Chapter 3
The cavernous ballroom echoed emptily in the absence of the crowd -- Dr. Ganesh, the surgical doctor, was the only other uninjured person who stayed. The sense of desolation only increased when the destruction was illuminated, so Mark kept his flashlight trained low. It was oppressively hot, but he told himself that it was due to the lack of air conditioning, which had apparently failed at the same time as the sprinkler system, not to any approaching fires. However, it was harder to deny the fact that the air, already laden with dust, now seemed thicker with the acrid tang of smoke. Not the best ambiance for injured men and women, yet attempting to lug their damaged bodies down ten flights of stairs would almost certainly be worse. It had been a judgment fraught with uncertainty, a precarious weighing of choices all almost equally unsatisfactory.
Mark was used to making such critical decisions but now, feeling Jesse's cold, clammy skin and weak, rapid pulse, he couldn't help but second-guess his actions. He'd never forgive himself if Jesse died in this bleak room under his care.
How's he doing? Amanda's soft voice echoed his own concerns.
Jesse hadn't fully regained consciousness, but stirred restlessly, his breath shallow and harsh. He settled at Mark's touch, but there was no reassurance to be found in that stillness.
He needs to be in a hospital. Mark swallowed painfully. Maybe I should have...Don't, Mark. It was the right decision. Trying to transport him without a gurney would have exacerbated his injuries terribly. You've given him a better chance at survival. Steve will be back soon.
As if to illustrate the contrary side of the argument, there was a now-familiar rumble, and the shudder that rippled through Amanda was mirrored by the movement of the building.
What on earth in going on? Anger and fear were mixed in turbulent proportions in her voice. I'm sure a few well-placed charges would have brought down the whole building; why are they messing around with so many little explosions?It seems to be standard procedure for terrorists now to set subsequent bombs to catch rescue workers who respond to the first explosion. Mark was only too aware of this development and its consequences for the brave men, like his son, on the first response teams. Yet even as he spoke, his intuition told him there was more involved in this situation. He didn't waste time trying to track down the source of this feeling. He knew from experience that his subconscious would mull over the puzzle, mashing it into its constituent parts and gnawing on them until the solution could be spat back out.
For now, his main concern was whether Steve had been in the vicinity of the latest blast, the chances impossible to calculate since he didn't know what path his son had been forced to take to evacuate the building.
If that's the case, do you think they'll let Steve back in the building? Amanda asked anxiously.
Mark's laugh was genuine. Do you really think anyone or anything could stop him? With the three of us up here there's no power of persuasion or coercion on earth that would prevent him coming back for us.
His confidence was more than justified by experience as Amanda could well remember. Steve had fought his way through storms, wildfires and even the LAPD to reach his father when Mark was in danger. Suddenly, the ten floors to the ground didn't seem so far, and the thought imbued her with new courage. She returned his smile. Then he'll be back soon. I'll stay with Jesse if you could check on Mr. Martin.
Despite the optimism of his words, Mark thought there was a good chance his son's return would be delayed, perhaps considerably, both by bomb damage and by the injuries in the large party he was escorting, so he was pleasantly surprised when, only a few minutes later, the pounding of multiple footsteps on the stairs announced Steve's arrival just before the emergency door burst open.
Dad, are you all okay? How's Jesse? Mark caught sight of his son's silhouette just before he was blinded by a bright light shone unerringly straight into his eyes.
Oops, sorry, Steve continued, as his father ducked away, raising his arm to block the offending glare.
Mark attempted to blink away the huge coronal starburst that remained in his vision. Jesse's holding on, but I am so glad to see you. You made great time. Any problems?None to speak of, Steve reassured him in too airy a tone to be totally convincing. However, things are fairly... there was a pause as he searched for an appropriate word, ...crazy outside, so there was a dearth of volunteers for this job. We're going to have to do this in shifts. We can only take four this time.
Considering they were being asked to enter a burning building where bombs were exploding at unpredictable intervals, Mark felt it was more surprising Steve had found as many volunteers as he had, and he was grateful for their courageous altruism.
