First chap = disclaimer

 Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are really great!

Visage: Blunt? Well I suppose so. I tend to be a blunt person in my conversations, so it can carry through into my writing. As for the needing more filler, I mostly agree. Its just that my professor usually likes short papers with at least two examples (Try putting two detailed examples PLUS an explanation of what everything means into two double spaced pages, Sheesh). So, I get in the habit of cutting out extra details in my other writings. This unfortunately leads to short chapters that can sometimes be confusing.

This leads me to another point. If you are confused or feel I should have put in another scene tell me. I'll try to fix my mistake with a flashback or at least explain what went on.

*Sigh* I think I've blatantly stomped my way into cliché valley in this chapter. Hopefully the following chapters will make up for this and the unbelievable nature of the following plot.

Ahem, well now that I've been (probably unnecessarily) verbose, on with the story. Don't eat during the first part of the chap if you get queasy easy.

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Steve woke up with a swollen tongue. He couldn't think. His mind was a white haze that seemed to buzz when he used it. After several minutes of trying, he managed to get his eyes open. Peering to his left, he discovered part of the reason he felt so bed. He was sprawled on a pile of rocks.

Gingerly he pushed himself into a sitting position. Almost immediately, he saw black spots in front of his eyes. His head pounded, and he doubled over sick. A stream of bile and water came out of his mouth, a testament to the last time he'd eaten. A

After a while he very slowly sat up again. About five feet of ocean stood between him and a sandy beach. The sun glinted off of the water's surface.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to remember how he ended up on the rocks. He could vaguely recall a storm and tossing water. Pressing his hand against his forehead, he tried to remember more, but came up with nothing. Nothing but tiny fragments, like the sound of a voice or a flash of color like when they put a commercial on TV and take it right of again.

Focusing harder, he could remember only a hospital and a doctor leaning over him. In the background he could hear someone saying that he was going to be fine. The doctor's mouth moved. He told him that he was going to be put under. The memory vanished.

Frustrated, he slapped his hand against his leg. Grabbing onto the fragment he'd recreated, he recalled the doctor's exact words. "Steve? I'm going to put you under. Okay, bud?"

His name was Steve then. Well, it wasn't much, but it was something. Blandly, he looked down at his hand. There was a streak of blood on it. He lifted it back up to his forehead and felt a swollen gash. He brought his hand back down and gazed at the fresh blood.

At least he knew why he felt so bad. Instinct took over. He needed medical attention and the only way to get attention was to get off the rock and get to the beach.

Fighting off his dizziness and nausea, he let himself down into the water, and made his way to the shore.

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Mark stared bleakly at the sunny day outside. Somehow, he felt all the more robbed because of it. Last night, the weather had reflected his grief and turmoil. But, the sunny morning only made him bitter for that which had been stolen. He was certain there would never be another sunny day in the life of Mark Sloan. When his wife died, there had been his kids. When Carol had died, there had been Steve. What was he supposed to do with Steve gone?

He supposed there was Jesse, but being like a father to him wasn't the same as actually being Steve's father. Amanda was a close friend, but she still just a friend. She wasn't his blood. There were no grandchildren. A dour smile tugged at his lips. Steve had gotten shot more times than he had held the same girlfriend for more then three weeks.

He could hear Jesse down in his kitchen making coffee. He'd driven Mark home the day before. He and Amanda had tried to help, but eventually Amanda had gone home to take care of her boys. Jesse had stayed behind to grieve with an old man.

Logically, he knew that Jesse had lost his "older brother," but inside, he couldn't focus on anything more than himself. In that light, all he could see was that Jesse was treating him with sympathy. He didn't need Jesse's sympathy. He needed to be left alone. He needed to feel his heart break. He needed to feel like the worthless old man that had let his son die. Most of all, he needed his son back. And that was something he couldn't have.

Angry and upset, Mark tumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. The grief on Jesse's face snapped him out of his anger enough to peacefully ask that Jesse leave. Jesse had been about to stubbornly refuse to go, but he saw the flicker of volatile temper in Mark's eyes. Not wanting to upset Mark further, he extracted a promise that Mark would call Amanda or him before doing anything important. Then he left praying that Mark would think that "important" also included lighting the house on fire or other destructive acts.

Jesse went out to his car and climbed in. He took out his cellphone and called Amanda. After three rings, she picked up.

"Hello" Her voice was tinted with a rasp from crying.

"Hi, Amanda its Jesse" Jesse cringed. He sounded worse than Amanda did.

"What is it Jesse?"

"Look, Mark just told me to leave, so I did. I don't think he should really be alone right now, so could you stoop by and see him?"

"Sure, I just have to drop the kids off at daycare first."

"Thanks."

