head. "I really thought we had the perfect marriage. I loved him, he loved me...." She shrugged. "Happily ever after, you know?"
He nodded sympathetically. He knew very well what it was like to love someone you never really knew. Someone who was capable of such things as you never suspected they could do. Silently, he reached across the table and took her hand.
She smiled and squeezed his hand. "Thank you."
"Sharon, I-" He broke off as his cell phone rang. "Sloan." He listened for a few moments, his eyes meeting hers as she gripped his hand a little tighter. "Right now? All right. I'll be there as soon as I can." He broke the connection and looked back at Sharon. "I have to go down to the station." At her worried look, he stood and put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. No one knows where you are, just you and me. Why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll be back before you know it."
***
"Did you get him?"
"Yeah. You were right. Same height, build and hair color. I took his prints like you asked."
"That's it then. Get down there now, his ETA is unknown. Be ready."
"Yes sir."
***
Out of habit, Steve looked around him at the nearly empty garage as he slammed the door to his truck. There was no one in sight. Slipping his keys into his pocket, he strode towards the nearby elevator. As he reached out to press the button, he felt the all too familiar sensation of a pistol muzzle pressed against the back of his neck. Every muscle in his body tensed, his right hand froze even as his left moved across his body for his gun.
"It'll be the last thing you'll ever do," a harsh voice warned.
He stilled his hand. "What do you want?" He felt a tug at his jacket and looked down. A black gloved hand removed his .9mm from its holster. He grimaced slightly as the cold metal pressed harder against his skin. He chanced turning his head just slightly, in an attempt to get a glimpse of his assailant.
Whether he actually saw him or not, he was never quite certain. Because the next thing he knew, he was on his hands and knees, struggling to remain conscious as pain roared through his skull and darkened his vision. Another blow followed, sending him crashing to the concrete and blackness overcame him.
***
"Dr. Mark Sloan to the ER. Dr. Mark Sloan to the ER."
Mark looked up from one of the seemingly endless budget reports that crossed his desk every week as Head of Internal Medicine, and sighed in relief. He immediately felt guilty, that his reprieve should come at someone else's expense, knowing he would only be called to the ER in the most extreme of cases. That was especially true today. Dr. Jesse Travis was on duty, and he was one of the most gifted emergency surgeons Mark had ever seen. Without wasting another moment, he hurried out of his office, and took the elevator down to Community General's Emergency Room.
The doors opened to a much quieter scene than Dr. Sloan had expected. He saw an orderly cleaning Trauma One and a patient on a gurney in Trauma Two. Jesse and several nurses stood over the patient, a male from what he could see of the legs and boots. He hurried in that direction, noting as he got closer that no one was doing much of anything. Nurse Lambert was putting away an IV bag. Susan Hilliard was standing next to Jesse with her arm around him. He felt a weight settle in his chest as he recognized the signs. He was too late. It never did get easier.
"Jesse, I'm sorry. I got here as soon as-" He broke off as he saw the body. It was as gruesome a death as he had ever seen. The man had obviously been killed by a close range shotgun blast to the face. An autopsy would be routine, but hardly necessary in this case, he thought. He put his hand on Jesse's shoulder. "Jess, you alright?"
Jesse looked up at him and Mark was shocked to see his face was wet with tears. Jesse took every patient's death personally, but he had never seen him like this.
"Mark-" His voice broke off and more tears spilled down his cheeks. "We- we found-" Lowering his eyes, he held out a leather wallet.
He took it from him wordlessly. His heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst, but his mind stubbornly refused to make the obvious connection. He held the wallet in his hands, unopened. His eyes strayed to the body lying on the gurney, and on the belt, he saw part of a badge under the brown leather jacket. On the right hip, a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic rested heavily. Unable to stop himself now, he looked back at the mangled face, and saw dark blond hair under the blood and tissue.
