Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to CBS/Viacom and other associated copyright holders. I'm just borrowing them for a little fictional mayhem.
Rating: G - No language, no violence to really speak of, no sex, drugs or rock-n-roll . . . .
Summary: An undercover mission. A missing memory. Can the rest of the gang salvage the situation before it is too late?
Author's Note: This story ran as a part of the Virtual Season 3, and is thus complete. It is not, however, archived at the Virtual Season archive page as of yet. It will post here in four parts. Dedication: For Betty, and special thanks to a special person who helped me out of a jam.
Undercover Memories
Part One: Things Hidden
His first sensation was pain, a low-level ache which echoed from his head and throughout every part of his body. It made it difficult for him to grab hold of a coherent thought. Even the simple act of trying to focus his mind seemed only to make things worse, as if awakening other pain centers along with a dizzying nausea.
Cold followed the pain, uncomfortably settling against exposed skin, adding an additional sting to what felt like a plethora of small cuts and scrapes. And he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was just that it was such a chore.
On top of the aches and other assorted lamentations, there was the added insult of exhaustion weighing upon him. But he couldn't just lie there. Because it was apparent in some small part of his subconscious that the rough gravelly surface beneath him was not a bed; and despite the fact that his head felt like it had grown to the size of a giant bowling ball, the hard surface beneath it was not a pillow.
It was a monumental effort, but he managed to lift his lids. It took several moments for the haze to resolve and for his sluggish synapses to put a name to the sight before him.
He was looking at stars; millions of tiny white dots which simply wouldn't stay still. He blinked slowly, dazedly, and came to the startling realization that he must be looking up at the sky. He wondered vaguely what he might be doing out of doors, lying flat on his back -- on the ground, from the feel of it. But the answer didn't seem nearly as important as getting up and getting inside out of the chilly air, and maybe finding a couple of aspirins while he was at it.
He reached a hand up toward his head and knocked his knuckles painfully against something hard. He ran his hand tentatively over it, discovering the familiar smooth surface of a motorcycle helmet. Had he had an accident? That shocking thought sent a small burst of adrenaline through him and he immediately began to take stock, moving each body part in turn. Legs? Check. Arms? Check. Neck? Check. Now for the big test. Taking a deep breath, he half rolled onto his side, and then upward to a sitting position.
The motion was unappreciated and increased the low-level pain in his head to a pounding concerto inside his skull. The world and all the stars seemed to spin out of alignment for a moment before righting themselves. He tilted forward, and just managed to prevent himself from crashing face down into the short grass and twigs that he had been laying on.
Blowing a careful breath through his lips, he braced both his arms against the ground and slowly, cautiously, managed to make it to his hands and knees. His head hung forward from his neck, only seeming to be made heavier by the helmet as it pounded in time to the rough beating of his heart. Perspiration beaded up on his body and face, feeling prickly against his scalp as well. Expending a bit of energy to remove the helmet was tempting, but the half-formed thought was side tracked by a sound that stood out above the other night noises which surrounded him.
He stilled, trying to get a fix on where it was coming from. Low and droning, it was very familiar. He should know what it was, but then, suddenly, it was too late.
The car's headlights flashed past and the vehicle disappeared into the darkness leaving him once again with only the sounds of nature to keep him company. But at least he had gained the knowledge that he was only a few yards from a road.
He attempted to move to a standing position, but the world again started to spin and he wobbled uncertainly before sinking back to the ground. He rested his heavy head against the dirt until he felt a bit more stable. Then, squinting up at the darkened landscape, he spotted what he thought would be a single tree when his vision cleared. It was near enough to where he figured the road was, and there was what he hoped was a nice long branch that would suit his needs. With dogged determination he set off, moving one hand and one knee at a time until his fingers nudged up against the tree's root stock. The branch was just off to his right.
Using the gradual rise of the roots and the heavy trunk, he managed to work his way into a half-standing, half-leaning position against the rough bark with the branch clasped tightly in his right hand. If he moved carefully, things seemed to remain relatively stable.
