Chapter 17
As Jesse drove up the long dirt road to the cabin, he meticulously avoided all the potholes he could, wincing internally when he hit the occasional bump, and stealing glances at his companion. Although Steve had not displayed any discomfort by utterance or expression, Jesse knew that the jolts must be hurting him. He repressed a sigh, regretting once again that he had let slip information on the double-edged jeopardy facing Mark. He had seen that grim intent on his friend's face before when Mark had been kidnapped by Carter Sweeney and ROAR. At that time, Steve had declared his intention of investigating every single crime that was committed in Los Angeles if that was what it took to find his father. Jesse had no doubt that Steve was just as driven now, and he feared that he would refuse to recognize the physical limitations imposed by his recent injuries and attempt to give the same commitment to his search for a way to free him now.
Jesse tried to keep his surveillance subtle, but at his next sideways look, Steve reacted with some asperity.
"Cut it out, Jess, I'm fine."
"No, you're not," Jesse muttered under his breath; but knowing he was fighting a losing battle, he refrained from disputing Steve's obvious misrepresentation of his health.
Once they arrived at the cabin, Steve eased himself out of his seat with some difficulty. He had agreed, as a compromise, to use a cane for walking. Jesse had wanted him in a wheelchair, but in terms of speed and ease of access, that was too impractical for his current needs. However, he found himself grateful for the support the cane offered as he resisted the temptation to double over to relieve the complaints of his sore abdominal muscles. He had no intention of admitting this to Jesse though.
The nagging pain faded from his consciousness as he stood for a moment staring at the cabin. He remembered his father waving him off as he left for the trial. It seemed like a lifetime ago, a peaceful and happy lifetime. It was hard to believe that, in less than a week, their lives had been so brutally turned upside down.
"Let's check out the patio." He walked stiffly into the cabin and out to the back of the building, following the path he had taken on that fateful day. He paused at the table and sat down casually, trying to make it look like a choice rather than the necessity it was. Jesse wasn't fooled, but chose to let it go.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, willing to assume the greater part of action to keep Steve resting.
Steve looked around, seeing clearly in his mind's eye the table as it had been set up the day he had come back from the trial.
"That glass has to be around here somewhere. I can't see the kid carting it home with him. Maybe he threw it into the bushes as he left; or it's possible Dad still had it in his hand when he started up the hill. Search around, see what you can find. I know the answers are here somewhere."
Jesse dived into the bushes with enthusiasm, happy to be doing something constructive. Starting near the picnic table, it only took him about 15 minutes to locate the missing glass. Well-versed as he was in police procedures, he didn't touch it, but with a whoop of triumph, he crawled out of the underbrush to inform Steve. But Steve was no longer sitting at the table.
As Steve looked around and allowed himself to relax a little, the familiar surroundings sparked his memory, and the sporadic flashbacks started to coalesce into consistent recall. In his mind, he heard again the initial shot which had alerted him to trouble and, as he had that day, he started up the hill, impelled by the same sense of urgency. He arrived at the top, sweating and bent over, but, lost in the memory of that fateful day, he was unaware of the pain from his abused body. He remembered with painful clarity seeing his father holding the gun to his head and bursting into the clearing in response. A shiver ran through him as he realized how close he had come to losing his father. In his drug-induced high, Mark had been totally unaware of the lethal nature of the weapon he held, and Steve could only too easily imagine the tragedy that might have ensued if he had returned later.
Again unconsciously mirroring his earlier actions as the scene played out in his mind's eye, he crossed the clearing with his hand held out. He had pleaded with his Dad to give up the gun… but what had happened next? He could now remember everything up to that point, but there his memory froze.
"Damn it!" he cried out in frustration.
Steve sat heavily on a convenient log. He was so close – he could feel the memory dance tantalizingly out of reach like an early morning dream fading as the sun rises. He knew that trying to force through the barrier in his mind was not the best way to grasp the elusive missing time, but Jesse's news from the prison had filled him with a sense of desperation, a feeling that time was running out. If he didn't get his father out of jail soon, it would be too late.
Involuntarily, he glanced down to see the darkened area where his blood had soaked into the soil among the entwined roots. He reached over without thought to touch the patch of ground, and with a jolt that was as sudden as a flash of lightening, his memories flooded back as if the blood were a visceral connection to the past. The images played vividly in his mind, and with a groan, he buried his head in his arms.
Jesse found him still in that pose minutes later as he ran up the hill in search of his friend. He paused in alarm at the sight of Steve, not sure whether his frozen posture indicated that he was in serious physical pain or whether it presaged bad news – either that he had been unable to remember the crucial events or that the returning memories had not given him the information he needed to help Mark. He sat beside his friend and touched him gently on the shoulder, but when Steve lifted his face, Jesse found himself unable to read his expression. This was hardly surprising, since Steve himself didn't know how to feel or, at least, he had so many conflicting emotions jostling for predominance within him that he was unable to sort through them. He was deeply relieved that he could finally reassure his father, angry at himself and the sheriff and the legal process in general, and guilty over the inadvertent role he himself had played.
"Dad didn't shoot me," he informed Jesse, an undercurrent of disbelief coloring his voice, not because he ever doubted his father, but at the vagaries of fate. "If anyone was to blame it was me."
"That's great!" enthused Jesse, but at Steve's wry glance, he retracted his initial reaction. "What I mean is – Mark will be really happy to hear that. I mean, he'll be glad it's not his fault." He shook his head, abandoning his attempt to clarify his well-meaning, but slightly inept responses. "So what happened?" he asked.
"Dad was giving me the gun, I tripped over the roots here, knocked him over, and the gun went off on impact as we hit the ground. It was all a stupid, preventable accident. If I'd been more careful..."
"Whoa! Stop right there! What is it with you Sloans," Jesse said in affectionate exasperation. "Is guilt your middle name? Let it go. As you said, it was an accident. It wasn't your fault; and it seems to me that you paid a pretty heavy price for it anyway."
"Dad's paying a heavier one." Steve shook his head. There was no time for self indulgence now. "Don't worry, Jess. You're right."
"I am?" Jesse looked pleased.
"If I'm going to place the blame for this on anybody, it'll be on the person who really precipitated this senseless mess – Bobby Phillips. He's the one who stole the gun and drugged Dad. We've just got to find conclusive proof to clear Dad, and he's the last piece of this puzzle."
Jesse finally remembered to tell Steve about finding the missing glass, and was pleased to see the last of the guilt disappear from his face and grim determination replace it. He wasn't so happy to hear the plan to confront Bobby at his home, but a counter suggestion that Steve return to the hospital and Jesse travel to the teenager's house met with stony rejection. Steve was determined to clear up all loose ends and get his father out of jail that very day if humanly possible. Jesse was worried about the physical toll the exertion was exacting on his half-healed injuries, but even he had to admit that, apart from a certain pallor, Steve was looking much happier than he had when confined to his hospital bed.
Hoping he wasn't making a big mistake, Jesse agreed to drive to the address Rachel had given them for Bobby's house.
