Chapter 9
Steve seemed closer to consciousness in the morning, even emerging once to mutter "Dad?" weakly before subsiding back to unresponsiveness; and Jesse was convinced that full awareness was only a matter of time. He really wanted to be present when Steve woke up, fearing he would be disoriented and confused, and not wanting a stranger to answer questions he might have about his father. However, of even more urgency in his mind was the need to reassure Mark of Steve's certain recovery. He knew that that news was of paramount importance to Mark's very survival. He decided that if he left quickly, it was possible to meet both his goals; he could inform Mark of Steve's improved condition and return before Steve recovered enough to be asking questions.
He left the room to search for Dr. Erickson, wanting to inform him of his intentions in case Steve did recover full consciousness while he was away. The doctor promised to reassure his patient as much as he could while revealing as little as possible about his father.
The drive to Sacramento seemed interminable to Jesse. He was excited to be the bearer of good news for a change, as he knew there was nothing that would mean more to Mark than the knowledge of his son's improved condition. However, another thought occurred to him, dimming his otherwise buoyant mood. With both Steve and Mark hors de combat, he was left in the position of chief investigator on this case. Normally his friends took charge, and he was happy to operate under their instructions. He didn't like the idea of bearing sole responsibility for proving Mark's innocence, and he hoped the older doctor would be sufficiently revived by the news of Steve's progress to make some suggestions as to his next move.
As Jesse arrived at the jail, he approached its forbidding structure with some trepidation. He was brought into an interview room to wait for Mark. As he looked around distastefully, he was struck by the bleakness of the surroundings, and his fears for Mark's well-being, both physical and emotional, increased. This bolstered his determination to see Mark set free. With his gentle and caring approach to life, Mark was the last person who should be subjected to such a violent and hopeless environment.
Footsteps approached, and Mark was ushered in. He looked terrible – drawn and exhausted. His eyes met Jesse's immediately in desperate appeal, and Jesse hastened to reassure him.
"Steve's OK. He's going to be just fine. He...whoa!" He dashed forward to support Mark who looked like he was going to collapse. So strong had been Mark's fear that Jesse was here to tell him that Steve had died, that the intense relief that overwhelmed him was almost too great to bear. The sudden release of the tension that had been the only thing keeping him on his feet left him limp and shaky. Jesse helped him to a chair, and sat in silence with his hand on Mark's shoulder, giving him time to recover.
"I'm sorry, Mark," he apologized eventually. "I should have found another way to get the news to you sooner. That was quite a shock, huh?"
Mark finally looked up, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "It's the kind of shock I'm happy to take."
Jesse was relieved to see a return, however slight, of his sense of humor, and he grinned back. Studying his friend, he was happy to see that the look of bone-deep stress and weariness had faded somewhat. Jesse tried to inject some normalcy into the emotional situation by discussing the medical details of Steve's recovery, putting as positive a slant on it as possible. Mark seemed to be listening intently, but he kept his gaze down on the floor and asked no questions until Jesse finished his explanation.
"Did he...did he say anything?" Mark asked hesitantly. He still didn't look at Jesse, and for once Jesse was at a loss to know exactly what was going through his friend's mind; but he realized enough to know that he was walking through a potential minefield. Ever since he had delivered his good news, Mark, after his initial relief, had retreated into a despondent and uncharacteristic lethargy, as if every particle of energy had drained out of him.
"He hadn't really woken up when I left...not that there's any doubt he'll come round soon," he added hastily. "Its just that I wanted to let you know as soon as I could. He kind of said your name once, like he was asking for you, but that was all."
Mark nodded, but offered no further comment, and Jesse wasn't sure if his response had been the one Mark had wanted to hear or not. He decided to change tack to confront the biggest problem he felt was now facing them.
"So, what should we do next? How can we get you out of here?"
There was silence for a long moment then Mark asked inconsequentially, "How many people do you think I've helped to send to jail?"
"I don't know," Jesse answered cautiously. "A lot." Feeling that Mark needed reassurance on some point, he added: "You've helped a lot of people and saved many others by putting murderers away."
Mark nodded. "A lot," he confirmed; then fell silent again.
Jesse felt that some response was called for, but he was foundering in the dark. After some consideration, he had an idea about what might be bothering his friend. "They deserved to be here, Mark. You don't."
For the first time in minutes, Mark looked up. Although the white-to-the-bone look of shock had left his face, the strain around his eyes remained. "Don't I? I shot my own son. I shot my own...." his voice petered out as he tried to swallow against the pain of the muscles in his throat tightening.
