Steve left Jesse finishing the paperwork formalities at the prison administrative office, and followed the guard down the corridor to the interview room. The first flush of excitement from knowing that he could finally free his father had faded, and along with the relief, he was now experiencing a heightened sense of anxiety about what he would find when he saw him. He had an enormous respect for his father's mental and emotional strength, having had ample opportunities to observe them over the course of the years. In fact, he sometimes felt that his father kept too much in, carrying almost to extremes his dislike of displaying his personal pain. The picture Jesse had painted of Mark's mental state, therefore, had Steve seriously alarmed.
When they arrived at the interview room, Steve drew a deep breath and pulled himself erect, concentrating on blotting out the pain and discomfort of his injury, knowing that any show of pain on his part would only exacerbate his father's feelings of guilt. He opened the door and stepped quietly into the room, his gaze immediately fastening on the figure sitting at the table. Mark sat with his head down, staring listlessly at the table in front him, apparently unaware of the entrance of another person. Or perhaps he just wasn't interested enough to look up, Steve realized suddenly. Forewarned though he was, he was shocked by the uncharacteristic air of apathy that clung to his father, recalling sharply Jesse's description of how Mark had seemed uninterested in any attempt to clear him of the charges he faced. Steve pulled the door closed behind him and approached the table.
"Dad," he said quietly, not quite sure what reaction he would get.
Mark seemed to stiffen, and his head jerked up, a spark of life flaring briefly in the eyes that had been so empty a moment before.
"Steve?" Surprise overrode the deadening feeling of emptiness. "You should still be in the hospital…" He trailed off, his gaze searching his son for signs of his injury, hesitant to meet Steve's eyes, unable to avert his own from the vision of his son, live and whole, standing in front of him.
"I'm fine now, Dad," Steve assured him, the shakiness and hesitancy in his normally self-possessed father's voice and manner wringing his heart. "I've come to get you out."
Mark's mouth twisted. "You convinced them to set bail?" he asked, the light that had briefly lit his face at the sight of his son fading.
"It's not a matter of bail, Dad," Steve replied. "All charges have been dismissed. You're free and clear."
"Clear." Mark's eyes closed briefly, and he turned his head away, a wave of despair engulfing him. Whatever story his son had told to free him, whatever verdict an unknown DA might render, nothing would ever clear him in his own conscience or diminish the agony of what he had done.
Steve's heart twisted at the sight of an expression he had never before seen on his father's face. He had seen Mark experience terror, anguish, grief, self-doubt, even depression; but never had he seen his father give in to pure, soul-searing despair. He knew what lay behind that despair; the urgent need now was to find the words to show him how mistaken was the guilt he bore. He sat down at the table next to Mark.
"Dad," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You didn't shoot me. It was an accident."
"An accident?" Mark forced himself to face his son. "I fired two shots."
Steve couldn't bear the sight of the pain in his father's face. The guilt and anguish Mark felt were obviously tearing him apart. Steve's voice became even more urgent and intent.
"Dad, listen to me. I finally remembered everything, just the way it happened. When I got back from testifying, I found the cabin door open, the remains of a meal on the table, and no one in sight. I heard a shot and went out to see what was going on. That must have been your first shot. I found you up at the clearing above the lake, holding a gun, turning it over and looking at it like you were trying to figure out how it worked. I could tell you were drugged or something, and I was afraid it would go off again, so I tried to talk you into giving it to me." He saw his father tense, obviously bracing himself to hear what was to come, and hastened to reassure him. "You were handing the gun over, Dad. You never pointed it at me, never tried to fire it. Only, I was so focussed on you and the gun, that I tripped; I fell right into you, and we both went down. The way you were holding it, I doubt that your finger was even on the trigger – the gun went off when we hit the ground." He tried to hold his father's gaze, putting everything he had into convincing him that he was telling the truth. "It was an accident." He watched the doubt and uncertainty that played across Mark's face, and continued, desperate to convince him.
