Chapter 6

Jesse drove up to Clear Valley the next morning, still trying to make sense of the phone call the night before. He had just gotten into his apartment after a long, grueling shift in the ER, when he had received the call from Mark. At first he hadn't even recognized his friend's voice – never had he heard Mark in such a state of agitation and incoherence. He had listened in alarm and confusion as Mark told him that Steve had been shot and pleaded with him to go to Clear Valley Community Hospital to check on his condition and see that everything was being done. Putting aside, in deference to his friend's obviously overwrought state, the multitude of questions about what had happened, Jesse had assured Mark that he would be there as soon as he could. However, there was one question he had to ask, and it was the response to that which had totally stunned him.

"But, Mark, where are you?" Jesse had asked, bewildered, at a loss to understand what could be preventing him from being at Steve's side himself. There was a brief pause before he heard his friend reply in a voice that held a distinctly discernable note of anguish, "In jail." And before Jesse could recover from that shock enough to question further, Mark had hung up.

Once he had pulled himself together, Jesse had immediately looked up the number for Clear Valley Community Hospital and called to see what he could find out about Steve's condition. All they would tell him over the phone, however, was that his friend was in critical condition. He had then spent the rest of the evening arranging for people to cover his shifts for the next several days and looking up directions to Clear Valley. Recognizing that driving through the night on back roads he didn't know after an exhausting 16-hour shift was more likely to result in him getting lost or in an accident than to get him there quickly, he had reluctantly decided to catch a few hours sleep before heading out. It couldn't be said that he had slept particularly well, but his exhaustion ensured that he did get some rest before throwing a hastily packed suitcase in his car and departing shortly before dawn.

Arriving at the hospital, Jesse went up to the ICU nurse's station. He had taken the precaution of bringing Steve's medical records with him, both to provide the doctors currently treating his friend with his medical history and to establish his own bona fides as Steve's 'regular doctor' – something he knew might be necessary in order to be involved in the medical decisions that were made on his friend's behalf. He was fortunate enough to have arrived while the surgeon who had operated on Steve was still making his rounds, so he had only a short time to wait before meeting him.

Dr. Karl Erickson, to Jesse's relief, proved to be both a competent surgeon and a reasonable man, despite a 'no-nonsense' demeanor. After some initial hesitation due to what Dr. Erickson described as the 'sensitive police side' to the case, the surgeon agreed to allow Jesse to be included in Steve's treatment and decisions. Jesse was dismayed to discover that Steve had been shot once in the abdomen at point-blank range, rupturing his appendix. He had lost a great deal of blood before arriving at the hospital, but the ER doctors had managed to keep him alive long enough to get him into surgery and repair the damage. The bigger problem, however, was that the leakage from the ruptured appendix had resulted in a severe case of peritonitis, and Steve was currently in critical condition, with the doctors feeling distinctly pessimistic about his chances for survival. Jesse reviewed Steve's chart and treatment with Dr. Erickson, and was relieved to find that the local doctor was willing to consider alternative possibilities for treatment. What Jesse really wished, however, was that Mark was here to discuss the case with him. Setting aside the fact that the patient in question was Mark's son, this was just the sort of medical problem with which he most appreciated the older doctor's experience and medical acumen. Unthinkingly, he expressed this sentiment aloud, and was taken aback by the response he got.

"I hardly think he'd be allowed to have a hand in the treatment," Erickson said dryly.

"Well, I know a doctor doesn't usually treat his own family," Jesse replied, "but he's one of the best…" He was interrupted by the other surgeon.

"That's not what I meant. Considering he's the person who shot your friend in the first place, I doubt that he'd …"

"What??!" Jesse interrupted him incredulously. "What are you talking about? Mark didn't shoot Steve!"

Dr. Erickson raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought you knew," he said. "According to Sheriff Consten, Detective Sloan was shot by his father."

"That's impossible," Jesse declared flatly. "There's no way Mark would ever hurt Steve."

"The sheriff sounded very sure about it," Erickson replied.

"Well the sheriff is very wrong," Jesse retorted. "I've known Mark and Steve for years – they have the closest father/son relationship I've ever seen. I don't know what kind of crazy idea your sheriff thinks he's got, but you can take it from me that Mark isn't responsible for this. Mark's one of the kindest, most compassionate people on earth – he'd never hurt anyone, least of all Steve!"

The surgeon refrained from arguing the point, merely bringing Jesse to Steve's room and leaving him there to check on his friend. He stood beside Steve's bed, staring down at his unconscious form, automatically checking the drips and monitors attached to him, assessing their information, trying to pull himself together enough to rationally consider the best course of action. The rapid accumulation of shocks and disasters in the past 12 or so hours was leaving him feeling off-balance and overwhelmed. Mark's sketchy information about Steve being shot and himself imprisoned had been bad enough. Now Jesse was realizing that the situation was even worse than he had thought. Not only was Steve's condition extremely precarious, but Mark was apparently under arrest as the suspected shooter. No wonder he had sounded so distraught when he called; Jesse didn't even want to imagine what this must be doing to his friend and mentor.

Drawing upon the reserves of professionalism and detachment that he had used in the past when Steve had been brought in to the hospital in critical condition, Jesse focussed on making sure he had a complete picture of Steve's condition. He perused the chart hanging on the bed, combining its more recent data with the information he had gained from reviewing the complete file with Dr. Erickson. Obviously, the current treatment was inadequate to combat the infection that was raging through Steve's system. Jesse had seen enough cases of peritonitis in Community General to know that the infection was usually fatal if not controlled very quickly. He decided that his best bet was to check with the Infectious Disease specialist at CG to see what treatments they had found most efficacious. He remained at Steve's side for a few moments longer, hating to leave him alone, knowing that he had promised Mark that he would stay with him if he could. But he had also promised to see that Steve got the best possible care, as well as to inform Mark of his status. He stared down at the motionless man in the bed, still trying to grapple with all this. God, Steve, what the hell happened? he wondered silently. Aloud, he spoke to his friend, telling him that he was here, that he'd be back; urging him to hang on. Then, drawing a deep breath, he left to start fulfilling those last two parts of his promise.