Chapter 13
Mark stifled his first instinct, which was to shout a warning to Steve, not because of possible injury to himself, but because he realised that there was no chance that his son would take the opportunity to escape while his father was in danger but would, in fact, confront the man threatening him. He obeyed the intruder's instructions and remained motionless and quiet, hoping that Steve would stay asleep on the sofa and that, by some miracle, his presence would elude the gunman. This forlorn hope was dashed by the man's next words.
"Where's Steve?"
It wasn't much, but there was a familiarity of cadence that teased at Mark's memory and quickly burst into recognition.
"Bill," he stated flatly, finally identifying the man behind the terror of the last few weeks. Slowly and unthreateningly he started to turn, and the gun eased away from his head to allow the movement. Disbelief and the bitterness of betrayal warred with fear internally, but he kept his expression studiously neutral, as he found himself facing his colleague and erstwhile friend, Bill Stedman. A million questions raced through his mind, the only one reaching the level of coherence was 'why', but he didn't even articulate that. He realised from one glance that Stedman was walking a fine line of insanity, and he wasn't sure what would push him over. His eyes held a feverish glint, and the gun trembled in his hand, but Mark sensed it wasn't from timidity or indecision but a result of the power of emotions coursing through him.
Although he needed to understand what was driving Stedman, Mark's first priority was to safeguard his son; but he was at a loss to find a reasonable excuse to move the other doctor out of the kitchen. He knew it was a lame attempt, but finally he suggested:
"Why don't we sit down in my study and you can..."
"No!" A bellow of anger violently interrupted Mark and accomplished the one thing he was attempting to avoid.
"Dad?"
Mark was terrified by the look of savage satisfaction on Stedman's face as he looked beyond Mark to where Steve was pushing himself into an upright position on the sofa. Mark instinctively placed himself between the gun and his son, retreating as Stedman moved forward.
"Don't hurt him. Your argument's with me," he tried unsuccessfully to distract Stedman, then, desperate to remove the other doctor's attention from his son, he shouted, "I'm the one you want."
Mark succeeded in regaining the gunman's focus just as he felt Steve's steady presence behind him, his hand on his shoulder. He moved his own hand behind him to grasp his son's sleeve, silently urging him to stay in his shielded position.
"Bill." Steve acknowledged his father's old friend coolly, also opting for an unantagonistic approach for now.
Stedman used his gun to wave them back to the sofa. "Sit down, both of you."
After a quick exchange of looks, they obeyed. Mark kept his hand on his son's arm as he sat, ostensibly in a position of restraint, but in reality as a way of anticipating his movements. He knew his son too well to expect him to sit passively while their lives were threatened, and he wanted the warning to be able to support him when the time came to act. He had to believe that time would come, that maybe he could distract Stedman to give Steve more of a chance. In his silent communication with his son, Mark had seen that Steve recognised the role they each must play to survive this encounter. Mark would be the voice of reason and comfort, while Steve would prod and goad, seeking a weakness to give them the opening they needed.
"You can't get away with this, Bill, you must know that." Steve was unsure if Stedman was aware of the police presence outside and had no intention of revealing their existence. It was possible that they could attract attention is some way to get assistance. A gunshot would achieve that end, but was not a desirable event, though Steve filed away the thought for future reference. His comment was more in the nature of a probe for information rather than a threat. They needed to break through Stedman's reticence and encourage him to talk, both as a means to buy time and as a way to gather more facts to determine their strategy.
"Get away with it," Stedman snorted derisively. He started to pace, the energy of his violent emotions impossible to contain. Mark felt Steve quiver beside him as he contemplated an attack now the gun was no longer trained on his father. However, Stedman was too far out of reach; Mark squeezed his son's arm warningly and felt him subside. "I don't need to get away with it. It' s all over. Nothing matters any more."
Steve had got some answers, but the words and their manner of delivery chilled him. He had seen the same expression on a face once before in his rookie days. A man in a packed bus with explosives strapped to him, a man with nothing to lose, wanting to die but, twisted with depravity, wanting to take as many other people as possible with him. A sharpshooter had ended his life before he could carry out his homicidal intentions, but Steve had never forgotten the look of abject despair intermixed with corrosive hate in his eyes. He recognised the same emotions in the man in front of him.
The hopelessness had obviously registered with his father, because when Mark spoke, his voice was full of gentle compassion. "I don't understand, Bill. What happened?"
"You happened!" Steve tensed again as the gun swung around to menace his father. "Your interfering hypocrisy. You destroyed everything, everything important to me, and now I'm going to take what's important to you."
