Epilogue

"Dad, I'm home," Steve called out as he closed the front door behind him. He dropped the mail on the kitchen table and started to sort through it, pausing at one flimsy piece of card with a frown on his face. "Dad?" he called again, realising that his previous salutation had remained unanswered. The echo of silence through the house convinced him that his father wasn't there. He absentmindedly slipped the postcard into his pocket as he searched for a note or some other indication of his father's whereabouts. His car was in the driveway, so he couldn't be too far away.

Concern sparked to life as a brief hunt turned up no clues as to Mark's location. It was not fear for his father's physical well-being, but the five days since Stedman's arrest had not been easy ones for Mark. Not many people would have seen a difference in the good-natured doctor, he was as cheerful and compassionate as ever, but Steve was attuned to the nuances of his father's behaviour and could sense an underlying dissonance in his normally sunny disposition. Faint smudges under his eyes spoke of restless nights, and Steve had caught his air of pensive preoccupation when Mark was unaware of his scrutiny. Steve had hoped a quiet evening would allow him to address his concerns, but between Mark's work and frequent visitors the time had never been propitious.

Steve had expected a certain amount of introspection following the trauma of previous weeks, but he was worried that his father, with his strong sense of responsibility, had believed the accusations Stedman had fired in his direction. Although Steve had another week before he was allowed to return to duty, he had gone into the police station and then the hospital to discover the truth behind Keith Stedman's suicide attempt. Now, armed with the facts, he was ready to help his father come to terms with recent events.

Steve walked out onto the deck, his eyes scanning the beach, and a smile broke out on his face as he quickly discovered the familiar figure sitting on "his" log. Steve had come to regard it as "his" place for problem solving, and he had lost count of the number of times he had been sitting there, struggling with personal or work-related issues, when his father had quietly appeared to sit next to him and, either with simply his loving supportive presence or his perceptive advice, eased things back into perspective. He felt that his father's choice of location consciously or unconsciously signaled a readiness and desire to talk.

He received a welcoming smile from Mark, and for a time they sat together in companionable silence, enjoying the relaxing swell of the water and the hypnotic sound of the waves breaking onto the sand.

It was Steve who eventually broached the topic that was on both their minds, though in a roundabout fashion. "I saw Mary Stedman today."

Whatever Mark was expecting, it wasn't that, and he turned to look at his son in surprise. They had heard that Mary Stedman had survived her husband's attack, but she had not been in any condition for visitors before.

"How is she?" he asked with genuine concern.

"She's doing well, physically at least. She had a nasty concussion, but it's clearing up well. In a strange way, this all seems to have come as a relief - closure after the last two years of living in a sort of emotional limbo. She asked me to convey her apologies to you." Steve saw his father flinch at that, but pressed on. "She had no idea that Bill's anger had become so obsessive."

Mark shook his head. "I just feel I should have realised that something was wrong. Maybe I could have done something to help."

Steve quickly squashed that tendril of guilt. "I got the feeling they worked hard to keep it a secret. There seems to be a certain stigma attached to the family of suicide victims. Mary said it was hard enough blaming themselves for not preventing it without dealing with the feeling that other people were blaming them too."

"It must have been terrible for them both." Mark could empathise only too well with the anguish they had endured.

"Yes, maybe especially for Bill. You were right about him, you know. Apparently, after he heard that Keith had been dropped from the internship program, he lit into him, calling him all the names under the sun, threatening to disown him and generally making him feel worthless. I don't know how much of it he meant or how much it was a contributing factor in Keith's decision, but he must have felt dreadful afterwards."

Mark had been working with Stedman's psychologist and knew just how deeply the guilt had drilled into the doctor's psyche. "Visiting his son in hospital every week meant the pain never had the chance to recede. I think he was unable to cope with the remorse so, in self-defense, he transferred the blame onto me."

"But you know that none of this was your fault, Dad, right?" Steve queried with some anxiety.

