It was only a few minutes after Dr. Erickson had left that the sheriff arrived.
"Lt. Sloan?" The sheriff moved into the room to stand by the side of the bed. "I'm Sheriff Consten. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Steve looked over the man in front of him, relieved to finally have someone there who could tell him what had happened – to Mark as well as to himself.
"I'll answer whatever I can," Steve responded. "But first…" he hesitated briefly for a moment. Now that the opportunity had presented itself, he found himself suddenly reluctant to ask the question, dreading the possible answer. "Can you tell me what happened to my father?"
"Well now, you don't have to worry about him, Lieutenant," drawled the sheriff; "he's taken care of. What I need first is to take your statement."
A frown creased Steve's brow as he considered this reply. It certainly didn't do much to reassure him. In fact, it didn't really even give him any indication of whether or not Mark was still alive – 'taken care of' could mean anything. About the only thing it did imply was that the sheriff did, indeed, know what had happened to his father. And this attempt to avoid sharing that information was arousing Steve's anger as well as increasing his anxiety. Why the hell wouldn't anyone give him a straight answer about his father?
"Look, I've already said that I'll tell you everything I can," Steve said, his voice edged with anger and impatience. "But I need to know now what happened to my father."
"Look, Lieutenant, this is my jurisdiction, and I'm asking the questions here. As a law officer yourself, I'm expecting you to cooperate in this investigation. I'm telling you there's nothing to worry about regarding your father; I can assure you he's unhurt. What I need you to tell me is what happened during the shooting."
Steve was rapidly taking an extreme dislike to this man, whom he recognized as the type who enjoyed wielding the little power he had, and for a moment he didn't believe him. It didn't make any sense that Mark wouldn't be at the hospital if there was nothing wrong. However, something in the sheriff's manner was surprisingly convincing. The resulting intensity of relief that washed through his system left him weak, and he finally relaxed against the pillows, covering his eyes for a minute to conceal the depth of his emotion.
"There's not much I can tell you at the moment, Sheriff," he said after a moment. "I was in Sacramento testifying at the Tremelan trial. I remember driving back, but I can't seem to remember what happened after I got here. I suppose I might have been followed." He watched as the sheriff stood there, impassively considering this information.
"Seems a bit peculiar that you don't remember anything at all about what happened," the sheriff finally remarked.
"It seems peculiar to me, too," retorted Steve in exasperation. "The doctor, however, seems to think it isn't all that unusual. Why don't you try telling me something, and maybe it'll help me remember."
"Maybe," said the sheriff expressionlessly. "The doc did say that you might need a bit of help rememberin'." He gazed at Steve, his attitude one of slightly skeptical wariness. "We got notified that you had called 911 saying you'd been shot and needed an ambulance. We found you in the woods not far from a cabin belonging to Dr. Walter Harley. Seems you and your father had been staying there." He paused, obviously waiting for a response from Steve.
"That's right," Steve confirmed impatiently. "Walter's a friend of my dad's. He loaned us the use of the cabin for our vacation." He brushed this aside as inconsequential. "So what about my father?" he demanded.
"We'll get to him in a minute," the sheriff replied uninformatively. "You sure you don't remember anything else? Seems if you were conscious long enough to call for help, you should be able to remember something about it."
"Seems like it to me, too," Steve responded shortly. "But I don't." He suddenly lost his patience with this hostile-witness treatment. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at here, but we're neither of us going to get anywhere this way. I want to know what happened to me just as badly as you do, so why don't you tell me what, if anything, you've found out so far. And tell me what happened to my father!"
"If you don't remember anything, what makes you so sure that something's happened to him?" asked Consten, with the air of man who's trapped someone into a damaging admission.
Steve gazed at him in total incomprehension, by now thoroughly furious, his anxiety resurging as he realized that the sheriff was still avoiding telling him exactly what had happened to his father. "Because nobody here seems to know where he is. Because he's apparently not been here since I was brought in. Because nobody's answering my questions, damn it!"
"There could be plenty of reasons for him not being here," suggested the sheriff calmly.
"No there couldn't," Steve declared flatly. "He's my father; if I get hurt, he's there." He glared at Consten. "Look, just tell me what's going on. Do you have any idea what happened – to me or my father? Do you have any leads? Do you have anything at all?"
"Oh we know what happened," Consten replied with maddening calm. "And we've already got the man who shot you. I just wanted to get your side of the story to see how it meshed with his."
Steve stared at him, surprised. Maybe he had underestimated this man if he had successfully arrested Tremelan's hitman.
"That's good to hear. Congratulations. Who was it?"
"Your father."
"What??!" Steve stared at the officer in disbelief. Later, he would wonder why he hadn't anticipated what the sheriff would say – the clues were all in front of him; but it was such a complete impossibility that, even when it was uttered, all he could do was stare at Consten in amazement, feeling a sudden impulse to laugh in the man's face. That impulse died quickly, however, at the sheriff's expression.
"You're serious!" he exclaimed incredulously. The thought of what his father must have suffered to even be accused of such a crime erased any vestiges of humor he might have felt. "You're out of your mind! My father is a doctor; he hates guns, and he'd never hurt anybody – least of all me." He stopped, temporarily unable to coherently marshal a defense to an accusation whose absurdity was, to him, self-evident. He thought of his father's consummate gentleness, compassion, and good humor, and felt a resurgence of anger at the inability of this man to understand how impossible this was. "Look, what could possibly make you think my father would shoot me?"
"Well," replied the sheriff, unperturbed by this outburst, "there's the fact that his fingerprints were on the gun."
"That's crazy," Steve said scornfully; "my father doesn't even own a gun."
