Chapter 10
Steve woke slowly, gradually becoming aware of pain in his abdominal region, a rasping irritation in his throat, and a sensation of extreme lassitude. He shifted uncomfortably, and felt a stinging resistance tug at his right arm. Contemplating these physical sensations, he also noticed a vaguely familiar itchiness on his chest. Finally forcing his eyes open, he was able to identify the sources of discomfort: an IV drip in his arm accounted for the resistance when he had moved – and possibly the lassitude, he thought – the irritation in his throat was due to the gastric tube inserted in it, and the leads to the heart monitor, the steady beep of which he now recognized in the background, were causing the slight itchiness on his chest. Obviously he was in the hospital.
Gazing around the room, however, he was conscious of a feeling that something wasn't quite right with this scenario. It was a moment or two before he realized that the problem was with the room itself. He peered muzzily upwards. Stucco. Yes it was definitely stucco. He didn't like stucco, but he wasn't sure why. It was ….wrong. Community General didn't have stucco. Somehow that thought struck him as humorous – he had been in the hospital enough times to recognize its décor. But this was Community General, wasn't it? He vaguely remembered hearing Jesse talking to him, in fact, he talked a lot; he wouldn't shut up. So it must be Community General; but something else was wrong. Where was his father? He didn't remember his father's voice. He should be here. Whenever Steve ended up in the hospital, Mark was always there. It was one of the constants in the universe. The thought triggered a sudden, urgent feeling that he had to find his father. He wasn't sure why, but somehow it was important that he find him. Steve started to move, but as he tensed his muscles, an agonizing pain shot through him, and the darkness of unconsciousness descended again.
The next time he woke, he didn't feel quite so drugged, but the pain in his abdomen was a constant ache. His mouth felt dry, but he didn't try to move; he just lay there searching through his mind for answers. He frowned, concentrating on trying to remember what had happened to him. Surprised, and a trifle dismayed, to find that he couldn't seem to remember being injured, he focussed on identifying what the last thing was that he did remember. The image of sitting next to his father beside a peaceful lake in the woods flashed through his mind. Vacation. That was it. He and his father had gone on their long-delayed fishing vacation. That would explain why he wasn't at Community General.
His satisfaction with reaching this conclusion was diminished a moment later as he realized that he still couldn't account for the fact that he was in a hospital at all. And, as he contemplated the implications of the various pieces of equipment he was hooked up to, as well as the pain and general grogginess that he recognized as a sign of heavy medication, he realized that whatever had put him here must have been serious; he knew an ICU when he was in one. Automatically casting another searching glance around the room, a frown creased his brow as he realized that something was still missing from the scene: his father. A frisson of fear percolated through his drugged mind. Whenever Steve was seriously injured, his father usually remained at his side until he woke up; but this time there was no sign of him – not even a sweater draped across the bedside chair or a mess of newspaper on the bedside table. What's more, the more he focussed on the thought of his father, the more he found himself experiencing an uneasy sensation that there was something wrong, something to do with his dad.
As he was still trying to identify the cause of his unease, a nurse entered the room. Seeing him awake and looking around, she smiled at him.
"Well, it's nice to see you finally with us," she said cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"
"I'll feel better when I get this tube out of my throat," Steve replied hoarsely around the soreness. "What happened to me?"
The nurse looked surprised. "You were shot," she told him. "The doctor will give you all the details of your condition when he comes in a few minutes, but you're doing much better now," she continued reassuringly. "Now that you're awake, we should be able to get that tube out soon."
Steve considered the information he'd just been given. He still couldn't seem to remember anything about being shot. "How long have I been here?" he asked.
"About three days now," the nurse replied.
Steve considered the implications of that. Three days. That could explain Mark's absence; if he had been here all that time, maybe he had finally left for some much-needed rest. Steve felt a pang of concern and regret as he thought of what his father must have been going through – three days was a long time for his dad to have been sweating out, yet again, the wait to see if his son was going to survive.
"Where's my father?" he asked.
"Your father?" The nurse paused on her way out the door, repeating the query uncertainly.
"Dr. Mark Sloan," Steve elaborated. "He has been here, hasn't he?"
There was a noticeable hesitation; then she said, with a bright smile pinned to her face, "Don't worry, you're safe here." She then walked briskly out into the corridor.