Jesse's own throat ached in sympathy. "You were drugged! It wasn't your fault, Mark. You can't hold yourself responsible for your actions under those circumstances."
"How could I do it? Even drugged I should have been able to recognize him. It doesn't matter what condition I was in, I would always know him. If I remembered he was there later I must have been aware of him at the time. And I shot him." His voice was barely audible, and it sounded more like an argument he had repeated to himself many times than as if he was trying to convince Jesse.
If Mark had started shouting in an obvious display of guilt, Jesse might have actually been reassured that he was attempting to deal with the clear emotional repercussions of the shooting, but this quiet, almost palpable anguish left him with the fear that Mark was on the edge of a real emotional crisis.
Jesse took him gently by the shoulders, not liking the unusual feeling of frailty under his hands. "Mark, listen to me. You are exhausted, and that's contributing to the feelings of depression you're suffering from. You need a good sleep, and everything will seem a lot brighter in the morning. Steve will clear everything up now that he's awake." He felt Mark flinch at the mention of his son.
"Mark?" he queried gently, but got a mute head shake in response. Mark felt incapable of explaining the conflicting feelings racing through him. It was just too much effort.
"Mark, what else can you tell me about this kid, Skylar?" Jesse asked, hoping to redirect his friend's mind in a more productive direction. He felt that the best way of helping Mark escape from floundering in this unhealthy remorse was by sparking his formidable curiosity and focusing his intellect back on the puzzle confronting them. This attempt met with failure, however, as Mark sidestepped the question.
"I'm sorry, Jesse, I just can't seem to think right now. I am really tired."
"Mark…" Jesse started.
"Jesse, I really do appreciate you bringing me the news about Steve. But the best thing you can do for me now is to go back and take care of him." He saw Jesse open his mouth, and tried to forestall further protest. "Please, Jesse. I just need to know that you're there to make sure he fully recovers."
"Can I tie him to the bed, because I think that's what its going to take?"
There was no answering smile to this attempt to lighten the mood, and although he hated to leave Mark in such a dispirited state, Jesse reluctantly recognized that there was little else he could do. He hoped Mark would be able to sleep now that he knew Steve would recover. He said goodbye, and after a few more comforting words for his friend, moved over to the door and knocked, signaling he was ready to leave. The guard opened the door, and Jesse was on his way out, when he was stopped by a desperate plea.
"Wait, Jesse, please tell him...." Mark swallowed painfully, overwhelmed by the myriad of things he needed to tell his son; that he was sorry, that he loved him, that he would rather have died himself than hurt him. Mark closed his eyes and turned away from Jesse as a new wave of despair swept over him. None of these things could be said by proxy. His desperate need to see his son remained, unabated by the news of his improved condition. His futile struggle to find the right message was interrupted.
"I'll tell him, Mark," Jesse said softly from behind him; then he was gone, leaving Mark alone.
Mark was taken back to his cell where he lay down on his bunk, a small part of his mind gratefully noting the absence of his cell mate. His body was screaming with exhaustion, but he fought the call of sleep, dreading the dreams that lay in wait. In the past three nights, he had rarely succumbed to the sleep his body craved, too concerned about his son to allow himself that luxury. But occasionally, he had slipped unaware into a dreaming state and found himself kneeling over his son's dead body, his hands drenched in blood, as he stared in horror at the open eyes staring accusingly back at him. These nightmares were enough to slam him back into full consciousness, terrified and shaking.
Mark had been unable to confess to Jesse the thoughts concerning his son that plagued him after this dream. With his worst nightmare relieved, knowing now that Steve would survive, Mark found himself unable to dismiss the new doubts that haunted him. How could he explain to anyone that although he felt a desperate longing to see his son again, to see with his own eyes that he was still alive, at the same time he dreaded that meeting. With the rational part of his mind, he knew Steve would never blame him for the shooting, whatever the circumstances; but the strength of his guilt didn't allow for much rationality. The truth was that he was afraid to look into his son's eyes for fear he would see disappointment or even betrayal in his face. He had destroyed the trust and love between them that was the most precious thing in his life.
Now the former tension in his body was replaced by an equally consuming apathy. As he lay stretched listlessly on his bunk, his thoughts moved relentlessly back to his son, and he wondered dismally if Steve's returning consciousness would be haunted by dreams of his father's betrayal.
