Bobby Phillips approached the regional prison nervously. For the last week, his life seemed to be spiraling more and more out of control. He had been appalled to read in the newspaper about the vacationing elderly doctor who had shot his police lieutenant son, claiming to be drugged at the time. He had every reason to know that that claim was true, and had been even more horrified when he realized that nobody believed the doctor's claim and that he had been sent to prison to await trial while his son lay in critical condition in the local hospital.
Bobby was truly upset by the consequences of what he and Nick had done. He had never anticipated that anyone would get hurt as a result of their actions. He had figured the only person to be affected would be the person who had killed his brother; and even that had not taken on a sense of reality. The truth was that Bobby had never personally encountered violence before, and now that he had, he was totally horrified. He began to realize that, even if they had succeeded in stealing a gun, he might never have been able to go through with the plan anyway.
To make matters worse, Nick had seemed quite pleased by the turn of events, feeling that this removed any possibility of the doctor making trouble for them. Bobby was beginning to feel that he had never really known Nick at all. He had accepted without question Nick's friendship with his brother, and had believed in him implicitly as he had urged that the only way to avenge Jake was to take action themselves. However, since the disaster with Mark, Bobby had been extremely reluctant to go through with the plan, refusing to try to steal another gun or make plans to do so. And Nick was obviously not at all pleased with Bobby's sudden attack of conscience. In fact, he had been quite emphatic, not to mention threatening, about the dire consequences should Bobby succumb to his feelings of guilt and try going to the police.
Bobby had finally decided that the only way out of this mess was to disappear. There was little to keep him here anyway. The aunt and uncle he had been living with since the death of his parents several years ago had never made any real attempt to get close to the boy they had taken in, merely fulfilling their obligation as his only remaining family. They had fed, clothed, and basically ignored him, being caught up in their own misery of poverty and drink. That was why Jake had worked so hard to make some money as soon as he finished high school, so he could bring Bobby to live with him and get him out of that environment. Well, now Jake was dead, and Bobby was on his own. With no one to turn to for advice or assistance, he figured his best bet was to get away from Nick and the drug ring, and start afresh somewhere else. He wasn't exactly sure where to go, but he figured he would start by going to Jake's apartment. Not all of Jake's things had been sent back yet, and he hoped that he might find some things he could use there. Maybe, he thought hopefully, Jake would have left some money stashed in the hiding place he had shown Bobby the last time he had gone to visit.
But before he left Clear Valley, Bobby had one more thing he felt he had to do. The old man from the cabin – Dr. Sloan, the newspapers had called him – had been the one person in Bobby's life lately, other than Jake, who had seemed to be genuinely concerned and interested in helping Bobby. And now he was in jail, believing, from what the papers had said, that Bobby had been the one who drugged him. He had reminded Bobby so much of his deceased grandfather, that Bobby's dreams lately had been haunted by visions of that much-loved man reproaching him for what he had done. Before he left, Bobby just wanted to explain to Dr. Sloan that he had not done that to him, that he was so sorry for what had happened. He didn't know if the doctor would listen to him or forgive him, but he knew he would never have any peace if he didn't try.
So, Bobby entered the prison and asked to see Dr. Mark Sloan, claiming to be his grandson. There was some hesitation and resistance to allowing an unaccompanied minor in to see a prisoner, but Bobby had taken the precaution of forging a note from his aunt giving permission for him to see his ersatz grandparent. He might still have been denied, but, fortunately, some sort of administrative problem arose, and the man in charge, distracted by the larger issues and unwilling to spend more time arguing with the polite but persistent youth, took the easy way out by accepting the note and permitting the visit.
Bobby entered the interview room and paused just inside the door, wondering for a moment if he had made a mistake. At first glance, the dispirited-looking man who sat at the table before him seemed to bear little resemblance to the alert, kindly man whose warmth, concern, and general air of dependability had led Bobby to confide in him. Then Mark lifted his head to look at him, and he could see that it was, in fact, the same person; but the obvious change in him was increasing Bobby's sense of guilt tenfold. He stood there, trying to think of what to say to this man whose life, he suddenly realized, he had probably helped to ruin.
Mark had been brought once again from his cell to receive a visitor. He hadn't even bothered to question the identity of the visitor; he had just assumed it was Jesse. He was conscious of only a mild sense of surprise that Jesse would be returning this soon, but couldn't dredge up enough energy to pursue the thought. The surprise at seeing the teen from the cabin, however, was sharp enough to pierce the haze of indifference that surrounded him.
"Skylar?"
Bobby had braced himself to face anger and accusations, but this single-word expression of surprise seemed to be unaccompanied by either of those emotions – or any other emotion, for that matter. Even to Bobby, this absence of any strong emotion, or even energy, was strange and almost alarming. He suddenly found himself taking his fence at a rush, a burst of speech spouting somewhat incoherently from his mouth.