The incongruity of that last remark struck a chill through Steve for no reason that he could name; and he struggled to quell the sudden anxiety that welled within him. Concentrating on remembering everything he could, he realized that the last thing he recalled with any clarity was giving evidence at the Tremelan trial; everything after that was a blank. What if some of Tremelan's goons had tried to kill him in revenge for his testimony? If he had driven straight back to the lake, he would have led them right to his father. If that were the case, what had they done with Mark?
His stomach roiled as fear swept over him. He couldn't bear the thought that his father might be hurt because of him. Steve had always accepted the dangers of the job for himself. He loved being a detective, although he regretted the worry it caused his father; but for Mark to suffer because of his choices was agonizing. He told himself that there was no evidence yet that there was anything wrong with his father, and he tried hard to believe it, but every instinct was telling him that Mark was in trouble.
Steve tried to focus his mind on tracing his actions after the trial, and found that he could remember finishing up his testimony and heading back to the cabin to resume what should have been an uninterrupted few days of pressure-free enjoyment. What he couldn't seem to recall, however, was actually arriving at the cabin; although somehow, he had a feeling that he had gotten there. As he pressed himself to remember more, all he could come up with was a renewal of that disquieting feeling that there had been something very wrong when he got there. Something that had to do with his father…
He was still trying to pin down the elusive memory, when the door opened, and Dr. Erickson came in. As soon as he introduced himself, Steve started plying him with questions about what had happened and if he knew where Mark was. The doctor refused to tell him anything until he had examined Steve and determined his condition. If everything looked good, he pointed out, they could remove the tube from Steve's throat, which would make the conversation much more comfortable for him. Recognizing from the surgeon's demeanor that he'd get more information sooner if he cooperated, Steve forced himself to contain his impatience.
As he examined Steve, Dr. Erickson explained the details of his medical condition – how he had been shot in the abdomen, puncturing the appendix, resulting in the peritonitis that had left him in such critical condition. Steve listened attentively, his stomach knotting up again as this confirmed his belief that his father would never have willingly left him in such circumstances. After finishing his exam, Dr. Erickson called in a nurse and removed the gastric tube.
When it was finally all over, and the nurse had left him sucking gratefully on some ice chips, Steve decided it was time to push the doctor for some more information.
"Have you seen my father?" he asked bluntly. "Can you tell me where he is?"
"All I can tell you is that he's not here," replied the surgeon. "You were the only patient brought to the hospital. Your friend Dr. Travis has been here for the last couple of days, however. I'm sure he'll be back shortly. And the sheriff asked to be notified as soon as you were awake, so I expect he'll be by soon as well."
Steve reflected that he was just as anxious to interview the sheriff as that officer was to see him. He said as much to Dr. Erickson, who smiled slightly.
"I'm sure he'll be able to tell you whatever you want to know." He looked at Steve sternly. "But you're going to have to keep calm. You're just starting to recover not only from a gunshot wound but from a serious infection that could easily have been fatal. It's important that you get your rest and don't push things too soon."
"Why can't I remember what happened?" Steve demanded in frustration.
"There could be a number of reasons for that," the doctor replied. "You did get a bump on the head – probably from when you fell; that could have caused a mild concussion that could account for the loss of memory of the actual events surrounding the injury. Or there could be an element of traumatic shock involved." He surveyed Steve thoughtfully, noting his obvious tension and anxiety. "There's a good possibility that the memories will return," he told the detective reassuringly. "You'll just have to relax and give yourself a chance to heal. Your body's been through a tremendous amount of stress and trauma."
"I'll relax when I know what happened to my father," Steve declared. He barely heard the doctor's further reassurances, his mind occupied with trying to process the little additional information he now had. Unfortunately, it only served to intensify his worries. It was now apparent that Mark had not been seen at the hospital since Steve had been admitted. And he could come up with no good explanation for that. Only some kind of physical constraint could prevent his father from being at his son's side at this time, and Steve felt a sharp, desperate fear clutch at his heart as he considered the possibility that his father was being held somewhere by force. Or perhaps Mark was lying seriously injured somewhere undiscovered, or even, Steve thought in a wave of dread, he might have been brought in, not to the ER, but to the morgue. He closed his eyes and drew in a few deep breaths, trying to get a grip on himself. It wasn't going to help his father any if he fell apart. It was just so hard to think clearly through the mind-fuzzing effects of the medication. He wished that Jesse would come back – surely he must know what had happened to Mark. It was still faintly possible that there was some logical, less catastrophic explanation for all this. He desperately wished he could think of one.