Mark's eyes watered again as two emergency lights were switched on, their illumination scattered hazily by the plethora of particles in the air. They also offered him, for the first time since the explosion, an opportunity for a close scrutiny of his son. There was pain and fatigue etched into his grim expression and, beneath the grime of sweat-encrusted smoke, a bruise was starting to darken along his right jaw and cheekbone.
His previously pristine tuxedo was torn and soiled past redemption, although Mark imagined his own would scarcely past muster at a high-society party, but more worrying was the conspicuously lateritious colour of the piece of cloth tied around his upper leg. He was determined not to let Steve out of his sight this time before checking out his injury, but, for now, his first priority had to be the administration of the rescue effort.
Take Jesse, he instructed, making a quick decision, and that lady there and those two.
Despite his turn-around speed, Steve had evidently taken the time to plunder more than one ambulance, and his spoils included everything from saline bottles and IV lines, to bandages and even an external defibrillator. The volunteers were clearly experienced, and the four injured patients were being efficiently stabilised and loaded on the emergency stretchers.
This enabled Mark to maneuver his son to one side. Let me have a look at your leg.It'll keep, Dad. We don't have time for this.Then don't waste time arguing, Mark returned amiably. If you lose much more blood, you'll be more of a liability than a help in transporting these people.
Yielding to practicality, Steve nodded acquiescence. Just make it quick.Oh, I got an A' in the expeditious bandaging class at medical school. Mark flourished a pair of scissors from the first-aid kit and cut through the blood-soaked material. He couldn't hide a wince as a four-inch gaping laceration was exposed. Damn it, Steve. This needs stitches and soon.
He didn't have the equipment or time to properly clean and debride the wound, necessary preliminaries to sutures, so, as a temporary measure, he slapped on a pressure bandage and tied it up as tightly as he dared to stem the blood flow that still oozed sluggishly. Task completed, he sat back on his heels, rooting around in a mind devoid of inspiration for an argument, or simple words, that would convince, cajole or even guilt his son into staying outside when he next reached safety.
Thanks, Dad. Steve flexed his leg experimentally, the brief respite from exertion more than welcome as every heartbeat pulsed a sharp stab of pain through his thigh. He watched anxiously as Jesse was transferred with the utmost gentleness to a stretcher, but also kept a peripheral eye on his father, turning back to him expectantly as Mark cleared his throat. The older man's eyes were shadowed, tension radiating off him, and Steve could hazard a likely guess as to the direction of his concerns.
Steve, when you get to the ground, why don't you accompany Jesse to the hospital. One of us needs to be with him. Mark kept his voice casual as if it were an inconsequential request.
However, the blue eyes that met his were warm with amusement and understanding. That's a good idea, Dad. However, if you don't come with me to remind me, I'll probably forget.
Mark abandoned the subtle approach. He reached out and wrapped a hand around Steve's wrist in an effort to convey his urgency. Your leg needs medical attention and soon. It's not going to help anyone if we have to carry you down too.You won't have to. It was said with certainty and carried conviction. Mark was familiar with his son's seemingly inexhaustible stamina in a crisis, but he also knew the damage that could be inflicted by that refusal to accept his limits.
As the irresistible force glared at the immovable object, the father recognised the kindred trait of stubbornness in his son with a sigh of acknowledgment.
We're all set to go, Doc. For a moment they had been an island, separated from all the activity, but another voice cut through the stalemate.
Trying to convince his son had been an exercise in futility, but Mark hoped that Amanda would be more amenable to reason. Like Steve, she seemed to anticipate his request.
I don't want to leave you alone, Mark.I'm staying. He won't be alone. Dr. Ganesh put it stoutly.
One of us has to go with Jesse. Please, honey.
His relief at her reluctant acquiescence was boundless for all of thirty seconds as the injured were lifted up, but as the group moved towards the emergency exit, that comfort was sucked away in a whirlpool of eddying dread as he realised that, before they could reach safety, the three people who meant the most to him in the world would have to traverse the gauntlet of ten floors of potential death.