"I had to come. I'm so sorry. I just wanted you to know that I never wanted this to happen. It wasn't me who drugged you, it was Nick. I never thought anybody was going to get hurt. I just wanted the guy who killed Jake to pay for it; I never wanted to hurt anybody else. And now everything's so awful and I don't know what to do and Nick'll kill me if I tell…"
The confusing spate of words poured out faster than Mark was able to process them. But the pain and distress in the boy's face and voice were unmistakable. Depressed and lethargic as he was, the sight of such obvious distress roused Mark to make an effort on Bobby's behalf. Struggling to force his brain to start functioning, he tried to interrupt long enough to slow the boy down.
"Bobby – it is Bobby really, isn't it?" Mark asked, remembering with an effort the yearbook picture he had identified earlier that day. "Take it easy; slow down and tell me what you're doing here."
Bobby took a deep, shaky breath, and tried to pull himself together. There was still no obvious sign of fury, and some of the life and intelligence seemed to be returning to the older man's manner. He swallowed hard, and started again.
"I had to come and tell you that I'm so sorry about what happened. And to tell you that I wasn't the one who put the drugs in your drink."
"Why don't you just tell me the whole story," Mark suggested, trying to fight the feeling of disinterest and detachment that had increasingly filled him over the last few days.
"Nick was with me when I was at the cabin. He got out through a back window when you came in, and he was hiding in the bushes listening when we were eating. He was afraid I'd give too much away, so he slipped the drug into your drink when you went back inside for a minute." Bobby raised wide, desperate eyes to Mark's. "I didn't know what to do! When you started getting high, we took off – I never thought anything bad would happen to you! I was just scared. And ever since then," he continued, sounding more than ever like a scared little boy, the story pouring out of him, "things have been getting worse. I didn't want to go through with the revenge anymore. But Nick's been really – different. He keeps harping on how we can't tell anyone what happened because they'll kill us, just like they killed Jake." He stopped for breath, fighting off tears.
Mark listened to the story unfolding, trying to figure out how to respond. The boy was obviously pushed to the limits of his endurance – deeply in trouble with apparently no one he felt he could turn to. Under normal circumstances, Mark would have urged him to tell his tale to the police, would have had Steve talk to the boy and be sure that he was protected if there was real reason to fear harm. But Steve was incapacitated – and the thought of that situation and his own role in it still sent a piercing stab of anguish through him – and Mark had no reason to place any faith in the compassion and competence of Sheriff Consten.
"Isn't there anybody you can talk to, Bobby?" he asked, feeling helpless. "What about your family?"
"They're no good," Bobby replied dismally. "My folks died a few years back. And my aunt and uncle barely know I'm around. My uncle drinks too much, and my aunt – well, she's not much of anything. Jake was the only person who cared; he was all I had." The pain in Bobby's voice resonated strongly with Mark, who recognized the despair of having lost the most important person in your life. Time was, he thought, when he would have had something to offer to this youth, would have taken him under his wing and tried to help him. But what did he have to offer now?
"I'm just going to get away," Bobby continued, breaking into Mark's despondent thoughts. "I'm going to get far away from here and start over on my own." He looked hesitantly into Mark's eyes. "I just wanted you to know that I'm really sorry about what happened to you – and your son." He swallowed as he saw the pain in Mark's face at the reference to Steve. "And I'm sorry that I can't help you. But Nick says they'll never believe me anyway, because he'll deny it, and then they'll kill me. So I'm leaving."
There was a knock on the door, and the guard poked his head in to tell Bobby that his time was up. He looked back at Mark, unsure how to take his leave, his guilt at what he had done to this man – who even now showed no signs of hating or blaming him, but was trying to help him – increasing as the time came for him to go. "I'm sorry," he repeated fervently.
"Where will you go?" Mark asked, feeling that he was failing this boy too, that he should have been able to help him in some way, but unable to get his brain to find a path through the tangle of circumstances that Bobby had presented.
"I'll find a place," Bobby replied with a show of confidence he certainly didn't feel. "Jake had a place where he used to hide some money. They haven't cleaned out all his stuff yet; I'll stop there first. Then I'll head to Sacramento or someplace where they won't be able to find me." The guard ushered Bobby out then, and he was gone.
Mark stared at the door, considering the implications of this development. Here had been confirmation that he had been drugged; perhaps he should have urged more strongly that Bobby tell the police what had happened. But Bobby was obviously terrified of testifying. And would it really make any difference to Mark's situation? The boy was right – if the other teen denied it, what proof was there that Mark had ever been drugged? And even if they could prove that he was given the drug involuntarily, he thought hopelessly, did it really matter? The fact remained that he had shot his son. Even if he had been drugged, he must have known it was Steve; and he had shot him anyway. The relentless self-indictment played itself through his mind once more. There was no circumstance that was sufficient to exculpate him in his own mind. And now, in addition to betraying his son, he had failed to find a way to help this disturbed youth. As another guard led Mark back to his cell, the now-familiar depression settled deeper upon him.