"Dad, we've never lied to each other – not over anything that mattered. I'm telling you the absolute truth. When I went out to the cabin with Jesse, it all came back to me as clear as could be. It happened just the way I told you. It's not your fault, Dad. You didn't shoot me. It was an accident." For a moment longer he stared into his father's eyes as the issue hung in the balance. Then Mark's eyes closed, and he sagged back in the chair as the unbearable tension drained out of him. Steve found himself feeling limp with relief as he realized that his dad had accepted the truth of his tale. He knew that it would be a while before Mark would be able to let go of the residual feelings of guilt, but at least now he could begin the process of coping with what had happened. He gently gripped his father's shoulder, knowing that the contact would be accepted now, that it would bring comfort, not an increase in Mark's self recriminations.
The first, critical need now met, Steve could spare the attention to assess his father's physical condition. He hadn't missed Mark's involuntary wince as his ribs protested when he sagged against the chair. That sign of pain, along with the white, drawn face with its deep circles under hollow eyes, the dark bruising visible on his neck, the almost lifeless droop of the figure before him, all testified to the terrible toll the events of the past week had taken. Steve's own physical pain paled in comparison to the ache in his heart as he surveyed the physical and emotional damage his father had suffered. He waited silently for Mark to compose himself sufficiently to look up, maintaining what he hoped was a reassuring contact.
Mark sat with his head down, struggling with the confusing emotions that were overwhelming him. He wasn't sure what he felt or even what he should be feeling. He was almost afraid to believe what Steve had told him, but had to accept his son's obvious sincerity. If he hadn't ever aimed at his son, hadn't ever pulled the trigger when he was present, if it had all been truly just a horrible accident, perhaps there could be forgiveness for him after all. Relief warred with a lingering sense of doubt and guilt, not easily lifted after the week-long descent into depression and despair, and with the fear that he might still have somehow damaged the relationship that meant more to him than his life, that things might not be the same between Steve and him. He opened his eyes, stealing a glance at his son, still hesitant to face what he might see in his eyes.
"Steve…" He searched for the words to express his regrets, his love, his concern for his son.
"Dad, it's okay," Steve interjected reassuringly.
"I'm so sorry…" Mark's voice trailed off shakily.
Steve's heart twisted anew at the pain in his father's face and voice. He noticed that Mark was still avoiding any prolonged eye contact, and knew that he was having trouble letting go of the guilt.
"Dad, look at me," he urged quietly. He saw Mark force himself to lift his eyes to meet Steve's full on. "This wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong. If either of us is to blame for this mess, it should be me; if I'd been more careful and hadn't tripped, this would never have happened."
"It's not your fault," Mark objected. "You can't blame yourself."
Steve smiled at him with deep affection. "I won't if you won't," he offered, the lightness of the words in no way disguising the obvious sincerity of the sentiment.
Mark searched his son's face, seeing the love and concern that were the best balm to the grief and anguish in his heart. He drew a ragged breath, squeezing his eyes shut to hide the tears that suddenly welled up as his battered emotions threatened to overwhelm him.
"Come on, Dad," Steve said gently, giving a comforting squeeze to his father's shoulder. "Let's get you out of here."
A few minutes later, after Mark had been led off to change back into his own clothes and collect his few things, the two Sloans emerged into the lobby of the prison where Jesse waited. Jesse looked up anxiously, scanning both faces for an indication of how the reunion had gone. He was greatly relieved to see signs of life again in Mark's eyes, replacing the hopeless anguish that had been there so recently. And if there was an uncharacteristic air of hesitancy about his friend, as if he weren't quite sure of where he was or what to do, at least the sense of total apathy was gone. Steve, too, looked less driven and more relaxed, now that he had accomplished the task of freeing his father. Jesse moved to grip both friends' arms.
"Mark. Thank God this is all over," he said fervently.
"It won't be completely over until they pick up Bobby Phillips," Steve declared grimly. "I want to see the kid who caused all this behind bars."
"You think they'll find him?" asked Jesse. "If he killed Tommy Caymen, it's not likely that he'd stick around here, is it?"
Mark looked at the two of them in confusion. "Wait a minute. What's this about Bobby?"
"Apparently, Bobby Phillips managed to get hold of another gun," Steve told him, "and committed the murder he was planning."
"That doesn't make any sense," Mark protested, thinking of the interview he had had with Bobby earlier. "He said he was running away because he didn't want to get involved with any more violence."
It was Steve and Jesse's turn to exchange looks of confusion.
"You said he told you that he was stealing the gun to kill the person who killed his brother," said Jesse, bewildered.