The leather of the wallet felt smooth and incredibly warm in his hand. Slowly, he opened it, some small shred of hope still inside him making him pray for the impossible. Tears began to fall and he sobbed uncontrollably as he looked down at his son's face smiling up at him, as he had probably done the day he'd had the identification photo taken.
***
"Where is she?"
He saw the blow coming, but could do nothing to avoid it. The man's fist connected solidly with his cheekbone. His chin dropped to his chest, blood ran down his face and along his jaw. He shook his head slightly, as if to remind himself of his own promise to not give this man what he wanted.
The next blow struck his side, and he felt the already battered ribs crack under the force. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"C'mon, man. It's been four hours. How much longer you wanna do this? No woman is worth your life. Just tell me, and you can go home."
Slowly, he lifted his head, staring up at his tormenter with eyes narrowed in pain and anger. "Go to hell," he muttered through bloodied lips.
The man sighed. "That's the way you want it, huh? Fine. I've got orders to keep this up until you talk, man. I guess we just try something else." He walked to a table and pulled a syringe and an unmarked bottle from a bag.
***
Amanda Bentley stood in the doorway to Mark's office. He sat behind his desk, staring unseeingly out the window. She held a file folder to her chest, uncertain now if she was doing the right thing by bringing it to him. But he looked so lost; she couldn't walk away now. She took the few steps toward him until she was standing right beside him. He didn't even seem to notice her presence.
She put her hand on his shoulder. "Mark?"
He jumped slightly, and looked up at her. He looked as though he had aged ten years since she saw him last. He patted her hand "I'm okay, Amanda."
She raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on the obvious lie. "You should be at home."
He shook his head. "No, I can't go back there." The folder caught his eye. "Is that the report?"
She held it a little closer. "Just a preliminary one. There's nothing new here."
"Did you check the fingerprints?"
Her eyes filled with tears that she quickly tried to blink back. "Yes, Mark."
He nodded. "Steve's." He didn't even look up to see her answering nod. He was staring back out the window again. "I'd like to be alone for a while, if you don't mind."
She felt like her heart was breaking. She had just taken his last bit of hope away from him. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She'd give him a few minutes, but she'd be back. Wordlessly, she left his office, quietly shutting the door behind her.
***
The room was nearly dark. He looked around for anything familiar, but only undefined shadows were visible. He tried to concentrate, but nothing made sense. Where was he? He couldn't remember. He hurt all over. He tried to lift his arm, but his wrists were bound firmly to the arm of a chair. He tugged slightly, and felt something warm start oozing down his palm, dripping from his fingertips. He was bleeding. The smell of the blood was strong.
He shivered slightly, he was so cold. He realized his shirt was gone, and his feet were bare as well. Again, he tried to remember where he was, why he was in so much pain. Was he in Vietnam? He didn't think so, he distinctly remembered coming home. His father had been there at the base, welcoming him with open arms. Not all the guys had been so lucky. With some of them, their family and friends had turned their backs on them, refused to see them home. Others hadn't made it home at all. Too many others. He shivered again. Or was that a dream? Stepping off the plane, brave 21 year old, trying to hide his limp and his tears; seeing his dad waiting there, hugging him and telling him he loved him? Was he still there in that hell? No, he couldn't be. It had never been so cold over there. It was always murderously hot, even in the middle of the night. No, that wasn't right. He had been shot. He was lying on the wet ground, water seeping into his uniform, and he was cold, so cold. His teeth were chattering, and he couldn't stop shaking. But why was he tied in a chair? Had he been taken prisoner?
He moaned slightly as pain coursed through his body. He'd heard the horror stories of the POW camps. If that was where he was, then he knew he'd be much better off dead. He whispered a quiet goodbye to his family and wondered if he'd be seeing his mom again soon...
***
"Mark? I need to see you for a moment." The voice on the phone was tense and insistent.
