Chapter Six : Assault & Battery

Unable to stop the unexpected momentum, Steve crashed into the passenger side of the vehicle with a thump. The protruding door handle caught him just below his breast bone, sending shock waves of agony in a painful band around his chest and along the left side of his body. The pain was momentarily so overwhelming that it seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs and the strength out of his body. In a detached, surreal sort of way, he heard both his keys and the money bag hit the ground. He himself was heading in that general direction, his knees buckling under him, when a pair of rough hands grabbed him from behind and spun him head on into what felt like the reverberation of several powerful fists instead of the one meaty paw that it actually was.

The blow sent him reeling once again only to be stopped by another pair of powerful arms. That blow was quickly followed up by another and another. He was never given an opportunity to really focus on his attackers, or to even gain a breath. He only knew that there were two of them and that they were tall, broad and meaty. He thought maybe that they were covering their hands with something with a weave, perhaps knit gloves. But after several more blows were rained on his face and torso, even that didn't matter. It all morphed into a pain-filled blur of relentless fists. And through it all not a word was spoken.

Finally they let him go, allowing him to crumple bonelessly to the pavement. One very large booted foot rolled him away from the truck where he could only manage to lay dazedly as he tried to focus on breathing in and out with a minimum of pain. The sound of his truck being started reached him distantly through ringing ears, brake lights came blearily into view seconds before the truck turned off to the right. Black spots appeared in his vision, and he blinked them back by force of will.

Not sure how long he could maintain any semblance of half consciousness, his thoughts turned to his father and Jesse. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he knew he had to try to reach them. They shouldn't be too terribly far away. He hoped they weren't.

Reaching into a pocket for his cellular phone was nearly his undoing. Even so small a movement increased the agony across his abdomen. Dizziness and nausea rushed him and the dreaded black spots appeared again before his vision. It took every ounce of determination and strength he could muster to continue on.

Becoming increasingly more drained by the moment, it seemed an eternity before he convinced his fingers to hit the speed dial to his dad's number. Mark answered almost immediately. But it seemed that on the verge of success, he was about to lose everything. The black spots melded to a gray haze and he felt himself slipping.

"Hello? Steve?" Mark's voice sounded distantly over the connection again, quickly filling with sudden concern. Steve struggled to form the words to spare his father additional worry.

"Dad . . . Bob's . . . sorry . . . " was all he managed before the phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. And despite his valiant effort, the haze won out and he descended into darkness.

-- -- --

"Oh my God! Steve!" Mark yelled into the cell phone. "Steve! Answer me!" But all he could hear across the still open connection was his son's raspy breathing. His body went completely cold as pure panic shot through him. For a moment his mind blanked and he couldn't think what he should do.

"Mark? What's wrong? What's going on?" Jesse asked, suddenly alarmed, from the passenger seat. His frantic voice pierced Mark's shock.

He blinked and realized that he was behind the wheel of the car and had suddenly released pressure on the gas pedal. The car was gradually slowing to the frustration of the tooting horns behind him. Gathering his wits, he first resumed his speed before turning a fearful glance in his young friend's direction.

"It's Steve. I think something has happened to him. He's just passed out, but I can still hear his breathing."

Jesse reached for the phone that Mark held in a death grip. At Jesse's prodding he reluctantly released it, then attempted to focus on the road ahead.

Jesse placed the small device to his ear for a moment before he spoke. "Where is he?" The professionalism that made him such a good ER doctor dropped over him like a curtain. His tone was even and he was all business.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and tried to think. "He said Bob's. I think he's still there."

Jesse handed the phone back to him. Mark immediately placed it in between the seats on speaker while Jess reached for his own cell phone.

"I'm going to call the police and an ambulance. They'll probably be there about the same time we will."

Mark nodded and increased his speed as much as he dared. His only goal was to reach his son as soon as possible. During the long four minutes that it took for them to arrive at BBQ Bob's, Steve's raspy breathing was the only sound that filled the car.

"I don't see his truck," Jesse said tensely as they approached. "Is there any chance he could be someplace else?"

"He said Bob's," was Mark's anxious response as he forced himself to slow down and pull into the lot. The vehicle's headlights flashed against the building, illuminating it and the darkened pavement. The sweep of the headlights revealed the motionless form near where Steve normally parked.

Mark didn't remember putting the car in park or climbing out of the vehicle. It had all been done in a hazy auto-pilot as a desperately worried father tried to reach his son as quickly as possible. Once there, he paused, his hands frozen only inches away as he took in the damage displayed vividly in the illumination of his headlights.

Steve was laying curled on his side, facing out toward the road; the cell phone lay where it had dropped half in front of his face. He was completely unconscious, his only motions being the painful sounding in-and-out motions of his breathing. Dark hair had fallen half across his brow, but Mark could still make out darkening bruises and abrasions along the side of his face. There was little blood, the worse being from Steve's lower lip where it had been split.

Mark's eyes continued to trail over his son, and he noted the way his body curled inward, as if trying to protect his middle. Mark suspected that there would be abdominal injuries as well. He had seen this type of damage before. Worse, he had seen it on his own son before. Someone, probably paid professionals, had beaten him with the sole purpose of inflicting pain. It caused a squeeze of both agony and relief in his father's heart. Steve was alive and his injuries would no doubt heal. But he had been hurt. Badly. And he had a strong suspicion that he knew who was behind it.