"He did. But he came here today and told me that he couldn't go through with it," Mark responded.
Steve stared at him. "He came here? Today?" His face darkened. "He had some nerve."
Mark scanned the faces before him, struggling to arrange his thoughts and try to understand what was going on here. It suddenly occurred to him that Steve and Jesse still thought that Bobby was the one who had drugged him.
"He wanted to tell me that he was sorry for what happened," Mark explained quietly, "and that he wasn't the one who put the drug in my drink." He saw skepticism in his friend's and son's faces. "It wasn't an easy thing for him to do," he added. "I really can't believe that he killed anybody. What happened?"
"Apparently, he shot a boy named Tommy Caymen," Steve replied. "Jesse and I found the body when we went to Bobby's house to bring him in to tell his story."
"What time was this Tommy killed?" Mark asked.
"The body was still slightly warm when we found it," Jesse answered. "I'd guess he'd been dead about an hour. And that was when we found him around 3:45."
"It must have been around 4:00 when Bobby came here," Mark said. "That doesn't leave much time for him to have killed Tommy and gotten all the way out here. And why come to see me anyway? Why wouldn't he have gotten as far away as possible?"
"Maybe he thought he could establish an alibi," suggested Jesse. "Or maybe he thought it would help if he convinced you that he wasn't the one who drugged you."
"Not much of an alibi," Mark commented. "Who would think to question me about his whereabouts? And if you hadn't gotten me released, I'd probably never even have heard about this, so it's not like I could have volunteered the information. Not that anything I said would carry much weight anyway, under the circumstances."
The hint of depression that underlay that last comment flicked a painful lash across Steve's heart.
"What did he tell you when he was here?" he asked, as much to keep his father's mind on Bobby's situation as anything else. He wasn't entirely convinced yet that Bobby was guiltless in all this. Normally, he would be inclined to trust his father's instincts in such matters, but given Mark's state of mind recently, it wouldn't be surprising if his normal perceptiveness and judgement were off kilter. But encouraging the mental exercise of making a case on Bobby's behalf would at least help him focus on something productive and hopefully prevent a re-descent into depression.
Mark tried to pull himself together enough to marshal a coherent statement. His brain seemed to have grown a thick layer of fuzz over the last week, and it was with an effort that he managed to mentally review his conversation with Bobby and pull out the significant points.
"He said that he wasn't alone that day at the cabin," Mark began. "There was another boy with him – Nick, I think he said his name was. Nick was supposedly a friend of Bobby's brother, and he was the one who convinced Bobby to seek revenge against the boy who had killed his brother. He said Nick was hiding in the bushes while we were talking, and he was the one who slipped the drugs in the lemonade when I went back in the cabin."
"Sounds like he was trying to pass off all the blame onto someone else," observed Jesse skeptically.
"It doesn't make sense," Mark insisted. "He had nothing to gain by coming to tell me that. He was truly upset by what had happened. And he was scared." Things were starting to fall into place now, as his concentration increased. "He said Nick had been threatening him; he was afraid he would be killed if he stayed here. He said he was afraid to go to the police to tell what he knew because they would kill him." He met Steve's eyes, and his son was thankful to see the familiar expression that indicated an idea burgeoning. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "it occurred to me, back at the cabin, to wonder about the overly altruistic motives of the 'friend of his brother' who wanted to see Bobby avenge his brother's death. What if this Tommy was the boy who killed Bobby's brother, but Nick had his own reasons for wanting Tommy dead?"
"Scott did mention that Tommy Caymen was bragging about being involved in 'something big' to do with drugs," volunteered Jesse. "And he mentioned a Nick Dempsey as well."
"So Tommy kills Bobby's brother and when Bobby decides not to kill Tommy himself, Nick goes ahead and kills him?" recapped Steve. "So how did the body end up at Bobby's house?"
"Maybe Nick is trying to frame Bobby," suggested Mark. "If Tommy is the one who killed Bobby's brother, Bobby would certainly appear to have a motive. And if Sheriff Consten thinks Bobby killed Tommy, he isn't likely to pay much attention to anything Bobby says about Nick."
There was a moment's silence as that statement was accepted. Certainly, they all had reason to know that the sheriff tended not to look beyond the obvious once he had made up his mind. Mark raised worried eyes to his son's.