Mark removed his glasses and ran a hand over his face. He sighed heavily. "What is it, Amanda? This isn't a good time." He wasn't actually busy with anything, but it was still the truth. It wasn't a good time. People kept telling him he should go home, but he couldn't face the beach house. That would mean he had to go downstairs, to see Steve's clothes, his books lying on the table, the videos he had forgotten to return to the store. For the last three nights, he had slept in the doctor's lounge. Home simply wasn't home anymore. And the funeral was only two days away....
"This is important. You really need to come down here." To the morgue. He couldn't. He couldn't go to where his son's body lay.
"Not now, Amanda."
"Mark, please? It's about Steve. I'll explain when you get here." With that, she hung up, giving him no more chance to argue.
He sighed again as the placed the receiver back into the cradle. *It's about Steve.* He stood slowly, his mind moving faster than it had in days. What new information could she have? Could she have found some clue as to the identity of his killer? A spark of interest flared. It was time to stop hiding. The person who murdered his son was still out there. He would find him.
His face grim, he headed for the basement.
***
"Dad?"
Mark smiled gently at his son. "You're going to be alright, Steve. Just relax."
Steve shook his head slightly. His father was there, but he was having difficulty seeing him. Everything was so fuzzy. "Dad, what's going on?"
"You're safe now, Steve. Everything is going to be fine. I'll take care of you, now." He moved closer to him.
Steve tried to reach out his hand, but he couldn't move it. He looked down. His wrist was still bound to the chair; the rope holding it soaked in blood. An IV needle was embedded in the back of his hand. He looked back up at Mark, a pleading look on his face. He spoke again, his voice hoarse and raw. "Dad, untie me..."
He knelt beside him, and looked him in the eye. "Steve, we need to know where Sharon Dane is. She's been alone, and we need to find her."
"She's-" He stopped and stared at his father. He wouldn't be asking questions like this. He'd be checking the IV, trying to help him. It was a trick. He shook his head again and closed his eyes. When he opened them, another man was kneeling there, grinning at him.
The man looked over his shoulder. "The drugs aren't working. Call Rick. He'll get it out of him."
A voice came out of the darkness. "Yeah, if he survives the questions." Harsh laughter followed.
Steve closed his eyes. His father was never there. He was alone.
***
Mark Sloan opened the door to the pathology lab. The sight before him nearly made him turn around and walk back out. He probably would have, had he been able to move. Instead, he stood frozen, staring at the body he had seen in his nightmares for the last three nights, when he had been able to sleep at all. Amanda Bentley stood at the other side of the table.
"Mark, come take a look at this," she said with excitement she usually had when she found the clue that would crack a case they were working on. Only this time it wasn't a case, it was his son. He looked at her with a mixture of anger and shock. Wordlessly, he turned to leave.
"It's not him, Mark."
He turned back, his eyes wide. "What?"
"It's not Steve's body."
He shook his head. "But the fingerprints-"
"I know, and I can't explain that. But I'm telling you, this isn't Steve." She motioned to the left hand. "Take a look."
Slowly, he moved over to the table and closed his eyes briefly before looking. He stared for a moment. "What am I looking at?"
"Do you remember Eddie Gault?"
How could he forget the psychopath who had been stalking his son? He just nodded.
"Well, when Steve found me in that alley where Gault had taken me, Gault attacked him. With a knife."
"And cut Steve on the back of the left hand," Mark breathed. He leaned over to get a closer look at the body on the table.
"It left quite a scar, too." Amanda looked down. "I know, because to me, it was very prominent. I always felt guilty when I saw it, knowing it was there because he was trying to save me."
He looked back up at her. "There's no scar." He moved the sheet back from where it was covering the man's upper leg. "Steve was shot in the leg in Vietnam. There should be a scar here, too." For the first time in three days, he began to smile. "There isn't one."
"I know. Whoever this is, he's not Steve Sloan."
***
The sharp ring of the telephone woke Mark from a fitful sleep. He had returned home in the hope that Steve might come back or try to reach him there, but sleep was no easier even now that he knew his son was alive. Now his nightmares tortured him with images of what could be happening to Steve while he lay safe in his bed. The irrational guilt and feeling of helplessness was nearly overwhelming. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He grabbed for the phone, unable to stop the surge of hope he felt in his chest.