The gun now turned to aim at Steve, and Mark involuntarily cried out, "No!". He jumped to his feet, ready to do absolutely anything to prevent his son from being shot, and his desperation provided the inspiration that enabled him to make the connection.
"This is about Keith, isn't it?" he forced out through a dry throat, light-headed with relief as the gun wavered and dipped into a less sinister position. He reseated himself, the realisation sinking in that this confrontation was not between two doctors or two friends, but between two fathers. Fear trickled in icy rivulets down his spine at the stakes that had been figuratively thrown on the table. He had no doubts that his son's life would be forfeit if he misplayed his hand.
He sensed that Steve was about to follow up his enquiry, so he applied slight pressure to his arm to signal silence. Keith Stedman was dead, he was certain of that, but why he was being held responsible for the tragedy was incomprehensible; he hadn't even seen the young man in question for over two years, but his instincts told him to tread carefully on this issue. He thought back, trying to remember his last meeting with Keith, and an unpleasant possibility crept into his mind.
"You killed him." Stedman saw the dawning of understanding, and his vitriolic rancor spilled over in a torrent of words. "You did worse than that - you destroyed him, crushed his dreams and cast him aside like so much trash."
"No, it wasn't like that." The colour drained from Mark's face as he struggled to defend his actions, shaken by the accusation. "You know how it works, it was a committee decision. I only..."
"You're in charge of the interns; it was your rejection that influenced them, and you were the one who told him with such callous brutality."
"Yes, I broke the news to him, but he seemed fine, almost relieved..." Again Stedman didn't allow him to finish, caught up in the righteousness of his assertions.
"Fine? So fine he tried to kill himself two days later! I was the one who found him." Stedman choked, tears filling his eyes at the memory of that anguish. "He'd taken an overdose of phenobarbytol, and he'd stopped breathing, but his heart was still beating. I gave him CPR. Oh, God, do you have any idea what it's like to have your own child dying in your arms? Do you?" His voice ended in a scream of accusation.
It may have been intended as a rhetorical question, but it placed Mark on a steady footing again.
"Yes, I do," he answered steadily. He thought back, not only to the events of the last week, but also to the horrifying memory that still haunted his dreams of applying CPR to his own son after he coded due to the effects of a virulent staph infection. "It's the most indescribably painful experience that anyone can endure." He caught Stedman's eyes with the force of his conviction, and tried to forge a bridge of mutual suffering between them. "You realise that you were wrong about everything you once thought was important. The only thing that matters is that he takes one more breath, that his heart beats one more time. Because if it doesn't, your life will be shattered into pieces so small nothing could put it together again."
Steve's breath caught painfully in his throat. He had never heard his father speak of such things before. While supremely generous in sharing his joy, Mark was private to the point of secrecy in hiding his pain; but now, in a quiet compelling voice, he revealed his innermost heartache. Steve thought his father had succeeded in breaking through to the other man as, for a brief moment, Stedman's expression seemed to echo Mark's, but in the next minute his offering was savagely rejected.
"Don't tell me that you understand what I'm feeling, not while you sit there smugly, your son by your side." Hot venom dripped from every word. "You've lost nothing - yet!" The threat was anything but subtle, and Mark realised that he had made a mistake in assuming that Stedman wanted the comfort of reciprocation. He wanted to wallow uninterrupted in his own grief, as only that could justify the revenge that filled the empty spaces inside him.
"You tried to save him," Mark prompted, sensing there was more to come.
"I did everything I could, but there was too much brain damage; and with all my years of training and medical knowledge, all I succeeded in doing was to turn him into a vegetable. He's been in a coma for two years, just lying there. Mary refused to turn off life support; she believed a miracle would save him, but I couldn't let it go on any longer. I went to the hospital yesterday and I...I...oh, god." He broke off, turning to Mark almost in supplication. "I pulled the plug on my own son. I let him go."
Mark stared at him in horrified empathy, his experiences with his own son on life support too raw to listen to such a story with equanimity. However, at no time did his compassion for the other man prevent him from remembering the threat he posed to Steve, and even while he listened, one part of his mind was trying to find a way to use the information to their advantage. There was something about Stedman's reaction that didn't ring true; but as he tried to pin down the elusive undercurrent, his concentration was broken as Stedman's next words sank in.
"Mary tried to stop me and, God help me, I hit her. I never meant to hurt her, but she fell and hit her head. It's all over now. All dead, they're all dead."
Stedman seemed to have almost forgotten his audience and continued to mumble to himself. He was too far away to risk tackling, but Steve was able catch his father's eye and hold another quick non-verbal conversation. They both realised that Stedman was beyond rationality, he had thoroughly burned his bridges before he came. He had nothing left to live for and obviously intended none of them to leave the room alive. Steve contemplated rushing the gun, depending on any shots fired to bring help for his father, but Mark discouraged any impulsive moves with a shake of his head. A plan was coalescing in his mind; it was dangerous, but he felt he was on the right track.
