Chapter 14

Mark Sloan moved dully through the prisoners' morning routine. The apathy that had overwhelmed him since Jesse had brought the news of Steve's survival had only worsened with the passage of time. The assurance of Steve's recovery and the relief of the terror that he had killed his son had released the tension that had been consuming him, leaving him totally drained of emotional or physical energy. He no longer had any sense of focus or purpose; there remained only a deadening emptiness, painfully laced with a corrosive guilt.

In the darkness of his heart, there seemed to be nothing left to sustain him. Unlike the time he had been framed by the Trainors, there was now no intellectual challenge to occupy his mind in figuring out how to prove his innocence. Even worse was the fact that, in his own mind, he was not innocent but guilty of an act that no circumstances could ever justify. There was no puzzle to solve, no truth to prove; he had, with his own hand, grievously injured his son and destroyed forever the trust between them.

Mired in the depths of depression, he was unable to view the events surrounding the shooting with any objectivity; he saw only that he had critically injured the person whom he most loved. Even if his son could forgive him - and some part of him knew, even yet, that Steve would forgive him - he could never forgive himself. It was a father's responsibility to love and protect his children, and it seemed to Mark that he had signally failed in that responsibility. He had failed to save his daughter, and now he had almost killed his son. He wondered how he could ever look Steve in the face again. Always, in the past, when he had looked at his son, he had known that there was love and pride in the eyes that met his, had felt the almost physical sense of connectedness that allowed an easy, wordless communication to flow between them. How could he face having that affection and easy interaction replaced by a sense of disappointment and distance?

It was in this state of hopelessness that Mark listlessly followed the other prisoners out of the dining area after breakfast, scarcely noticing anything around him, just waiting for the chance to return to the relative solitude of his cell. On the way back toward the cell block, however, he stumbled into another inmate, causing the man to bump painfully into the wall. Mark automatically mumbled an apology, but suddenly found the prisoner, a hard-looking man in his mid-forties, who was two inches taller and substantially heftier than himself, looming in front of him, blocking the way.

"Hey, who you jostlin', Pops?" the man demanded, thrusting both hands at Mark's chest and shoving. Taken by surprise, Mark stumbled backward, almost falling. Casting a quick glance around to see that no one else was near, the man grinned evilly. The next thing Mark knew, the man had slammed him into the wall and was holding him erect with one arm across his throat. "I think you need to learn a little lesson here."

Mark stared dazedly into the face before him, vaguely wondering why he didn't feel more afraid. His normally quick wits and facile tongue seemed to have totally deserted him. Somehow, he couldn't seem to muster enough energy to really care what happened to him. He felt a rib crack under the two quick powerful blows that were aimed at his midriff. He heard a guard shout from the end of the hallway, and his assailant abruptly let go of him and took off. As Mark sank to the ground, clutching his rib cage, the hallway spinning darkly around him, he was conscious of a feeling almost of disappointment that the guard had arrived so quickly. The thought flitted briefly through his mind that if the guard had arrived just a few moments later, the prisoner might have broken the rib and punctured the lung - in which case he might never have had to face his son and see the discomfort and awkwardness that he feared would have replaced the usual trust and affection in Steve's eyes.