Chapter 12
Under normal circumstances, Steve was, if not a model patient, at least a cooperative one. The courtesy and quiet common sense that served him so well in his job carried over into the equally stressful surroundings of the hospital. After all, a childhood surrounded by medical professionals had instilled not only respect for the personnel but also an understanding of the necessity of the procedures to be undergone. His goal, when he had the misfortune to land in hospital, was to work hard and do what was required to restore himself to peak physical condition, and he realised that to achieve that, he must follow the directions of those more knowledgeable than himself to prevent exacerbating his condition. It didn't hurt that his enjoyment of the food made his all-too-frequent stays more palatable than to a person with more discerning taste buds.
But these were not normal circumstances. The one situation that turned Steve into the proverbial patient from hell was fear for his father's well-being. At this point, physical restraints became the equipment of choice for his caretakers. So the next five days proved arduous for all involved. Mark spent as much time as possible with his son, but as he gradually resumed his medical duties, his prolonged absences caused Steve to fret and grow increasingly impatient with his physical limitations, even though either Jesse or Amanda was always present if Mark was not, and did their utmost to distract him. Jesse pointed out with some acerbity that he was the target, not Mark, but it was Steve's privately held opinion that psychopaths couldn't be expected to be consistent. The nutcase wanted to hurt his father, and there was no telling when he might decide to strike at him directly instead of obliquely through Steve. It didn't help that the prime suspects all worked at this hospital, perfectly positioned, with many potentially lethal weapons at their disposal if they chose to use them.
Cheryl's investigations had shown that both Stedman and Narimba had Caller ID, and both had some irregularities in their financial records about which she longed to question them. But, to her intense annoyance, Narimba was away presenting a paper at a medical conference in Baltimore, and Stedman had been called away on a family emergency. Cheryl had been unable to track down his ex-wife to confirm this explanation. The only good news she had to offer was that word out on the street suggested that Tremelo had left the country, and there were no new rumours making the rounds of a replacement designated to finish the job. Despite this, Newman kept a guard on Steve's room, and one followed Mark on his rounds and, now Steve was going home, he had arranged to have a man stationed near each entrance to the house.
Mark hadn't been home since the shooting nearly two weeks before, although he had arranged for a work crew to make some repairs. He had slept at the hospital every night, doubting that Steve would get much rest any other way.
He was now looking forward to the comfort and familiarity of his own room and a soft bed to soothe his aching back. He eyed his house appreciatively as two of their guards went inside to check for possible intruders or booby traps. Upon receiving the all-clear, he helped Steve out of the car, then hovered as unobtrusively as possible as Steve slowly made his way up the steps, using a cane as support. Although the pneumonia had improved and his injuries were healing well, he still tired easily. Jesse had lectured him severely before he left the hospital, emphasising that adequate rest was important to maintain his progress towards full recovery and to avoid the danger of relapse.
Mark had asked Jesse to handle Steve's continued treatment, feeling the need to focus on his role as father instead of as doctor. While he had enjoyed the return to normalcy involved in starting rounds again, his nights were plagued by nightmares - jumbled images of cutting into his son with blunt knives, Steve somehow awake and conscious, and, throughout it all, a red haze of blood. He knew he was attempting to counteract these disturbing dreams by fussing over his son, but Steve tolerated his attention with no complaints, seeming to appreciate the sentiment behind it and reciprocating the concern that he understood motivated it.
"Why don't you lie down while I get us some dinner?" Mark suggested, noting that the journey from the hospital room had exhausted his son's minimal reserves. Steve didn't argue, merely choosing the sofa as his temporary bed, though Mark wasn't sure if his decision was influenced by a disinclination to face more stairs or a reluctance to stray too far from his father. Mark had noted with amusement that he wasn't the only one suffering from compulsive overprotectivness in the aftermath of the tensions of the last two weeks.
He put a kettle on to boil and went to his room for a light blanket which he draped over his already dozing son. He lightly drew it up over his shoulders, then stood for a while, watching. He wondered if parents ever stopped being fascinated by the sight of their children asleep. He was brought back to the present by the whistle of the kettle and moved over to the kitchen to work on the meal.
He turned on some classical music at a low volume so as not to disturb his son, then he chopped up some onions, enjoying the monotonous triviality of the task, and looking forward to a home-cooked meal. Moving over to the sink to wash his hands, he gazed out of the window. The sun was slipping into the sea, pulling lengthening shadows behind it and bathing the scattered wispy clouds with a gentle orange glow. It was a beautiful sight and one that he never failed to appreciate.
He never knew what alerted him, a soft sound or displacement of air, but whatever it was it came too late and, before he could react, cold metal pressed against his temple and a low voice spoke menacingly in his ear.
"Don't move!"
