Chapter 11

72 hours later, Mark was sitting in the same chair, waiting for Steve to fully recover consciousness. Amanda had persuaded him to go back to his room for a nap once Steve's condition had been upgraded from critical to serious, but he had returned as soon as he could. Steve's pneumonia was starting to respond to antibiotics, and Jesse was pleased with his progress. Mark was deeply thankful for the strength of his son's constitution which had again triumphed against overwhelming odds.

Relieved of his most pressing concerns, Mark now relentlessly analysed the conundrum of the identity of his nemesis, worrying tenaciously at the problem like a terrier at a bone. He had been shaken to the core by Tremelo's revelation of his real goal, both by the vindictiveness behind it and the change in the perceived role he was supposed to play in the scenario. In thinking back to the information Steve had received from Fast Eddie, Mark remembered that he'd said that, someone had wanted to hurt Mark and had hired a hitman. The automatic assumption had been that Mark himself was the target. The sheer malevolence and premeditation behind the truth went beyond simple anger and a desire for revenge. It emanated from a mind so warped with hatred that Mark couldn't fathom the depths of such enmity. Simple murder he could understand, its motives of passion and greed played out all too many times, but the deliberate infliction of maximum suffering was beyond his comprehension. He swore with a cold, hard resolve to find the person responsible for hurting his son.

Surprisingly enough, he bore no malice towards Tremelo, merely hoping he wouldn't return when he discovered he'd been duped. Mark's hostility was directed squarely at the unknown figure who had engineered this brutal plan. He believed this person must know him well to strike so unerringly at his Achilles heel. There was a personal element to this revenge that his instincts told him spoke of familiarity. Although Mark knew that he wasn't responsible for his son's injuries, he couldn't quell the stirrings of guilt over the fact that Steve had been hurt because of him. Even stronger though was his anger that his son should be used as a pawn in a strike against him. Steve faced enough danger every day at work without his father contributing, however inadvertently, to his jeopardy.

Mark believed that the phone calls he'd received were the key to finding the culprit. Steve had assured him that no one should have had access to his number. While in the safe house, he had placed calls to four doctors at Community General from the cell phone, and the most likely scenario was that one of these men had caller ID which had provided them with his number. It was easy to overlook the availability of technology that one didn't possess oneself. One of the doctors was Jesse, whom he could easily dismiss as a suspect, but he could think of no reason why any of the others would want to hurt him. He had known Bill Stedman for many years and, although he was occasionally cantankerous, there was no animosity between them. Mannings and Narimba were excellent doctors who stood to gain nothing by his removal as far as he was aware. Although it was possible that any of them could have passed the number on unwittingly, since he had never specified that it should remain secret, and he couldn't dismiss the possibility that the leak had originated at the police station since the phone itself belonged to the department, the possibilities were narrowing, and he had passed on the information to Cheryl who was examining phone records.

Mark's mental peregrinations halted as he saw slight movements from his son's bed. He was by his side in an instant and watched his eyes flutter open. A smile curved Steve's lips at the sight of his father and, for a moment, they regarded each other in silence. Steve was the first to speak, but the first words out of his mouth surprised him with their weakness.

"You look like hell," he observed affectionately, noting the vivid green bruise on his father's forehead and the strain around his eyes.

Mark felt the residual tension ease from his body. "You haven't looked in a mirror lately," he retorted in the same tone of voice, then more seriously, "How do you feel?"

Steve took a quick internal inventory. Considering he had accepted that he was going to die, he thought he was feeling rather well. "Apart from the elephant sitting on my chest, I feel great."

Mark smiled sympathetically, understanding how difficult it was to breathe with pneumonia. "Let me call Jesse, and we'll give you some medication that will change that to a ... smallish hippopotamus." He reached out for the call button but Steve stopped him.

"Don't, wait."

Mark looked at him in concern, worried that something was wrong, but Steve reassured him.

"I just want a little bit longer before people come in here, poking and prodding and generally using me as a pin cushion."

Mark reflected that his son had ample reason to know how assiduous doctors could be in their ministrations. However, he intuited that Steve wanted some quiet time with just the two of them before the well-meaning hordes descended. He was experiencing a feeling of euphoria that Steve had recovered enough to converse, and he too was determined to enjoy this brief oasis of calm. He sat back down, pulled his chair up to the bedside and relaxed into it.

Steve looked at him expectantly, and he smiled innocently back, knowing what his son wanted to hear.

"Well," he demanded eventually. "What happened? Did they catch Tremelo?"