At least part of that trepidation must have been evident in his expression since, as Steve glanced back at him in concerned farewell, he came to an abrupt halt, forcing the man at the front of the stretcher to stop as well. Mark dredged up a reassuring smile and waved him off before his son could replace the patient on the ground and return.
Steve wavered uncertainly, clearly not convinced that he should leave. Across the smoky gap, he probed the dark blue gaze that met his, conveying without words a complicated algorithm of trust, love and an unwavering promise.
Go...Just, be careful. The words barely made it out of a throat so tight that Mark honestly thought he'd choke if he tried to say more, but his son's eyes steadied him, offering him the strength he needed to turn away back to his patients, allowing Steve to leave.
Even after the sound of footsteps had died away, the vision of his son in the doorway remained burned onto his retina as fresh as if he were still standing there. Mark set little stock in precognition, open-minded enough not to totally discount the paranormal, but preferring to trust the observable, so he told himself that it was fear, not a premonition, that insisted that it was the last time he would see his son. Yet the cold fingers of foreboding scratched incessantly in his guts creating a hard, aching knot of pain in his stomach.
As he attached an IV line to one of the remaining patients, he found himself straining to hear any signs of his son's progress, but also bracing himself for the next explosion. It was now oppressively hot, but the presence of light helped to relieve the former closeness of claustrophobia. Sweat trickled acidly into cuts and abrasions he didn't know he had, stress and exhaustion on top of the bump he'd received earlier were causing his head to pound unmercifully, and every muscle in his body seemed to be aching wearily.
His gaze was drawn to the other doctor nearby who was working on one of the remaining patients.
How's Mr. Mahoney doing? He kept his voice low, the echoing emptiness of the room forbidding a louder utterance.
Dr. Ganesh wiped his face with his sleeve, looking as tired as Mark himself felt. His blood pressure is falling. We need to get him to a hospital soon.Steve will be back in a few minutes. It was more of a mantra than a simple statement, an incantation to ward off the presentiment of doom that plagued him.
There was silence for a moment as each man contemplated the optimism inherent in the words, then the young Indian gave Mark a rueful smile. You know, I had expected an evening of extreme boredom, not...this. His gesture encompassed the devastation surrounding them.
You mean not intense terror, punctuated with life-and-death decisions? Mark asked dryly.
A tentative smile acknowledged the truth of the comment. I didn't even want to come. My dad persuaded me that it was a great honour to be invited and that I shouldn't refuse.
A sliver of guilt stabbed Mark. I said more or less the same thing to my son, he confessed. For a moment he imagined Steve safe at home, having successfully procrastinated enough to miss the dinner. However, the fantasy quickly collapsed under the weight of its own fallacy. The irony is that he'd probably have ended up here anyway, doing exactly what he's doing now. He's a cop and a volunteer firefighter.So, just another day at the office for him, huh? Ganesh quipped nervously. Watching the older man's reaction, he continued softly, But you're still real worried about him.
Mark looked up in surprise; he'd thought he was keeping a better guard on his expression, yet he couldn't deny the accuracy of the observation. Worrying was an inescapable part of parenting, but he often felt he'd cornered the market on that activity. He'd long since accepted that his son's innate sense of justice, integrity and protectiveness made the job of a policeman a perfect one for him, so he kept his reservations to himself. But at times like this, when Steve was actively in the line of fire, his attempts at equanimity tumbled down inside him like a flimsy house of cards, leaving only the fear that lodged in his chest, waxing and waning but invariably present.
It comes with the territory. The words came out as controlled as he could make them, uncomfortable as he was exposing his innermost nightmares to a virtual stranger.
It shouldn't take them long...
Both doctors started and ducked involuntarily as a heavy, deep roar overhead like a crack of thunder signaled another bomb going off on the floor above them. The dull, rumbling reverberated through the walls and shook the ground beneath them. One of the emergency lights tipped off a chair, its illumination extinguished in shattering glass, and an ominous cracking in the ceiling alerted them to a new danger.