"Steve, I need to find Bobby. He's alone and he's scared, and he probably has no idea that they're looking for him in connection with Tommy's murder. And there's no saying that Nick will be satisfied with just implicating Bobby in the murder, especially if he finds out he has an alibi. He may very well go ahead and try to kill Bobby to shut him up for good."
Steve gazed back at his father, trying to weigh the options. His strongest desire was to get his dad out of all this, to take him home and allow him to start healing in the familiar and comforting setting of the beach house. He found that he couldn't quite bring himself to care all that much about what happened to the boy who, even if he hadn't actually put the drugs in Mark's drink, nevertheless didn't seem to have done much to prevent it, nor to have made any attempt to come forward and support Mark's story, which might have kept his father out of jail. But Mark was obviously deeply concerned, and Steve had a feeling that his need to help Bobby was at least partially driven by a compulsion to do something constructive to help offset what he still felt was his own guilt in this affair. There was also the fact that the mental involvement in the case was giving his father a much-needed boost back to normalcy. And right now, Steve would have willingly launched an investigation to prove that the bogeyman was real if it would fan that spark of life and actively engaged intelligence that were reawakening in his father.
"Okay, Dad," he assented, these thoughts passing through his mind in a brief flash. "Do you have any idea where Bobby might have gone?"
"He said something about heading to Sacramento," Mark said. "But first, he was going to stop at his brother's apartment." He thought about it for a moment, then added with a touch of frustration, "But I don't think he gave any indication of where his brother lived."
"That's okay; that's something I can get," Steve said with determination, pulling out his cell phone. "Come on, I'll call Cheryl as Jesse's driving."
Mark took a good look at his son, noting his pallor, and the lines of pain in his face, and didn't move.
"Steve, the only place you should be going is back to the hospital," he said in concern.
Steve stopped short, turning to look at his father. "Dad, I'm fine," he declared, exchanging a quick glance with Jesse, who had no difficulty in reading the look Steve shot him: Stay out of it. Jesse struggled with his own internal battle. He knew that Mark was right; Steve was pushing himself dangerously far here. There was a very real risk that he could rip open stitches that had repaired the damage to his abdomen and start bleeding internally, requiring emergency surgery. And if that happened, even if they got him to the hospital in time, there was no guarantee that he would survive such a surgery on top of everything else his body had been through. On the other hand, he had a strong feeling that nothing he said was going to alter Steve's determination to stay with his father now, no matter what happened. And by adding his medical prohibition to Mark's, he would only increase Mark's concern and guilt over what might happen to his son. So Jesse kept his mouth shut, and watched his friends battle it out.
"Steve, you should never have been allowed out of the hospital this soon after the type of injury you suffered. If you start bleeding internally, you could die." Mark struggled to keep his voice under control, trying to cloak his fear for his son under a tone of professional assessment. He doubted that he had succeeded.
"Dad," Steve kept his own voice as matter-of-fact as he could, knowing that he was walking an emotional tightrope here. "I'm all right – really. I promise, I'll take it easy. I've even got a cane in the car that I'll use. But I'm not…," he paused almost imperceptibly, suddenly changing what he was going to say, "…going back to the hospital," he continued. He was thankful that he had caught himself before uttering his original thought: "letting you go without me," knowing that that would put his father in the untenable position of either risking his son or refraining from pursuing a course of action that would help offset his feelings of guilt.
Mark searched his son's face, trying to decide what he should do. He recognized the determination he saw there, and knew that he had virtually no chance of persuading Steve to return to the hospital while he went after Bobby. Which meant that he either gave up the hope of rescuing Bobby from whatever danger he might be in, or he allowed his son to go with him, knowing that he really should be in the hospital. As he hesitated, Steve's face softened.
"It's okay, Dad, really," he repeated quietly. "And I'm not going back to the hospital no matter what you decide to do, so we might as well all go together. We're just going to find Bobby and talk to him; that shouldn't be all that strenuous."
Mark hesitated a moment more, battling his insecurities about risking Steve further, then gave in to what he knew was the inevitable outcome. He nodded wordlessly, and they headed to Jesse's car, hoping that Steve's assessment of the circumstances would turn out to be accurate.
