Chapter 8
Mark dropped to his knees beside the prone body of his son, oblivious to his personal safety. His breath was harsh against the lining of his throat, and he could hear nothing past the pounding of the blood in his ears, but his mind kept replaying the litany, - "It was supposed to be me, it was supposed to be me" - as he stared in horror at the spreading stain on Steve's shirt. His son had been shot before, but he had never been in a position to witness it. For what seemed like an eternity but was only a few seconds, he froze, unable to comprehend what had happened; then fear exploded within him sending a shrapnel of agony to every part of his body and galvanising him to action.
"Oh, God!" he whispered, his hands fumbling to assess the extent of his son's injury. The location alone told him of its severity; there was no way the bullet could have missed his lung. He stripped off his jacket and used it to staunch the flow of blood. He had to get Steve to a hospital and fast. Mark looked around desperately for inspiration, and was brought back to the brutal reality of his position as he saw a large man armed with a rifle approaching them. Frantically, he looked for Steve's gun, his normal pacifistic nature and the Hippocratic Oath swept away in an onslaught of fury as his son's blood stained his hands and his would-be killer neared. In the time available, he was unable to find the weapon; it seemed to be hidden underneath Steve's body as he lay face down on the ground, his injured left arm outflung.
Mark gave up the search, and turned to face the gunman, interposing his body between him and his son. Ed Warren was a large man, physically imposing, but he stopped, momentarily uncertain of his next move, as he faced the elderly doctor who glared at him unafraid despite the menace of the gun. The tableau remained unchanged for a minute, neither man moving, then the gunman, eying Mark cautiously, edged to the right to see his victim. Mark shifted protectively to block his view.
"Leave him alone." The words rasped warningly from his throat. "He's no threat to you, don't touch him. It's me you want." Mark fully expected to die at this time; his strongest regret was that his son would almost certainly die too without anyone to aid him. He was mystified by the reply from Warren which seemed to make no sense in light of his previous assumptions.
"You're wrong, old man. I don't want you at all; but your son is about to make me a very rich man." Warren again moved for a clear shot at Steve, and was again frustrated by Mark shielding him.
"Don't hurt him," Mark repeated. His rage at this man so casually trying to kill his son was now tempered by a return to his normal clear thinking and tactical ability. He would defend Steve by any means open to him, and he felt no fear for himself as he looked for an exploitable weakness in the other man.
Losing patience, and confident in his physical superiority, Warren attempted to sweep Mark aside with a contemptuous shove. "Get out of my way, old man."
He was caught off balance when Mark launched himself bodily at him with a snarl. While he no longer had the strength of his youth, he still had considerable heft, and, with the impetus of fear for his son, he was willing to inflict whatever damage he could on the unprepared gunman.
He landed several satisfactory blows but, knowing his limitations, his sole intent was to take possession of the gun, and he clung to it grimly, ignoring the retaliatory knocks that Warren doled out as he recovered from his shock at being attacked by the elderly man whom he had dismissed as harmless. Once the advantage of surprise was lost, the fight was too uneven to last for long, despite Mark's determination. As Warren wrenched the rifle round, the butt hit Mark on the head, knocking him to the side and leaving him momentarily stunned. He sensed rather than saw Warren steady himself to turn to fire on Steve. With a desperate cry, half blinded by the blood trickling into his eyes from the reopened wound on his forehead, he threw himself in the direction of the gunman, trying to physically block the bullet. He realised his attempt was ineffective as the sound of the shot rang in his ears.
The agony of failure welled up inside him and he frantically scrubbed at the blood in his eyes. Acting purely on an instinctive need to get to his son, he got to his feet and stumbled in Steve's direction.
"Dad!"
Mark's normally astute mind seemed dulled by the repeated blows and emotional shocks of the last few minutes, and he gazed in incomprehension at the blurred vision of Steve, ashen-faced but struggling to rise with his gun in his hand. Then, overwhelming relief filled him as the realisation hit that it was Steve who had fired the shot and his attacker who lay senseless on the ground. He moved quickly to his son's side to help him stand without aggravating his injuries.