Move the tables, now! Mark's first thought was for his patients lying helplessly on the floor. That flimsy shelter wouldn't help if the building collapsed around them, but he was incapable of standing by passively, waiting for the end. Coughing as the exertion pulled dust into his throat, he dragged one of the dining tables over two of the injured, peripherally aware of Ganesh mirroring his actions nearby, shielding the third man.
Harsh grating pierced Mark's eardrums, a sound that held a quality of sinister finality that turned his blood to ice; then, with a tremendous crash, the ceiling caved in on other side of the ballroom and a burst of hot air swept through the space like a miniature tornado. He shut his eyes against the terrifying onslaught, his heart pitching over in his chest as he waited breathlessly for the remaining part of the eleventh floor to cascade catastrophically down and bury them.
Mentally, he transmitted an apology to his son. Their final wordless communication had contained an implicit promise on both their parts to survive, to make it through this ordeal. He knew that if he died, Steve would never forgive himself for leaving his father, and the bitterness of that regret ate corrosively at his gut.
The frequency of alarming creaks diminished, but any relief he might have experienced over the relative stability of the ceiling overhead was eradicated by the muffled roar of the fire above them and the thickening of the smoke. The flames through the hole caused the shadows to shift and flicker frantically and it was clear that they had scant minutes before the blaze spread to their level where it would rip through the room, fueled by the neatly-carved wooden panels that adorned the walls.
We've got to get out of here; get them into the stairwell, Mark yelled, the volume of his shout competing with the incessant din of the conflagration.
He peered around in the gloom for a possible method of conveyance, hoping for a table top or something equivalent that would minimise the damage caused by transportation.
Chairs or tablecloths? Ganesh was obviously following his line of thought and offered the two choices, both unpalatable.
Another split-second decision. We'll move Mr...Dr. Sloan!
Mark spun around, the sight of brawny rescuers filing through the door a balm to his tired eyes. We don't have much time. Get them on the stretchers quickly, he ordered with terse urgency.
Experienced enough to assess the situation without delay, the firemen wasted no time on questions, but sprang to complete the task as expeditiously as possible. There were six of them in all, two for each patient, but someone was conspicuous by his absence.
Where's Steve? Mark tried to keep his voice casual but, since he could think of no innocuous reason for his son to have failed to arrived, it was impossible to stop the fear that spread like a toxin through his body.
Nothing would have kept Steve out of the building while his father was still inside so either his injuries were worse than they had at first appeared or some other catastrophe had occurred en route. The firemen were too intent on the process of evacuation to respond to his question, so he knelt beside the man who'd first entered the room, tugging him round insistently.
Please! My son, is he all right?
What he could see of the man's face behind the mask looked oddly yellow in the strange light and also momentarily annoyed by the aggressive interruption. However, Mark's palpable apprehension quickly softened his indignation. He's fine, Doc. Some kid was stuck in an elevator down below and he went to help. Mark responded weakly, relief robbing him of his customary eloquence.
Another portion of the ceiling gave way with a splintering crash, dumping burning debris on their level.
Time's up, guys, let's move it, bellowed the leader.
Mark cast a final glance around the room, relieved beyond measure to be leaving its confines. But, with the advent of hope and the proximity of safety came a corresponding fear that it would be snatched away by the vagaries of fate.
The air in the stairway was clearer than that in the ballroom, but it was still smoky and difficult to navigate, although glow strips on the stairs and handrails helped considerably. Mark's eyes were watering, and an incautious breath caused the onset of a paroxysm of coughing. He grabbed the railings as he stumbled, his knees weak with strain and lack of oxygen.
Dr. Sloan, are you okay? The fireman couldn't spare a hand from the stretcher he was hauling, but he paused in concern.
Mark managed a tentative nod, striving to find the air to force out a question. I'm fine, but I was wondering. What if Steve effects his rescue and decides to come up here looking for us? His hoarse voice was barely intelligible, but the younger man understood.