"Hello?"
A pause. He held his breath. "Steve? Is that you?" A woman's voice asked hesitantly.
His shoulders sagged. "No, this is Steve's dad. He's not here."
"I need to talk to Steve... where is he?" She sounded on the verge of tears.
"I wish I knew."
Her voice broke. "Oh, god... I need to talk to him!" She was nearly panicked. "Please..."
"What's the matter? Who is this?" He asked, his voice filled with concern.
"I'm not supposed to be calling anyone... but I didn't know what else to do! Steve hasn't been back in days-"
Mark took a deep breath. "You're the witness he's been protecting." The line was silent for so long, he feared she had hung up on him. "Hello?"
"I'm here." Her voice was very quiet and small. "I don't know what to do..."
"Where are you? I'll come get you."
"No! They might be listening to your phone calls! I'm calling from a cell phone, so they won't be able to trace it to me."
"They who?"
"The men who probably took Steve. They're looking for me."
He gripped the phone tighter. "Do you know where they might have taken him?"
"I-I don't know..."
"Listen to me. I'm going to give you my cell phone number. I want you to think of every place that they might have taken him, and then call me. Will you do that?"
She hesitated. "Yes... yes, I will."
"Good. It's 555-7078"
"Okay." She hung up abruptly.
Mark hung up the phone and sighed. It was the first real clue he'd had in finding his son, and there was nothing he could do but wait.
***
"I've been going through the papers I took from Russell's office. Steve brought me copies when we came here."
Mark sat up straighter and grabbed a pen and notepad, trying to balance his cell phone between his shoulder and ear. "What did you find?"
"He was renting out a house to some people whose names I don't recognize. We had several rental properties together, but he never told me about this one."
He nodded. "What's the address?"
"846 Saranac Street." She hesitated. "It's probably nothing, but it's the only thing I've found so far that would be a possibility."
"Thank you." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Are you all right there by yourself?"
"I think so." She sighed shakily. "I've been jumping at every shadow and I feel like I haven't slept in days." She paused. "I'd better go. I'll call back if I find anything else." The line went dead.
***
The house was dark. Mark crept up upon it, looking over his shoulder repeatedly. He began questioning his decision to come here alone. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Jesse had been in the middle of an emergency surgery, and Amanda had gone out to dinner with Ron and C.J. He had been afraid that if he'd called the police, he'd still be waiting while they got warrants, even if they wouldn't have questioned him for hours about his source. He just wasn't sure Steve had that kind of time.
He peered in the side window. Inside, the living room was completely devoid of people or furniture. If it was being rented, it certainly was a strange way to live. The front door was locked, so he worked his way around the back, checking windows as he went. Steve would have yelled at him for his reckless behavior, but he didn't think about that now.
The back door was unlocked. He opened it slowly, listening for any sounds. Nothing. Carefully, he stole inside, wishing now he had called the police. The stillness of the place was disquieting. He came upon a small kitchen, and found there an assortment of fast food wrappers and soda cans. He was more certain than ever that this was the place. But where was everyone? Had they moved Steve elsewhere? He continued his search, down the hallway, to the bedrooms. The doors were open to two of them, only one was closed. After quick glances inside a bedroom and a bath, he approached the closed door. Holding his breath, he reached for the knob. Slowly, he opened the door a crack, peeking inside.
It was empty but for two sleeping bags spread on the floor. He let the breath out in frustration. He was so certain...
The garage. It was the one place he hadn't yet looked. He hurried back to the kitchen, spurred on by a sense of urgency he couldn't explain. He opened the door just a little at first, then wider when he could see only darkness.
Formless shadows were all he could make out. He reached inside for a light switch, and blinked at the sudden brightness as his eyes adjusted.