"Hmm, Tremelo. Nice guy once you get to know him." He watched Steve's reaction out of the corner of his eye. "Helped save your life, you know." He stifled his smug satisfaction as Steve's jaw dropped.

"This, I've got to hear. OK, Dad. I'm hooked. What the hell happened?"

Mark related the story with judicious editing in parts, trying to keep the tone light. He found this more difficult to relive that he had expected. He realised that the only way he had successfully pulled off such a deception was that, with Steve so near death, he had been able to draw on the depth of emotion such an event would cause. Now, safe in a cozy room with his son conscious beside him, his mind shied away from the emotional upheaval this memory caused.

He obviously hadn't done such a good job of hiding his reactions because Steve reached out and patted his arm as it lay on the bed. He made no comment though, and Mark continued. By the end, Steve was shaking his head in a mixture of incredulity and pride.

"Only you, Dad, only you." He started to laugh. "You know, this whole thing has been backwards from beginning to end. The man trying to kill me is instrumental is saving my life, and after all my efforts to keep you alive, it wasn't even you they were trying to kill."

Mark looked at him wryly. He was happy to see his son's sense of humour emerge again. However, he didn't find it nearly so funny that his son was actually the target. The truth was it terrified him. Death had ventured entirely too close to his son and he wanted no repetition of recent events. Steve, though, was unperturbed by the news that he was the target, infinitely preferring it to the alternative.

"So, where do we go from here?" he asked, yawning as the effort of communicating started to weigh on his damaged lungs.

"Well," Mark suggested impishly, "since you're now officially the target, not me, it's your turn to disappear for a while in a safe house."

"Not a chance." Steve's splutter of indignation turned into a coughing fit, and Mark helped him drink some water before settling him back into the pillows. Once he was comfortable, Mark resumed a trifle remorsefully, reluctantly relinquishing the pleasant daydream of Steve safely tucked away.

"Actually," he mused, "putting me in a safe house probably helped to keep you safe, another of the ironies that have dogged us recently. Staying apart prevented anyone from fulfilling the terms of the contract."

"Well, I'd be climbing the walls within days." Steve shuddered dramatically to illustrate his dislike of the concept, then continued in a more hopeful tone. "Talking of which, I don't suppose you're going to let me out of here anytime soon, are you?"

Mark firmly quashed that thought. "Not until we see that pneumonia clearing up and you recover more of your strength. You've been through a lot."

Steve could hear the unspoken implication that he would probably need all his stamina and energy when he left the hospital, but he was too tired to worry about it. Besides, his faith in his father's deductive abilities was implicit. "You'll probably have figured out the whole thing by that time." He yawned again and edged a little further down in the bed. "Maybe Fast Eddie can shed some light on the issue."

Mark grimaced, hating to impart bad news at this time. "I'm sorry, son, he died two days ago."

"Damn it!" Frustration temporarily overrode Steve's exhaustion. "I suppose we'll never know what really happened in that alley."

"I think it was most likely a hit on Fast Eddie. We've seen Tremelo's tendency to remove incriminating witnesses, and if he was aware that he had been identified, that would have been his first instinct. However it could have been some of his hirelings jumping the gun." Mark could tell that Steve was barely listening, a frown on his face indicating his distress over his informant's death. He sought around for a more positive direction for his son's thoughts.

"I do have some good news for you. Adams and Vorderman both survived the crash with nothing worse that a concussion and a broken leg respectively. I saw them briefly yesterday, and they sent their best wishes."

Steve brightened at this welcome information, and, for the next few minutes, they chatted about inconsequentials. However, Mark could see his son's progressive exhaustion and soon called a halt to the proceedings. Steve didn't protest as he was settled down in the bed.

Seeing his father planting himself in the chair beside the bed again sparked a memery that had recently floated to the surface, and Steve said drowsily, "I remember that dinosaur, it really scared me for some reason, but you told me not to worry, that it was so old, its teeth had fallen out and it could only limp around harmlessly. I still recall your impression of a toothless, arthritic T-Rex hobbling round my room. You made me laugh, then you stayed till I fell asleep..." Just before sleep claimed him he muttered, "You always were good at chasing away the monsters."

Mark was surprised to feel the heat of sudden moisture in his eyes. The knowledge that his son had been aware of the words he had uttered in desperation was a poignant gift. He looked down at Steve's slumbering form, his breathing eased by the relaxation of sleep, and marveled at the lifetime of memories they had shared, memories that he now fully believed had prevented Steve, poised on the edge of oblivion, from taking that final step into the void. He was determined to ensure that no one would steal the time they still had together to enjoy and create new memories.