"Actually, the gun is registered to Walter Harley. Your father must have taken it from the cabin." Consten didn't give Steve time to react to this statement before adding, "And then there's the fact that he had blood on his jacket. We tested it – it was your blood alright."
"He probably got that on him trying to help me after I was shot," Steve retorted.
"For a doctor, he sure had a strange way of trying to help," Consten replied sarcastically. "We found him half a mile away, heading through the woods. He hadn't even tried to staunch the bleeding; and you were the one who called for the ambulance." He smiled sardonically as Steve stared at him in obvious confusion. "Besides," he added, "he confessed."
That claim was so unexpected as to momentarily take Steve's breath away. But only for a moment.
"That's ridiculous," he declared positively. "What do you mean 'he confessed'?"
"He admitted that he shot you." The calm assertion, uttered with no hint of uncertainty or defensiveness, was unexpectedly convincing.
"What are you saying … it was an accident of some kind?" asked Steve, trying to make sense of a situation which seemed completely incomprehensible.
"I don't think firing two shots at someone can be considered an accident," the sheriff replied dryly.
Steve struggled to process this information. He didn't know if it was the medication he was on, or the total unreality of the scenario that was suddenly being thrust at him, but his brain seemed incapable of rational analysis, the only clear thought he seemed to have being one of complete rejection of the idea that his father could ever have knowingly harmed him in any way.
"Look, what did my father say happened?" he demanded.
"Well, he hasn't actually said much," replied Consten dryly. "He claimed he was drugged at the time, but beyond that, he's pretty much keeping his mouth shut. I think he's going for a diminished capacity plea."
The implication of those remarks suddenly caught up with Steve, hitting him with full force. "You've arrested him?" he exclaimed in horror.
"That's what we usually do with people who shoot someone, Lieutenant. Maybe it's different down there in the big city, but up here, we take a dim view of people trying to kill each other, especially fellow cops."
"My father did not try to kill me," Steve asserted unequivocally. He tried to find a way to get through to this imbecilicly dense officer. "Look, what possible motive do you think my father could have for killing me?"
"Motive's not my problem right now," Consten replied. "We've got conclusive evidence and an admission of guilt; you know that's all we need for a conviction."
"You said he was drugged; he might not even be remembering clearly what happened himself. How do you even know for sure that he shot me?"
"Like I said, his fingerprints were all over the gun, including on the trigger, and his jacket was covered with your blood." Consten met Steve's angry gaze imperturbably. "Besides, I said he 'claimed' he was drugged; we don't have any evidence of that. We sent a blood sample to the lab, but it came back negative."
"Maybe it was a drug you didn't test for," Steve suggested in frustration. "If my father says he was drugged, he was drugged. Hell, he's a doctor, he ought to know. Besides, there's no other way this could have happened."
"Even if that were true," replied the sheriff, "it doesn't make it any better. Shooting someone while under the influence of illegal drugs is still attempted homicide."
"Not if you were given the drugs involuntarily," Steve retorted. "Have you even tried to find the person who drugged him?"
"I already told you; we don't have any evidence that he was drugged at all. And we certainly don't have any evidence that there was anyone else involved."
Steve couldn't believe the stubborn closed-mindedness of this man. He obviously was perfectly satisfied with his own version of what had happened and was disinclined to make any effort to consider further. Steve felt a savage desire to try to beat some sense into the sheriff's thick skull.
"I want to talk to my father," he declared abruptly.
"I don't see how that's going to be possible," Consten replied. "You're obviously not going anywhere yet, and they're not allowed phone calls at the county holding cells."
The news that Mark wasn't even being held in the local jail, but had already been transferred to a regional prison and was cut off from communication, hit Steve like a physical blow. The thought of his father suffering the brutality and deprivations of prison, frantic with worry over his son's condition, probably imagining the worst, was heart wrenching.
"Does he even know I'm alive?" he demanded in outrage. "Has anybody told him I'm going to be alright?"
"I expect your friend's keeping him posted," the sheriff said indifferently. "He's been by to talk to him a couple of times."
Before Steve could react to this callous unconcern, a nurse entered the room and addressed the sheriff. "I'm sorry, Sheriff," she said sternly, "you're going to have to leave now. It's time for Lt. Sloan's medication; and he's getting way too upset."
Steve suddenly became aware of the rapid and irregular beeping of the heart monitor to which he was still connected. He ignored the nurse's attempts to calm him as well as the sheriff's polite murmurs as he took his departure, glad to see the man leave before he succumbed to the rage that was consuming him and tried to deck him. The last thing he needed now was to tear open his wound or aggravate his condition and prolong his stay here. It was imperative that he get out of here as soon as possible and get to his father. He never liked feeling weak and incapable of action, but to be confined to this bed while his father was in trouble was intolerable.
Frustration ate at him as he tried to work through the confusing jumble of information. He fought his body's exhaustion, forcing himself to focus on figuring out what had really happened. Nothing made sense. That his father was at fault in the shooting was clearly impossible. He knew the depth of the love Mark had for him; his father was not overtly demonstrative or protective of him – he showed his love not in grand displays of affection, but in quiet little touches, gentle concern, and his steadfast supportive presence. The thought of what his father must be going through was a worse torment than the physical pain of his injury. Steve knew how much Mark worried about him and the agonies he endured whenever his son was injured. He could only imagine the anguish and guilt his dad must be feeling knowing that he had caused these injuries. Steve tried to imagine how he would feel if their positions were reversed, and shuddered, empathizing too deeply with the guilt his father must be feeling. And to be locked away from his son, unable to help, unable to be with him, not even knowing from minute to minute whether he was still alive, could only make the agony a thousand times worse. His heart aching for his father, he fervently hoped that Jesse was, in fact, currently engaged in reassuring Mark about his son's survival. Right now that was more than Steve himself could do.