Then he'd bump into us. There's only one route he can take, so we'd definitely meet him. Don't worry about him, Doc.
Mark nodded, not attempting to articulate his relief, but saving his breath for the struggle onward. He was glad that their exit took them downward because he doubted that he could have forced his leaden limbs up against gravity.
They caught up with the other rescue workers and Dr. Ganesh on the fourth floor, and the fire fighter took a moment to explain. We can't continue down this stairwell any further. An explosion earlier filled it with debris. We have to cross over to another set of stairs here. Luckily, the water suppression system is still functioning at this level.
The sprinklers may have been working, but the lights were not. As they plunged into the turgid darkness, lit only by narrow beams from the rescue workers' helmets, Mark's already deep appreciation for his son's courage surged even higher. Not only had Steve forged the original route through the doomed building, but he had also voluntarily reentered not once, but twice.
The hallway seemed like an endless tunnel, damp, black, forsaken by all except their group, but harbouring obscure menace. At first, his eyes searched for some indication of a bomb and his ears strained for the telltale ticking of a timing device, but his body simply couldn't maintain the level of energy it was pouring into adrenaline and cut it off, leaving him feeling lethargic. Oxygen deprivation drove out fear, leaving only the instinctive drive to move forward.
He scarcely realised when the corridor gave way to more stairs. Awareness only started to dawn when comparatively cool and fresh air filled his lungs and gloom was supplanted by a blinding brightness. For a moment, he wondered if enough time had elapsed for it to be daytime, but he quickly recognised the harsh glare of artificial light. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders and an oxygen mask fixed around his mouth, and he was led unresisting to a triage area.
He answered the questions perfunctorily and submitted to a quick examination, but all the time his eyes searched around hopefully for the unmistakable figure of his son.
The scene was oddly familiar and yet starkly alien. The flashing lights from the full spectrum of emergency vehicles dominated the setting, austere and ominous, casting the livid colours of chaos onto the faces of the onlookers. He was acquainted with the uncomprehending shock illuminated there having seen it far too often in his career. Although the injured had been transported to the hospital, most of the guests had nowhere to go, their vehicles inaccessible, and were sitting in groups of huddled misery, too stunned to comprehend the good fortune of their escape.
The police maintained a cordon and restrained curious bystanders and ghoulish reporters at a respectful distance. EMTs ministered to those hurt, and firemen, clearly visible in their yellow uniforms and helmets, attempted to retard the flames that leapt from the higher floors. Yet, in that seething mass of humanity, Mark was unable to spy his peripatetic offspring and renewed unease crawled through his veins, chilling and noxious, a parasite that infested every cell, draining hope faster with every passing second.
With a surge of adrenaline-fueled determination, Mark forced himself to his feet, assuring the medics that he was fully recovered from the smoke inhalation, and since they'd discovered no injuries save a lump on his head and some bruises, they allowed him to leave with the admonition to arrange a follow-up examination with his doctor.
While sitting still, his muscles had stiffened up, and he limped slightly as he hurried over to a group of people whose damp appearance suggested an encounter with the sprinkler system. Someone had to know where Steve was, and if he had to question every single person present, he would find that information.
Have you seen my son, Steve? He's about six foot two, with light brown hair and blue eyes. The words should have become rote after the fourth or fifth time of asking, but repetition only imbued them with greater urgency as Mark's anxiety increased.
He was the man who led the guests off the tenth floor. Many people remembered Steve's leadership with deep gratitude and expressed their thanks and admiration, but no one knew his current whereabouts and each negative scattered fire and ice through his gut. He didn't have to wait for the shake of the head but could anticipate its arrival as the expression on each face slid from distracted helpfulness, through uncertainty, to an embarrassed pity.
Finally, it was a fireman who pointed out the family whose little girl had been stuck in the elevator. They were sitting slightly apart from the other guests, protectively huddled around the seven-year-old child. The tracks of tears were discernible on her face as she nestled against her mother, but she looked peaceful, the trauma already dissipated. Her parents watched his approach incuriously, numb with their own relief, and he envied them that tranquility.