"Look, Jesse, you need to get some rest. Be careful while you drive."

Jesse choked back a sob. How many times had he told Steve to rest after an injury? Just how was he supposed to rest enough to recover from the injury that Steve's death had caused? Jesse held back his questions knowing that Amanda couldn't handle them anymore than he could. He settled for a promise of sleep and a bland goodbye.

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Amanda walked up to the front door of the beach house. She was terribly hurt inside and she knew that whatever she felt, Mark had to feel a thousand times worse. With a gentle knock, she pushed the door open. She froze in her tracks as she heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Dad. I'm calling to let you know I've got to work late tonight, so don't keep supper waiting. I'll see you later." The beep of the answering machine followed.

Amanda hurried to see Mark sitting on the floor cradling the machine.

"Mark?"

"Those were the last words he said to me. I don't know how many times I've replayed that message, maybe one hundred." Mark's voice was dazed, his eyes glazed over as he willed himself to be anywhere than the hell he was truly in.

"Oh, Mark…"

"He's really gone isn't he? He's not coming back. He's not going to come home half beaten and ready to argue about how long he'll be on bed rest. He's not alive…"

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Jackson Peters was one very unhappy bad cop. Viciously, he broke down the grungy door to Sal and Sam's termite infested apartment.

"You idiot!" He bellowed at Sal. "Do you know how much you cost me?"

Sal looked blankly at his employer.

Peters slapped his forehead in exasperation. "You dumped the stuff too close to the shore. There were some reports of people finding driftwood, plastic, and other junk on the shores from the storm."

"So? Those cans were so heavy they sunk straight to the bottom."

"Moron, I'm talking about Sloan's body."

"What about it? He's dead now. There ain't no way they could track a dead body to us. What's a drowned corpse gonna tell them? Nothing that your note didn't."

Peters glared at them. "The less actual evidence they find, the better. I had to outlay $1,500 to a computer hacker this morning."

Sam looked at him. "What didya have to do that for?"

"I had Sloan's fingerprints removed from the system.* That way, if they find his body, he won't show up when they search his prints."

"Wouldn't the cops just think the other family did it?"

"Of course they would, but Sloan's father might not. Besides, it is much more satisfying to know that Dr. Sloan won't even have the luxury of a body for closure."

"That ain't nice boss."

"I'M not nice you insolent twip. Now, you are going to put on some gloves and plant that evidence I had you take. Sal, take his phone and dump it near the pier. They've already searched there, but the storm is a good excuse to say that it washed up." An evil grin twisted his face as he plotted. "The last phone number that 'he' dialed was Calvin's number about an hour after I supposedly left the pier. It should tie him neatly to them. Don't you think?"

Sal took the phone and hesitantly nodded yes.

"Sam, seems how you're the smarter brother, I need you to take his wallet, sans cash, down to Alvin's shop. The police are raiding the place at noon today. Make sure its in the back room and your not. Keep the cash."

Sam grinned and took the wallet.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a case to get in order before Lieutenant Sloan's friends get too curious."

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Steve blinked his eyes. He saw white. Fear clutched at his chest. He had to get away. He flung his arms around and encountered sheets. He grabbed at them and pulled, freeing his legs.

"Whoa, calm down there, son. We're not going to hurt you." An elderly doctor smiled at him as he pushed Steve back into the hospital bed.

"You're going to be alright. Although, you sure did surprise us. You looked dead when they brought you in. You must have a strong will to still be alive. Here drink some water."

Steve gulped at the water until the doctor took it away.

"That's enough for now. I can't have you drink too much at once. I'm Dr. Abrams. What is your name?"

"Steve, I think."

"You think?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember anything. I barely remember getting to the shore. Is that where you found me?"

"The shore? Well that would explain why there was some fluid in your lungs. To answer your question, the Chief of Police, Joe, found you walking down Main Street. The local children thought you were a zombie."

"How soon until I can get out?"

"My, you are impatient. Where do you intend to go?"

Steve was quiet. He didn't now who he was. How could he know where he was going?

"I don't know. I just don't like hospitals."

"Yes, I gathered that from the hasty retreat you attempted to make. You won't be well enough to leave for at least a week. If the Chief can't find out where you're from or who you are after that time, I'll send you over to Sister Agnes. She runs the homeless shelter in town. She'll help you along until then. I the mean time, get some rest."

Steve nodded and watched the doctor leave. Gently, he played with his covers. A homeless shelter didn't sound like the place to be, but what else could he do? Frustrated with his lack of options, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

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*The system I referenced actually exists. They take criminal fingerprints and keep a giant catalogue of them. When the police have prints they can't attribute, they can run them through the computer and find matches. I believe that they also put police officer's prints in too, although, I'm not quite sure about that point.