"Got...to...get to cover." Steve's voice was thick and his face etched with pain.
This time, father supported son with both an arm around his waist and encouraging words as they staggered the remaining 20 yards into the shelter of the trees, then deeper into the woods to provide concealment if people searched for them from the open ground. Once satisfied they were temporarily safe, Mark halted their flight, and persuaded Steve to sit down and rest.
"We have to keep going," Steve protested weakly.
Mark shook his head. "I have to see to your injuries first, if for no other reason than you're leaving a trail a blind man could follow. I have to stop the bleeding."
Steve submitted to the examination in silence. Knowing how difficult this was for his father, he refused to make it harder by allowing the pain he caused to show, but his face was two shades paler by the time Mark had finished. Steve covertly watched his father's face as he worked; although Mark was adept at concealing his emotions from his patients, Steve had had a lot of practice at picking up on his subtle cues, and this time he could sense that Mark was worried. The bullet had broken a rib before entering the lung and exiting the other side. As far as Mark could tell, no major blood vessels or other organs had been damaged. However, without medical intervention, the prognosis was still grim. The blood loss was severe enough, but the real danger was that the build-up of pressure in the chest cavity would not only collapse the lung, but also cut off the blood supply to the heart.
Steve didn't really need any confirmation from his father to realise how seriously he was hurt. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and grinding pain accompanied every inhalation. However, he couldn't allow himself to rest until he knew Mark was safe. He had to convince his father to continue on without him. He was under no illusion that this would be an easy task, but he had to try.
"Dad?" Steve's voice was weak but urgent.
Mark anticipated what was coming, and didn't look up from the makeshift bandage he was trying to fasten. "Don't try to talk, son. Just keep still."
"You've got to keep going. I'll find a place to hide. You need to go and get help for me," Steve persisted, playing the only card in his hand, weak as it was.
Not surprisingly, it was quickly trumped. "If I leave you, you're going to die, either from blood loss or when the men find you here." Mark's tone was flat and uncompromising.
"Dad..." Frustration was clear in Steve's voice. He didn't finish his sentence, but what was left unsaid was clear to them both - he was going to die anyway.
"No," Mark said firmly; a complete rejection of both the possibility of his son dying and the possibility of him leaving.
Steve grasped his wrist, forcing his father to look at him. "Please," was all he said, but, in that one intensely desperate word, he conveyed all his love for his father and the depth of his need to keep him safe.
Caught by the raw honesty and anguish in those blue eyes so like his own, Mark could only stare helplessly. He understood how important this was to Steve, but, for once, found himself utterly unable to comply with his wishes. He couldn't find the words to explain that, if his son died, life for him was essentially over; whether it was here at the receiving end of a bullet or later in his bed was irrelevant. Life without his son was too agonising to contemplate.
In a rare gesture of affection, he reached out and gently pushed Steve's sweat-dampened hair back on his forehead, trying to think of a way to soften the rejection.
"I'm sorry," he whispered finally, then, as he felt his son start to withdraw, he continued, "but I can't leave you anymore than you could leave me if the situation were reversed."
Steve closed his eyes, then, with a superhuman effort, forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and began to move stubbornly on through the trees. Mark was instantly at his side, dismayed, but unable to decide whether it was more dangerous for Steve to keep going or to stay where he was. The disclosure that Steve was actually the target of the contract had left him off-balance, although he didn't have the luxury of pursuing that train of thought right now. He hovered anxiously at his son's elbow, trying to prevent him from exacerbating his injuries as he lurched through the trees.
Steve continued walking, his steps more and more unsteady, until finally he collapsed, shaken by a paroxysm of coughing, a bloody froth on his lips.