Following that logic, he took a careful step away from the tree, using the branch for stability. He remained upright! It was a spot of light in a situation that had been looking very grim. But there was little time to celebrate his success. The sound came again, suddenly audible about the rasp of his labored breathing. He only spared himself a couple of moments to gather his strength before he started making his way toward the road.
As he took one careful step after the other, the car drew ever nearer. He could see the lights now, flashing against the wooded areas as it moved forward. The light of the moon revealed that the road curved farther along; once the car rounded it there would not be much time to get the driver's attention. He had to get closer to the road more quickly.
The light washed up against the nearby trees, cutting a path through the darkness as the vehicle approached the curve. He was so near the road. Just a few more steps and he would be visible. The engine sounds grew louder as he cleared the edge of the trees and saw the black top. One more step and he would be there.
Success! Then suddenly he was going down. He wasn't sure if he'd tripped over the edge of the pavement or if his legs had suddenly decided that they'd had enough. The tar-covered surface rushed up to meet him. The last thing he saw was the impossible brilliance of the approaching headlights. There was a loud, ear-piercing screeching and then all was dark.
~*~
"Come in." Mark called in response to the knock at his office door, not taking his eyes from the evaluation in front of him. Student reviews were hardly his favorite thing to deal with, so when he managed to actually get started doing them, he tried to keep his focus for as long as possible. It made him feel less guilty the next time he started procrastinating in that regard.
"Dr. Sloan?" The voice that he heard gave him immediate pause and he looked up to see Captain Newman standing before him. It was mid-morning, and seemed an odd time for his son's superior officer to be paying him a visit. More worrying was the hesitation that accompanied the other man's usual take-charge demeanor.
"Yes? What is it?" Almost subconsciously he held his breath. Some elemental sixth sense sprang to life, alerting him that this was no ordinary visit. Suddenly his heart seemed to be clamoring at his throat, desperately hoping that the feeling was wrong, but knowing somehow that was all wishful thinking.
Newman opened his mouth but didn't speak immediately, seeming to weigh his words.
"Please," Mark interjected. "Don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what's wrong?" Every second was too long to wait, and yet he was afraid to know the answers to the question. The question that he dare not ask because it was unthinkable.
Newman's expression settled into the professional mask so similar to the one that Mark had seen Steve don during some of the more emotionally trying investigations. He was distancing himself. He knew the kind of news that he was bringing had the potential for devastation. "Have you talked to Steve lately, Dr. Sloan?"
Mark breathed an audible sigh of relief. Those words hadn't been the ones that he had been expecting. And though he was grateful for that, he was also resentful at the way the other man had approached him. He should have known better than that. But as long as Steve's captain was asking questions there was hope.
With some urgency he groped around in his mind for a response. Steve hadn't come home the night before, or the one before that. But that hadn't surprised him. Steve had prepared him for the possible occurrence. "He's been working long hours on a special assignment from what I understand. I would have thought that you were aware of that. I've hardly seen him the past few days. Why do you ask?"
Newman looked uncomfortable. "He missed a check-in. Two of them actually. One late last night, and one this morning."
Mark began to notice the other man's rumpled appearance. The clothing he wore looked as if he might have worn them the previous day as well. His face was lined with exhaustion. Mark began to get the feeling that the man had come to him because he was out of options. The fear began to grow again. "Weren't there other officers on this assignment as well?"
"That's just the thing," Newman continued. "Our back-up man got out, but he's . . . . unable to communicate with us at the moment. We'd infiltrated a robbery/arson ring that we think has been hitting around the city about once a week or so. We're expecting another one in the next twenty four hours, but only Steve can confirm whether or not we got the right guys. And he's the only one who can tell us where and when."
"Is it possible that he got held up somehow?" Mark asked, knowing that he was probably holding on to vague hopes. Newman wouldn't have come unless the situation was urgent. "Surely he'll call you."
