I am truly sorry for the lengthy delay in posting this chapter. Work has been hectic for the past few weeks – and I've had neither the time nor the inspiration to write.
This chapter has been a real struggle – so I can only hope that it is up to standard. It was incredibly difficult, for some reason.
I'll try to be quicker with updates, but I can't make any promises. Work doesn't look like getting any better any time soon...
Thanks for your patience and, especially, for your reviews.
As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one).
Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.
ONLY HUMAN.
Chapter Twenty-One.
Steve shifted uncomfortably in his seat – and he wondered how he was ever supposed to put the hell of the last few days into mere words. And – at that – words that would explain to a stranger everything they had been through: the extreme and intense emotion; the irrationality; the blame and the guilt; the hatred and self-hate; and so, so many recriminations.
He couldn't put it all into words – because no words could ever describe what he'd been through; what they all had been through. They had been running on emotion and adrenalin and instinct. And he simply couldn't break that down into some sort of monologue that might just convince the decidedly unsympathetic Harvey to offer him some privacy.
But he had to try.
He had to try and dissect it all – or else he wouldn't even get the chance to talk to Jesse.
And he was so close...
He paused at that thought – and almost smiled. So close? Jesse was still in South Oregon and he was still in LA. His dad had taken a turn for the worse – and there was no way on this Earth he was going anywhere. Almost a thousand miles of road separated them – so Steve had to find the right words to say to the Sheriff; and then he might at least have the chance to try and bring Jesse home.
Not usually the most eloquent of men, he tried to find the words – all the while knowing that if he thought this was hard, then it paled by comparison of what he needed to say to Jesse.
Mentally disassociating himself from a man he'd never met and was never likely to meet, he shelved his pride and began to talk:
"The storm – the storm that must have hit you yesterday – hit LA two days ago. There was a car accident and my dad was trapped." He tried to keep his tone calm, detached and dispassionate – like when he was giving evidence in a Court of Law.
He could do it. He'd done it a thousand times before – and such distance made it somehow easier. He'd given testimony in the most heinous crimes – including child killers – and his voice had never wavered.
Unseen by anyone, his brow furrowed and he sought the professionalism – or, as had been suggested, the unhealthy disassociation – that had got him through the most trying of cases.
"Jesse was my dad's doctor." He tried to plough on; tried to maintain his detachment, his stoicism. But it was hard. Trying to relive it – in impersonal and distant words – was bordering on impossible. "My dad... His arm..." He swallowed heavily as those memories slammed back into his brain. "His arm... His chest..." he whispered.
How long had it been since Amanda had last spoken to him? How was his dad doing – even as he wasted his breath trying to reason with the Sheriff?
As much as he wanted – needed – to make his peace with Jesse, his dad would always come first.
And he remembered the reason for the urgency of his call:
"Jesse saved my dad's life," he hissed with sudden intensity. "I blamed him for him losing his arm – but he saved his life. Now he's really sick – and you have to let me talk to Jesse!"
Anger had risen easily to the fore – and he didn't even try to rein it in as he yelled down the phone at Sheriff Harvey. Belatedly, he realised this was not the way to elicit co-operation. But it was too late to revert to his original strategy of appealing to the man's compassionate side.
"Lieutenant Sloan!" The Sheriff barked – the anger in his voice proving what he already knew: Harvey didn't take kindly to demands.
And Steve could only sigh and rub tiredly at his eyes. He honestly didn't know how to get through to the man.
But he did know that he had to keep trying.
"Sheriff..." he began – but was interrupted by a murmured: "Hold on."
A pause; then a muted: "Did you say something, son?"
Steve fretted, frustrated. The Sheriff was clearly talking to Jesse – but he had no idea what was being said. He was about to rudely interrupt – and thus earn even less credibility with Sheriff Harvey – when the man's voice sounded loudly back down the receiver:
"I think you might wanna hear this..."
Jesse had long since lost all awareness of his surroundings. He wasn't hearing the Sheriff's voice any more; wasn't aware of the continuing telephone conversation; had almost forgotten that Steve was on the other end of the line.
All that mattered to him was the fact that Mark was still alive.
But, even as he basked in the utter relief and downright elation he felt at the news, he still felt trepidation tickling at the back of his mind; nervousness continuing to squirm in his gut. And he remembered the loneliest of nights – sleepless in an anonymous motel room and unable to find out how his dear friend fared.
He still had no answer to that question; still had found no way to contact the hospital and ask for himself; still hadn't found anyone who might fulfil such a task for him.
Then he heard the Sheriff angrily snap: "Lieutenant Sloan!" – and he started back to awareness. The answer to his burning question was right there in front of him. Or, at least, it lay in the hands of Sheriff Harvey.
"How is he..?" he whispered – selfishly praying that his heroics the night before might still be worth something. He didn't want to use the fact that he'd saved Millie's life to his advantage – but he wasn't below doing so, either. He needed to know.
The terrifying time when he'd believed Mark was dead still stood out starkly in his memory; and he needed to know that there was no danger of the eventuality coming to pass; he needed to know that Mark was on the road to recovery.
Then the Sheriff said: "Did you say something, son?"
Jesse turned hopeful eyes towards him. Now that he'd been cleared of 'murder', there was a modicum of sympathy in the other man's voice.
"Please," he whispered. "I know Mark isn't dead, but..."
He trailed off as the Sheriff murmured something into the phone. A moment later, he pressed a button and put the receiver down – and Jesse was left frustrated almost to the point of tears.
He'd been so close to finding out how Mark fared; but it seemed as though the Sheriff felt he didn't owe him anything, after all.