His mind in turmoil, Mark dropped to the ground, his back against a rock and gently helped Steve into a sitting position leaning against him, hoping the elevated position would ease his breathing. There was nothing he could do for the internal bleeding. If he could just get Steve to a hospital, he could still save his life, but, out here in the wilderness, despite all his skills, there was nothing he could do. It was the worst nightmare he could possibly envisage, and his rib cage seemed too small to contain the anguish in his heart. His son was bleeding to death in his arms, and he couldn't save him. He had no instruments, not even a pen to perform even the most basic surgery.
As a doctor with decades of experience, Mark knew that Death was no respecter of persons. He had watched too many people, old and young, rich and poor, strong and weak, lose their battle to live. But this was one time he simply couldn't admit defeat. He frantically ran through all his options in his head, trying to create possibilities out of thin air. With the best will in the world, he couldn't carry his son to safety. Even if he were physically capable of such a feat, it would aggravate Steve's internal injuries.
The only thing he could do was to hope for Cheryl to arrive with the promised backup, and to ensure that Steve was alive when she came. It was critical to minimise the blood loss, but most of all he had to encourage his son's natural tenacity. His will to live was immensely strong and their best ally in this crisis.
"Just hold on, help's on the way. You've just got to hold on," he whispered once more. At some instinctual level, deeper than that of medical rationality, he found himself believing that the bond between him and his son was so strong that he could use it to tether Steve to this life as if it were a physical rope with himself hanging onto his end with all his might. With voice and touch, he softly coaxed Steve to keep fighting, although every tortured breath his son took sliced deeply into his heart.
Steve hadn't said anything since he collapsed. He had put every remaining ounce of energy into that last desperate attempt at seeking refuge, and now rested against his father only semi-conscious, listening to him talk, more aware of his father's voice than of his words. Occasionally, he was shaken by painful bouts of coughing, his body tensing with the effort of controlling the stabbing spasms.
Mark supported him through these convulsions though they tore at his self-control. He didn't know how long he talked, but his voice became hoarse with the effort and with the unshed tears that burned his throat. Interlaced with the horror of the moment were the poignant memories he conjured to defend himself against the reality of his son dying in his arms. He recalled the time when Steve was a much-adored baby lying cradled in his arms and wished he could protect him as easily now from the horrors that lurked in the shadows.
"It used to be easier to chase away the monsters from under your bed when you were younger," he confided. "I remember the Christmas when you were four; your uncle gave you a book about dinosaurs, and you had terrible nightmares about a T-rex coming to eat you."
He stopped talking as Steve finally stirred. With the last of his energy he whispered, - "Dad." As his father leant down, he managed the word, - "Sorry..." before finally losing the struggle with unconsciousness. Mark felt his body relaxing, and tendrils of anguish like living flame licked at every nerve end at the realisation that his son was slipping away. Unless he could relieve the pressure in Steve's chest soon, it would be too late.
Looking around frantically for any sharp object, it occurred to him that although he had checked all his pockets, he had failed to search Steve's. He hurriedly remedied his oversight, fingers trembling in hope as he prayed he would find something of use. Steve's precipitate departure from the house that morning was reflected in the paucity of objects on his person, but, in a back pocket, Mark found a well-worn Swiss pocket knife that he had given his son for his 21st birthday. He looked at it for a moment, hardly daring to believe what he held. Without a chest tube, it promised a temporary measure of relief at best, but it would gain some time, and, for now, that was enough.
Grimly, he started preparations, but his concentration was suddenly broken by the sound of a gunshot nearby. He had actually forgotten the gunmen hunting them in the trauma of Steve's worsening condition. If they were this close, it would be easy for them to follow the trail of blood and close in to finish the job. The difficulties involved in keeping his son alive had just multiplied.
A wave of fury seized him, and he grabbed Steve's gun, determined to defend him to the end, but, as he stared down at his son's pale, still face, the germ of an idea started to sprout, and his inventive mind conceived a desperate plan. He relinquished his hold on the gun, and instead took up the knife again.