The sight before him nearly made his heart stop. A metal chair stood in the middle of the garage, its surface dark with dried blood. He moved closer, and saw bloody ropes hanging from the arms of the chair. He leaned down and picked up a blue cloth from the floor. Tears sprang to his eyes. It was Steve's shirt; torn and bloody, but still recognizable as one he had bought him for Christmas.
A small table stood nearby, several types of scalpels and syringes lying on it. Two small medicine bottles caught his eye and he reached for them. He had just picked them up when he heard a small sound. He jumped and turned around, his eyes scanning the room. He gasped. Steve was there on the cement floor, lying on his side; legs pulled nearly to his chest. There was a smear of blood on the wall above him, as if he had been thrown against it.
Without another thought, he was kneeling at his side, his fingers automatically feeling for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief and a prayer of thanks when he found one, however faint. His eyes scanned him, cataloging his injuries as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called 911.
After giving the address and instructions to send police and paramedics, Mark ignored the operator's instructions to stay on the line. He hung up the phone and reached out again to his son. There was blood everywhere on his face and bare chest, and deep cuts on both wrists. Steve's eyes fluttered open at the touch.
"Dad?" Mark had never heard his son's voice so weak
He blinked back tears. "I'm here, son. You're going to be fine. Just hang in there, okay?"
Steve nodded and his eyes closed. Mark's chest tightened in near panic. "Steve? Steve, can you hear me? You need to stay awake, son." He touched his throat again, feeling for a pulse. He found none.
Fighting his emotions down, and attempting to let his training take over, he rolled Steve onto his back. "Please God, don't take my son..." he prayed as he began CPR.
***
"Ugh. How can you eat that stuff?"
"I love the Jell-O they make here. Now if they'd just let me have some of the meatloaf..."
"Uh-uh. You need to stick with soft foods and that IV for another day or so. Then, it's on to BBQ Bob's!"
Steve grinned. "I tell you Jess, I'm feeling a lot better. You could at least let me go home and sleep in my own bed."
Jesse shook his head. "No way. You're staying here where we can keep an eye on you. We've come too close to loosing you even since your dad brought you in. I'm not putting him through that again." The pained look in his eyes said he wasn't willing to go through that again either.
Steve nodded seriously, the grin fading. "I know, Jess."
Travis brightened. "Hey, but you do have a visitor!"
Before he could ask whom, his friend was already out the door. He sighed and set down his nearly empty bowl. Just the few minutes of sitting up and eating a bowl of Jell-O had exhausted him. It had been over a week since he'd been admitted to the ER, and the recovery was slow.
He didn't even realize he had closed his eyes when he heard a voice whisper, "Is he sleeping?"
He opened his eyes. Sharon grinned down at him. She was dressed in a beautiful yellow print sundress that brightened the whole room.
"Sharon!" He smiled warmly at her.
She reached out and took his hand. "Steve, I'm so glad you're going to be all right. I've been so worried about you, but they wouldn't let me come here."
"I know. The trial's over?"
"Yes. A guilty verdict, and a thirty year sentence." She squeezed his hand. "Thanks to you."
He shook his head. "You were the one who provided the testimony."
"Which I never would have been able to, had you not protected me." Her eyes filled with tears. "I feel terrible about what they did to you..."
"Sharon, don't."
"No, Steve. You nearly died because you were keeping me safe. I understand why you did it, but I'll never feel right about it." She looked away. "I came to thank you... and to say goodbye."
He swallowed hard. He had known this moment would come, but it didn't make it any easier. He had grown to like this woman a great deal in their time together, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had wished things could be different.
"I'll never forget you."
He looked back up at her. She was crying now, from guilt or sorrow, he couldn't tell. He gripped her hand in both of his own. "Sharon... I'll miss you," he said simply.
She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. He returned the kiss, long and sweet. Finally, she broke away. She touched the side of his face, and smiled softly.
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room. He watched her go, unable to speak. He sighed. Alone again, he stared out the window, watching the rain pour from dark skies.
End
Feedback is more than welcome, and responded to quickly at SngngWolf@aol.com