He squatted down in front of them, his anxiety obscuring the pain of that maneuver, and summoned up a smile that felt so brittle it would shatter if he tried to maintain it for more that a few seconds.
I'm sorry to bother you, he began carefully. My name is Mark Sloan and I believe that my son, Steve, helped to get your daughter out of the elevator earlier.
The man's face lit up. Of course, he cried out enthusiastically, holding out his hand to pump Mark's. I can see the family resemblance. I can't tell you how grateful I am to your son. He was amazing, just so competent. I'm William, by the way. This is my wife, Amanda, and my daughter, Ann.
He babbled on, charged with the kinetic power of adrenaline released, while Mark waited with barely concealed impatience for him to take a breath, then jumped smoothly into the breach. I'm so glad that Ann is doing well, but I hope you can help me now. No one seems to have seen Steve since he brought you out of the building. Do you have any idea where he went?
William's mouth remained hanging open for a split second, then closed with a snap as he looked over to his wife for help, but her expression was as blank as his own. I'm so sorry. We were so wrapped up with Ann, that we didn't... I didn't, well, pay any attention...I'm sorry.He was hurt. Amanda suddenly chimed in, blushing slightly as Mark stared at her intently. I mean, he was bleeding... she waved a hand vaguely in illustration, ... and he was obviously exhausted. Her cheeks turned an even deeper red and it was evident, at least to Mark, that his son had made quite an impression on her. I think he might have gone to the paramedics, she finished hopefully.
Mark seriously doubted her conclusions but it was worth trying, so he thanked the family politely, sensing their anxious eyes on him as he moved away. He was oblivious to the voluminous purple blur zeroing in on his position until a shrill cry alerted him to the incoming dynamo. Dr. Sloan! Oh, thank goodness!
He almost recoiled from the bizarre sight confronting him. Mrs. Belmont, I'm so glad to see that you're not hurt.
Her mighty bosom heaved under the constraint of strong emotion which, considering her evening dress had taken on slightly transparent properties when damp, made for awe-inspiring viewing, and her normally immaculate hair swung bedraggled around her face, yet the force of her personality remained undimmed.
I was so worried when I heard you were still in the building. You were so brave to stay. I have to admit, I've never been so relieved to get out of anywhere, but now I just want to get home to Trixie. Do you have any idea when we can leave?
Mark had tuned out her chatter, still visually scanning the area for Steve, but he dragged his focus back as he realised she had asked a question. I'm sorry, my dear. I'm rather distracted. I can't find my son, Steve. I don't suppose you've seen him recently?
If he'd been watching, he'd have seen her face turn from dawning comprehension to dismay. Her hand darted out to catch his arm. The words came out breathlessly. I'm so sorry. I saw him being taken away in an ambulance. She now had Mark's complete and unswerving attention.
Mrs. Belmont met his gaze anxiously. He seemed to be unconscious as they carried him into the vehicle.
It made perfect sense in explaining Steve's absence. Mark knew that his son would have come back for him if humanly possible, but Steve's injuries had obviously been worse than he'd originally thought. Relief at finally narrowing down his son's whereabouts and a contradictory renewed concern for his well-being fought for supremacy.
Thank you. Mark took the time to express his sincere gratitude, although every fibre of his being strained to leave, to follow this fragile lead to his son. I'll call you later.
As he strode towards the EMTs, his eyes searched for any familiar face. He knew most of those who worked with Community General, and there was a good chance he'd find someone willing to help him.
He greeted the first man he recognised. Mike, how're you doing?Hey, Doc. The large medic looked up from the leg of the patient he was bandaging and took in Mark's appearance with one raised eyebrow. You were in the hotel, Doc? You hurt?I've already been checked out, I'm fine. But it seems that my son, Steve, was taken to a hospital.Can't help you there. We've been taking them to Community General and Mercy and the worse of the burn vics to County.I really need a ride to Community General. My son drove us here and, even if I had keys, I have no idea where he parked.No problem, Doc. You look like another check over wouldn't go amiss. Hop in the back and when I've finished up here, we'll take you both over.
