Chapter 2
Jesse was bouncing nervously on his toes as Mark emerged from a long session in surgery. Despite his fatigue, Mark's quick eye was instantly caught by the worry in the young doctor's expression and, more alarmingly, by the uniformed officer behind him. Immediately his mind swung without conscious volition to the painful fear that ran as a permanent undercurrent to his life, normally kept at bay by the exigencies of work and everyday concerns but erupting periodically in agonizing spouts when his son was injured in the line of duty.
Jesse noticed Mark's steps falter and the sudden apprehension on his face, and he had no difficulty interpreting the cause. However, in deference to Mark's feelings, he chose to address his concern obliquely.
"Steve called. I don't know what it's about exactly, but he seems to think you're in need of protection. So here it is," he said brightly, waving his hand in the direction of the man whom Mark now recognised as one of the Community General security guards.
Mark relaxed, focusing solely on the first two words of Jesse's statement, conscious for a moment only of relief that his worst fears were unrealized. Jesse watched the effect of his words with rueful amusement, reflecting that only Mark could look so relieved at hearing that his life was in danger.
"He'll be here in a minute to explain... you know... about the threat to your life," Jesse emphasized in an effort to encourage his friend to recognize the danger to him personally. Mark grinned at him unrepentantly, understanding the implied rebuke, but refusing to worry about it.
"Then let's go to meet him." As they walked along the corridors to the ER, Tomlinson, the security guard, in tow, Jesse filled Mark in on the little he knew. He attempted to quote Steve's warning verbatim, then related the circumstances of Cheryl's emergency call. Mark listened intently, but the scant information offered little on which to base a theory so he refrained from speculating out loud until Steve arrived.
There was a flurry of movement when the ambulance arrived. As Jesse and one of the other ER doctors carted the wounded man off into surgery, Mark spotted his son entering the building. His confident stride clearly indicated the he was indeed uninjured, despite the considerable blood stains that seemed to besmirch his clothes.
"Is any of that blood yours?" Mark demanded, raking his son with a diagnostic appraisal to confirm his original impression. He was quickly satisfied that Steve was not concealing any injuries, and on closer examination, he realized that not all the stains were sanguinary in nature. As he drew even nearer, he made a second and less pleasant discovery.
"What is that awful smell?" he exclaimed, seconds before realizing exactly the source from which the rancorous odor was emanating. On the receiving end of a glare from his son, he started laughing helplessly, holding his arm up in a warding gesture, the release of tension adding to his amusement. Steve moved towards him in a mock threat, a distinct twinkle in his eye, and his father backed off, still laughing, holding his hands up in surrender.
"No don't touch me, that is absolutely disgusting. What is that stuff on your shoulder, it smells like..."
Steve cut him off. "You don't want to know," he said with resignation.
"Come on, you can't wander round the hospital like that. This is supposed to be a sterile environment. Go and take a shower in the locker room and put on some clean clothes." Several years ago Mark had decided to maintain a spare set of clothes in his locker for the all too frequent occasions when his son showed up as a patient in the ER.
"A shower would be great!" Steve said with feeling. "However, Dad, we need to talk now."
Mark responded to his son's sudden gravity by sobering up himself, but he still insisted on the shower before discussing any matters of importance. "Or I'll be sitting too far away from you to hear anything you say."
Steve hesitated, resistant to the idea of letting his father out of his sight, but he acquiesced on the condition that his father stay in the doctor's lounge with the guard outside while he waited.
The shower felt wonderful, and he luxuriated in the clean feeling. As the hot water beat down, Steve had time to consider how to broach the subject of the death threat. He had sent Cheryl back to the station to file a report and start investigating Johnny Tremelo, but he didn't expect to hear back from her for a while, so there was nothing official to bolster his own suspicions and feelings of trepidation. In Steve's opinion, his father took entirely too cavalier an attitude to his own safety, and now he had the difficult task of convincing him to take this current threat seriously. A germ of an idea took root and, by the time Steve walked towards the doctor's lounge, it had blossomed into a promising plan of action. Tomlinson was in position outside the door, and Steve was pleased to find Amanda inside with his father. He knew that he could count on her support to persuade his father to accept some security measures. Both of them looked at him expectantly as he entered, but Mark gave him a cup of coffee before asking him any questions.
Steve recounted his recent experiences, downplaying the element of personal danger, making his impromptu dive behind the dumpster seem more humorous than life-saving, even if he didn't expect it to fool his father. At the end, Mark looked more thoughtful than concerned at the implied threat to his life but, just as he was about to comment, Steve jumped in.