"Their jobs were to get the surveillance equipment set up and get out if this was the right group. The equipment was activated briefly, and then it went dead. We lost contact with both Steve and his partner after that. From what we did get, we figured they were up near Wickobee Lake. We sent in a team, and they managed to find Ruhaas, Steve's partner. There is some suggestion that these guys are getting some help from someone within LAPD or the county Sheriff's department, so Steve might not feel safe calling in if he's in a tight spot. If that's the case, he'd possibly contact you."
Mark shook his head, feeling his stomach began to churn as the worry settled in. "He hasn't called me." And he had checked. He always kept his cellular close and charged when Steve was on assignment. Even when the case was made to seem innocuous and almost routine.
"Okay. Well, Officer Ruhaas is in your Intensive Care Unit for the time being. My team happened to pick it up on the scanner when a boy scout troop found him with two bullets in him. He was airlifted here. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know discretely if you hear anything from Steve."
Mark nodded. "I'll let you know. And you'll let me know as well?"
"The very minute," Newman assured him, then without another word he turned and headed out of the door, closing it gently behind him.
Mark sat staring, fear and uncertainty gnawing away at him. His son was missing. He couldn't just sit placidly by and wait for someone to come and tell him one way or the other what had happened. He had worked closely enough with the police department to know that some parents never got those answers. They were left forever perched on the precipice, never having the situation settled in their hearts. Mark couldn't do that. He had to do something. And he knew just the place to start.
~*~
His eyes were easier to open this time, and the room wasn't quite so cold. But when he looked up it was into the face of the most butt-ugly character he'd ever seen. No one could blame him for the way he started with surprise.
"You're not so good to look at yourself." Butt-ugly's mouth moved, emitting a gruff voice that perfectly matched his demeanor. "Welcome back to the land of the living. We really thought that pig had gotten to you. Lucky thing I was out doing recon and found you."
He blinked as Butt-ugly's words seemed to sink in. He supposed the man wasn't the big bad wolf after all. Although, who he was exactly was still quite the mystery. Knocking heads with a pig seemed a likely way for him to end up with the whopper of a headache he was suffering from. His mouth felt dry and bitter, but the nausea that was a hazy memory seemed to be mostly gone. He released a breath at the realization.
Butt-ugly chuckled then turned away. The heavy black handle of a semi-automatic pistol poked out of the back of a pair of grungy jeans. Steve felt a new sensation shoot through his chest, kicking his heart rate back into high gear. The question as to who the man was died on his lips.
"Why don't you get up and grab some chow?" Butt-ugly asked over his shoulder while he fiddled with something in the corner of the old, sparsely decorated room. He then turned back and headed toward the door. "I'll tell Doug you're up." He gestured back toward a sink set into a counter along one wall. "You might want to clean up a bit."
The mention of food roused a surprising physical response. Despite wariness of the guy with the big gun, he found that he was actually hungry. And thirsty. Very thirsty. Other sensations flooded his system as he pushed himself into a sitting position on the cot. More muscles than he'd ever wanted to acknowledge made known their displeasure with each aching motion. He paused at semi-upright, allowing the slight spinning to settle.
Then with a grunt of determination he allowed his feet to settle on the floor. He made it to standing and paused again waiting for the added pounding in his head to become more manageable this time. He contemplated the incongruity of simultaneous hunger and nausea as he moved toward the sink a little more steadily.
The cold water felt good against his face. He took time to thoroughly rinse out his mouth and clean up the dozens of tiny scrapes on his arms. When he finally stood and grabbed a wad of paper towels from the roll that sat on the edge of the counter, he was beginning to feel a little better.
He caught his reflection in the small mirror mounted slightly off center from the sink and was surprised at the pallid face and sunken blue eyes that stared back at him. What the . . . ? His appetite completely deserted him when he realized with sudden shocking clarity that something was very, very wrong. He had absolutely no idea who the man was who was looking back at him.