"I could still have followed up, checked that Keith was okay." The words may have sounded self-accusatory, but Steve relaxed slightly at the tone. Mark had spoken with gentle regret, but not as if he had internalised any guilt.

"It just didn't work out that way, Dad." The words sounded familiar, and he smiled faintly as he realised it was more or less what his father had said to comfort him after Lynn Conklin's death.

"If Bill recovers, is he going to stand trial for disconnecting Keith's life support system?" Mark asked. "I don't think he would survive that."

"I don't think so," Steve reassured him. "Mary's declining to press charges against him. She obviously still cares a lot about him, but after ...well, she said they just drifted apart."

"Nothing is more devastating than the loss of a child." The words were barely audible, but as Steve instinctively reached out to lay a hand on his knee, he continued in a stronger voice. "Many marriages prove unequal to that."

Silence resumed, but Steve didn't move, sensing that something was still troubling his father and willing to wait as long as necessary for him to talk. Eventually, in a quiet voice but with strange precision, Mark said:

"I love you, son."

The comment was unexpected, and although welcome, it was also curiously disconcerting, and instead of accepting it solely at face value, Steve mentally retraced the path of their conversation, finally understanding his father's unspoken concern.

"You're nothing like him, Dad," he said forcefully. The sudden stillness next to him told Steve he had indeed found the cause of his father's anxiety, and he continued with quiet insistence. "You've always encouraged me to make my own decisions and supported my choices. You never tried to force me into a mold of your own design. Good thing too," he added on a lighter note. "I mean, can you see me as a doctor?" There was a moment of quiet as they both contemplated this mental picture, then in unison they both rejected the idea with an emphatic "Nah!" Encouraged by the burgeoning smile on his father's face and the relaxation of the tension in his body, Steve concluded, "You can't ever compare yourself to Stedman."

"Maybe not," Mark conceded, scuffling a toe in the sand. "But I nearly lost you last week and it made me think of all the things I've never told you. I haven't said I love you..."

"Yes you have," Steve interrupted. "You told me every time you showed up at my football games despite your busy schedule, every time you sat by the hospital bed when I was hurt..." He paused, unused to putting these feelings into words and finding it difficult to articulate how his father's love encompassed his life.

"Every time I get involved in one of your cases?" Mark suggested helpfully, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, his heart considerably lighter.

"Let's not get carried away here." Steve raised an eyebrow in mock consternation then added more seriously. "Really Dad, you've told me every day of my life, in one way or another."

"Still, it doesn't hurt to put it into words occasionally," Mark told him softly. Despite his caveat, Steve's words had soothed the last of his doubts, and Mark was finally able to truly relax and savor the beauty of the evening and the joy of his son's company.

As the sun dipped lower, Steve stood up and stretched down a hand to pull his father to his feet. "Come on. Let's go for a walk on the beach. Oh, I almost forgot..." He pulled the postcard out of his pocket and handed it to his father with a quizzical look. The picture on the front featured a pristine beach in the Cayman Islands. Mark turned it over and read:

' Hi Doc,

Not bad, you had me fooled. No hard feelings, going legit is the best thing that ever happened to me. If you're ever in the mood for a vacation, look me up here.'

It was signed only with a 'T'.

Mark looked up, incredulous laughter in his eyes. "Tremelo?"

"It appears so. Tell me, Dad, is this going to be a regular occurrence? Should I expect frequent correspondence from the FBI's most wanted?"

"Well, he's reformed," Mark pointed out reasonably. "Still," he grinned at his son. "It solves the problem of where to go on our next vacation, doesn't it? Think of the information we could pick up. I bet we could bust a dozen cases wide open."

"No!" Steve protested, more at the mental image the words summoned of his father sitting around a pool sipping margaritas while cozying up to crime bosses than because he took the suggestion seriously. Mark stared at him innocently.

Steve slung his arm affectionately around his father's shoulders as they meandered down the beach.

"Only you, Dad, only you!"