To Mark's surprise, he dozed off on the drive, a testament to his level of exhaustion, since the squat vehicle did not offer a smooth journey. It was only a short nap, but remarkably refreshing and probably helped contribute to the feeling of optimism Mark felt as he passed through the emergency doors to be cocooned within the familiar walls of Community General.
He deflected the copious concerned inquiries with a smile, responding with his own anxious questions, but no one was able to provide the information he needed.
He found Amanda in the nearest Doctor's lounge. She'd found the time to change her clothes, but exhaustion and worry wilted her usual jaunty posture and carved lines into her beautiful face. However, on seeing him, the furrows of anxiety erased themselves in beatific relief.
Mark, thank God! She crossed the room quickly and enclosed him in a heartfelt hug which he returned warmly, patting her comfortingly on the back when she seemed disinclined to release him.
Finally, she stepped back, still gripping his arms and shaking him slightly in mollified irritation. Don't ever do that again. I've been out of my mind with worry, not knowing if you'd made it out.
She swiped at her eyes as Mark guided her to sit beside him on the sofa. How's Jesse? was his first question, but Amanda shrugged with frustration.
He's in surgery, but I haven't heard anything since he went in.
Mark nodded, disappointed but unsurprised. he grasped her hands as they lay clenched together in her lap. Have you seen Steve?What? No! She looked at him in alarm, reading the gravity of the inquiry in his expression. He was with you. What happened?I don't know, but I heard he was taken by ambulance to one of the hospitals, I don't know which. I don't even know his condition. The fear that he'd been successfully suppressing suddenly surged up, coursing violently through him like water through a blowhole.
I have to find him. He jerked to his feet, the uncertainty driving him back into action.
Mark, wait. You can't wander round the hospital like that.
He had to concede the point as he glanced down at his bloodstained, torn, smoke-soiled shirt.
Go and clean yourself up and change your clothes, Amanda encouraged. I'll start making some phone calls and meet you at the front desk in half an hour.Give me ten minutes, Mark reluctantly compromised.
The shower would probably have felt luxurious if he'd been able to appreciate it, but his mind was wholly occupied with fears for his son as he worked through possible scenarios that could have led to an unconscious Steve being rushed to the hospital.
Restored, at least externally, to normal, Mark strode mechanically through the corridors, his footsteps speeding up as he neared his rendezvous with Amanda, hoping that she would be the bearer of good news. However, as soon as he turned the corner and saw her, it was clear from her expression that she had nothing auspicious to share.
He listened to her end of the uninformative telephone conversation before she replaced the receiver after a final thank you'. Her eyes met his, puzzled and dark with burgeoning agitation.
I can't find him. He's not here and he's not at Mercy.He was unconscious...maybe they just haven't identified him. Mark grasped for straws as the numbness of panic tingled in his extremities.
Amanda shook her head. There are no John Does that fit his description. She decided not to mention the fact that at least the morgue hadn't seen him either, since she didn't want to introduce that concept into the discussion. I'll try County. He has to be there.
Mark withdrew to the window trying to isolate the loose pinball of thought that was ricocheting around his brain and sparking blinking lights of panic as it passed. He was missing something -- a fragment of conversation, an expression, a piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.
In a split second of awareness so intense he could feel his clothes dragging at him, the dust motes buffeting the air around him, a trigger tripped, a tumbler rolled and pain swept through him, like a gale-force wind, knocking down things he'd thought were rock solid.
Then his knees buckled and he gripped the wall to prevent himself from sliding to the ground, as his heart pounded painfully in his chest and his breath came in shaky, uneven gasps, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Amanda was suddenly by his side supporting him, her concern vibrating through her fingertips. What is it? What's wrong?
Mark struggled to find the words to explain his insight, each one acid in his throat as it emerged incoherently. It wasn't him. She didn't know and she thought it was Jesse. Oh my God, Amanda, I left him there; he's still in the building!