"I'll call the Captain, and we can have you in a safe house tonight."
Mark's mouth, which had opened to speak, hung open in amazement for a moment, then he said cautiously, - "Don't you think that's a slight overreaction?"
"No," Steve said firmly and launched into what he hoped was a strong defense of his strategy. "This is the only way to guarantee your safety. A hitman could get through any defenses we could set up here or at home. This way, no assassin can find you."
Typically, Mark put his finger on the weakest point of this theory. "What makes you think there's a hitman at all? It sounds to me like it was a set-up from start to finish and you were the intended victim. Steve, I can't just stop work at a moment's notice and disappear for a few days because of a vague threat. I have patients and students who need me here now."
"He was telling the truth, Dad. I believed him." Steve looked straight at Mark, meeting his eyes with complete sincerity. He didn't see the need to mention his private reservations that Fast Eddie had not been totally forthcoming in all the details. "Please, just lay low for a bit and give me a chance to deal with this."
"He has a point, Mark," Amanda chimed in, her concern obvious. "Remember what happened the time Rosser was after you?"
Steve mentally blessed her for introducing this point. It had been Amanda herself and Norman Briggs who had been hurt on that occasion, and if anything could make Mark pay attention, it was the possibility of innocent bystanders being hurt instead of him.
Mark frowned, consideringly. " I promise I'll take every reasonable precaution but I can't stop working every time there's a rumor of danger. Not until there's proof of something more substantial. I won't take any impromptu walks on the hospital grounds or stand invitingly in front of any windows. How about that?"
"I'm bringing you to work and back again everyday," Steve added grimly, the vision of his father's car exploding still clear in his mind after many years. In that instant, he had truly believed his father was dead, and the memory of that horrific moment was still capable of giving him nightmares. He wasn't about to take the chance of a repetition of that event.
"That sounds like a good compromise," Amanda commented, pleased that an agreement had been reached that they could all live with. Mark looked at his son, eyes twinkling, and Steve, although he tried to maintain an innocent expression, knew his father had, as always, seen through his plan. These concessions had been his goal from the start, the safe house merely a threat to ease the acceptance of greater precautions. He thought wryly, but also with pride, that it would be a cold day in hell before he could outmaneuver his father.
The three of them sat chatting, discussing the putative threat and its ramifications until Jesse arrived. The young doctor slumped into a chair with a big sigh as the others watched him with concern. "He's alive, but it's not looking good. I'm sorry, Steve. Was he a friend of yours?"
"No." Steve shook his head, feeling a sense of guilt, that he saw no need to voice, that he had put self-preservation before protection.
"It wasn't your fault, son," Mark interrupted his brooding. "I'm just glad it isn't you lying down there." As usual, his father had uncannily followed his thought process, and the obviously heartfelt sentiment diminished his guilt, leaving him relieved that he hadn't inflicted that particular anguish on his father again. A silent acknowledgment of the fact passed between them, a moment of perfect understanding. Steve reflected how incredibly lucky he was to have a father who always stood ready to offer support of whatever kind he needed. He wasn't going to allow anything to happen to him. A feeling of renewed determination flowed through him, and he broke eye contact with his father to turn to Jesse.
"I need to talk to Eddie, Jess. Any idea when that might be possible?"
Jesse looked doubtful. "At the moment I don't know if he'll ever recover consciousness. And if he does, there's a bullet lodged against his spine. He's far too weak for the delicate surgery necessary to remove it now, but it needs to come out or he will probably be paralyzed for life. That's a job for a specialist, not me. Who would you suggest I call in, Mark?"
"I'd call Bill Stedman in for the consult. He's the best I know in this area."
"Isn't he the one who perfected the new microspinoscopy techniques?" Jesse asked eagerly.
"Yes, that's Bill. I've known him since medical school; he's a good friend."
As the doctors continued to discuss the finer points of portals and minimally invasive techniques, Steve got up to leave. "Dad, I'll be back later to pick you up."
As he went out the door, he took a minute to explain the situation to Tomlinson and asked him to keep a careful watch. On the verge of departing from the hospital, Steve hesitated, suddenly loathe to leave. It was absurd to imagine his mere presence could guarantee protection, but leaving felt like desertion. His father was altogether too vulnerable here. He should have felt pleased to have successfully wrung the acceptance of security precautions out of his father, but instead he felt as if he were making a huge mistake not insisting on the safe house, however impractical it was.