"What did you say to him?" Mark's voice was hard now, no longer sympathetic, and the contrast was enough to startle Stedman out of his reverie.
"What?" There was an edge of fear, covered by belligerence, in his voice, but Mark continued his verbal offensive, his face grim.
"Keith told me the only reason he was in the intern program was because you had pulled some strings to have him included. He had no interest in becoming a doctor, he just wanted to please you. When I told him the committee couldn't recommend him for the residency program, he was relieved that the pretense was over, but he dreaded telling you. I told him I was sure you would understand, but you didn't, did you? What did you tell him?"
Steve could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. His father seemed to be intentionally pushing Stedman over the edge. As a diversionary tactic it seemed to be working. Steve had a feeling he could stand up and dance a jig without attracting attention back to himself, however the gun pointing directly at his father's chest was an effective deterrent to sudden moves. Stedman was transfixed by Mark relentless interrogation, though his head was shaking from side to side in anguished denial.
"No... no, it wasn't me. You were the one who destroyed him. I loved him."
"Did he know that? Did you ever tell him? What did you say to him? Did you call him a failure, a loser?" Mark was suddenly on his feet and advancing towards Stedman inexorably, a one-man judge and jury. However, he moved on a line that forced the other man to turn almost imperceptibly at a slight angle away from Steve. "Did you belittle him, force him to fit the image of the son you wanted?"
"No," Stedman screamed, and Steve could sense the buildup of some internal momentum signaling the decision to fire, and with a cry to attract the gunman's attention away from his father, he launched himself towards the gun. His recent illness and injuries had robbed him of his usual speed and agility, and Stedman had time to turn in his direction before Steve's body slammed into him, bearing them both to the floor to the accompaniment of the gun firing.
Mark stared at the two bodies lying still on the floor, the horror of deja vu turning his limbs leaden as he stumbled to his son. In a nightmare of fear he frantically searched for a wound, knowing Steve was unlikely to survive further trauma in his weakened state. He felt his son stir beneath his hands and heard a gasp of "just winded", and relief swung dizzily through his shaking body as he helped Steve sit up. His face was gray and pained, but before Mark had the chance to assess his condition, three armed policemen burst in at the doors. Their arrival was somehow so anticlimactic that Mark was hard pressed not to laugh. By the time their questions and concerns had been addressed, Steve had recovered enough to take charge of the situation, and Mark was able to turn his attention to Stedman.
Stedman was sitting in a forlorn heap on the floor, his hands cuffed behind him. With the threat to Steve finally at an end, Mark could be more objective in his evaluation of the man's mental state. He knelt down next to his old friend. He felt Steve move into position behind him, vigilant for any residual signs of violence, but Mark was sure Stedman had no fight left in him. He could almost see the disintegration of his spirit as he watched him.
"Bill?" He attempted gently to get man's attention. When there was no response, he put his hand on his shoulder and tried again a little louder. "Bill?" Stedman finally looked up, but there was no recognition in his dull eyes.
"I never told him I loved him." His voice was a grinding whisper of anguish. "My only child, and I never told him how much I loved him. I wanted him to be strong, to be a man, but instead... instead I drove him to kill himself. I killed my own son." He started rocking back and forth, and his mouth continued to move but no sound came out.
Mark turned and looked up at Steve, a measure of the pain he was witnessing reflected in his eyes. "I need to take him to the hospital. He needs psychiatric help, a lot of it. He'll never make it to a trial."
Steve considered the request, admiring his father's compassion. After all they had suffered in the last few weeks, he didn't feel quite so magnanimous to their defeated enemy. However, he was unable to reject Mark's appeal, and he arranged for a police ambulance to transport Stedman to Community General.
As they watched the van disappear out of the driveway, Steve slipped his arm round his father's shoulders. "It's all over, Dad."
"For us, maybe," Mark replied sadly, but sensing his son's immediate concern at his uncharacteristic melancholy, he attempted to shake off the feeling and match Steve's ebullience. "I believe I mentioned something about dinner."
"You did." Steve affected great surprise. "You know, I actually think I'm hungry."
"So what else is new. Come on, you need to sit down before you fall down."
Steve allowed his father to shepherd him back inside the house, deciding not to press him about the cause of his despondancy. It had been a traumatic few weeks, and tonight had seen not only the culmination of the constant threat and tension they had been under, but Mark's deepest fears and emotions dredged up for public view. It would take some time for the reaction to fade and the emotions to calm. Fortunately, he thought, they would have that time together.