It felt strangely like betrayal – even though it had come from a man he barely knew.
"I just need to know how he is," he implored; knowing that the Sheriff could still get hold of that information for him: "I need to know that he's getting better."
"That's just the problem, Jess. He isn't getting better."
And Jesse almost fell out of his chair. His heart leapt up into his throat and his chest felt suddenly tight – and he wondered if this was what it was like to have a heart attack.
It had been Steve's voice – coming through the speaker of the telephone – that answered him.
Amanda sat at Mark's bedside, feeling as though she was wrapped in a shroud of complete and utter hopelessness.
Kirk's prognosis hadn't been the most optimistic – it never was when the word 'hope' was involved – and Mark was looking dreadfully ill. The lines on his face seemed deepened and his features were far from relaxed: twisted and almost pain-filled – even though he was unconscious; held in thrall by painkillers and strong antibiotics.
Amanda reached out to stroke his cheek, forcing herself not to flinch when she felt the unnatural warmth to his skin. Maybe it was the fever causing him to look so pained. But maybe it was also bad dreams of the accident; hurtful memories of what he'd been told about Steve and Jesse; or battling with himself as he fought to come to terms with his new disability.
Or maybe it was a combination of all those things.
Whatever it was, Amanda had to find a way to take those lines away; to take his pain away.
It hurt her deeply – a pain so intense it was all she could do to keep from breaking down – but she stifled her sobs and kept her warm hand against Mark's cheek.
She was, she knew, barely holding herself together. But she had to carry on – she simply had to. Steve was trying to reach Jesse; so that left only her.
Thinking about Steve and Jesse, she again wished for the impossible ability to be in more than one place at a time. She was desperate to know whether Steve had got through to Jesse; whether he'd even been able to talk to him.
And she was desperate to know how any ensuing conversation might have gone. Steve was consumed by guilt over what he'd done – and he'd only had the briefest time to get past that guilt, to forgive Jesse and to seek atonement for what he'd done.
Amanda was under no illusions: Steve Sloan was riding a roller-coaster every bit as wild as any of them. If not more so.
She wanted to be there when – if – he talked to Jesse. She wanted to be sure that Steve's explosive temper, especially when it came to his dad, didn't get the better of him.
She needed to know that Steve could find the words to make Jesse come home.
But she couldn't leave Mark. It didn't matter that he was unconscious, or sleeping. It didn't matter how desperately she wanted to know what was happening elsewhere. She couldn't go and find out.
Because she couldn't remove her hand from Mark's fevered face. Unconscious or not, she simply couldn't leave him alone.
So all she was left with was sitting in silence – and her worry.
Jesse stared at the telephone – almost as if he had never seen such a contraption in his life before. His head was spinning, as he tried to make sense of what was happening. A cacophony of confused emotions only made this entire situation almost impossible to comprehend.
In just a few short hours, he'd somehow been led to believe that Mark was dead; that he was responsible and would be held accountable. He'd accepted his fate and made the soul-shattering decision to take his own life. And he still didn't know how to feel just to know that he was capable of taking such a decision.
Then the world had tilted on its axis: Mark was alive. The crippling guilt had been replaced by almost incapacitating relief. Mark was alive – and he thought that nothing else could matter.
That was, until he heard Steve's voice. Steve's voice talking to him with concern and not anger. Steve's voice calling him 'Jess' and not spitting out his surname in anger and disgust.
He didn't – couldn't – understand. Mere minutes ago, he'd fully accepted the blame; the same blame which Steve had thrown at him so contemptuously. But now the blame was gone; there hadn't been even a hint of an accusation in his former best friend's voice.
Instead, there had been... Not quite friendliness; his tone had been too filled with worry. But the hatred was definitely gone and Steve had called him Jess...
He was so consumed by this conflict that he barely heard the words Steve actually said.
Then the voice – disembodied through the telephone, but still enshrouded in fear – came again: "Jesse?"
"St... Steve..." He somehow managed to stammer past the dryness in his throat. "How..?" He squeezed his eyes shut – angry words and hateful accusations couldn't easily be forgotten; and they returned to him with a vengeance. Fear returned – threatening to paralyse him completely: fear at having to relive the worst moment of his life; fear at hearing all of the hatred spewed at him again; And fear at finding out just what had put such obvious terror into the Detective's tone. Scared himself – though he didn't know why – he could only whisper: "Please..."
"Jesse, I really don't have the time for this."
Jesse flinched. Steve was angry again – but, even through the impersonality of a phone line – he knew that the anger wasn't directed at him. It was directed at whatever he'd missed. Whatever had happened since he fled.
"Sorry," he murmured. But he spoke so quietly there was no way his words would carry down the open connection.
Even as he spoke, he lifted his eyes – and they instantly connected with Sheriff Harvey's perplexed gaze. Then the Sheriff smiled, in something akin to sympathy.
"Give him a break, son," he said quietly – clearly mindful of the speakerphone and not wanting to be overheard. "He said his dad's real sick."
In spite of the Sheriff's precautions, Steve obviously overheard him – because the next voice they heard was his: "That's why I don't have much time, Jess. I don't want to leave dad for too long. He's got an infection and it's bad... He's in a bad way."
"No!" Jesse couldn't help his startled exclamation. Surely they'd come too far; gone through too much. Mark couldn't succumb to something as mundane as an infection.
Except Jesse knew that he could. It was a very viable and possible danger. One that he had feared might come to pass on more than one occasion over the past two days. And he could only tremblingly wonder what had caused the infection – and how much culpability he yet had to bear.
TBC