"Mark."

Jesse called his name as if it wasn't the first time that he'd called him. Mark jerked, noticing that Jesse has arrived with his arms filled with items that he recognized as being from his trunk. The most notable being Mark's own medical bag along with a blanket and large halogen flashlight. Jesse quickly dropped the items and stooped across from him.

"Yes, Jess?" Mark's voice sounded distracted to his own ears as he watched the younger man removing items from the bag. He handed a small flashlight in his direction.

"How are his pupils? " Jesse asked pointedly when Mark didn't take the item right away.

"Uh," Mark grasped it and looked back down at Steve, willing himself to focus. The familiar motion of lifting his eyelids and evaluating his pupils went a long way in calming his turbulent insides. "Equal and reactive," he announced his diagnosis. He went on to describe the facial abrasions.

"Okay," Jesse acknowledged his responses as he lifted Steve's shirt and gingerly ran his hands along his abdomen and back. He paused over darkening bruises. "My guess is that someone worked him over pretty good," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Mark agreed solemnly. "Fractured ribs?"

"I'm pretty sure of it," Jesse replied. "I don't like the location of one of these fractures - I'm worried about some sort of splenic trauma. Where's that ambulance?" As if the words had conjured the ambulance into existence, the distant wail of sirens pierced the night. Both doctor's released sighs of relief.

-- -- --

It felt as if there was cotton wool in his head. And all sound was like the buzzing of so many bees flitting around his head, urging him into wakefulness. The buzzing tone took on substance, becoming more distinct and familiar.

". . . won't be a guard on his door? Why not? He was attacked and left laying in the street last night. As a result he has a concussion, bruised lungs, two fractured ribs and a lacerated spleen, not to mention innumerable contusions all over his body. That has to count for something."

The pleading tone in his father's muted voice brought Steve to more complete wakefulness. He knew instinctively that he was in the hospital, though the details of his arrival didn't seem forthcoming. Opening his eyes, he looked at the heart monitor machine and recognized it's steady normal beep-beep. His father, he realized, was on the opposite side of the door.

He became more fully aware of sensations. A dull ache seemed to pervade every portion of his battered body, giving mute testimony to his father's description of his injuries. The band that was wrapped about his middle gave a more physical witness. He frowned, and discovered the ache in his facial muscles as well. The memory of what had happened was there just under the surface.

" . . . understand how you feel." Cheryl's voice penetrated. "I feel the same way. But we don't have any evidence to support that. Everything we've found leads us to believe that Steve was a random victim of robbery."

"Cheryl . . . "

"Dr Sloan, you know I'll do everything I can to find any connection. But right now, I've got nothing to tie Amber McPherson to this mugging."

"To this beating, you mean."

His father's tone was uncharacteristically bitter, and triggered an onslaught of memories. Being caught by surprise, the pain of being slammed into his truck, fists, booted feet and the money bag echoed through his mind. He could imagine how it all must look to investigators. Another memory flashed into his mind then, and it seemed absolutely imperative that he communicate it.

He drew in a deep breath, anxious to call out to his father. It was a mistake. The dull ache in his chest rose to the level of excruciating. He would have gasped at the surprise of it, but the pain had taken his breath away. The previous steady beep-beep of the heart monitor had accelerated into a rapid double-time.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, feeling perspiration breaking out on his brow as he struggled to deal with the pain. When he opened his eyes, his father was standing over him, a very concerned looking Cheryl at his side.

"Steve? What happened?" His father asked as he ran a quick eye over the display of the machines.

"Breathed too deeply," Steve managed breathlessly as the pain was beginning to abate somewhat.

"That'll do it." There was no humor in his father's voice. "You're due for another dose of pain medication. I'll have the nurse bring it in."

"No, I'm alright," Steve objected, knowing that as soon as the stuff was administered, he'd be down for the count. "I can wait until the regular time."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure, Dad. It's not as if I shouldn't know better," he replied, recalling a previous experience with fractured ribs. Looking beyond his father to Cheryl, he continued speaking. "What about the phone call?"

Cheryl's brows raised in askance. "Phone call?" Her gaze flickered briefly to Mark, then back to Steve. "What phone call?"

"I got a phone call just before I walked out with the closing crew. But when I answered there was only static. I think someone wanted to make sure I stayed a little longer."

"You mentioned that call last night," Mark murmured thoughtfully.

"I'll check into it," Cheryl promised. "See where it leads us. Do you remember anything that might help us to identify the men who did this to you?"

"No. They came at me from behind. Everything is pretty hazy after that."

"Okay," she said. "You'll let me know if you remember--" She broke off as her phone rang. Excusing herself, she moved into the corner of the room to answer.

Steve turned toward his father, unable to overlook how tired he appeared. He wondered just how much sleep he had gotten the night before. He was fairly certain that if he had gotten any, it had taken place in his office on an uncomfortable couch. A small pang of guilt ran through him at causing his father, however unintentionally, to worry.

Hoping to cheer him, he offered a small wry smile. "I heard you telling Cheryl what the damage was. So I guess my next question is when can I get out of here?"

Mark obediently chuckled at his attempt to cheer him. "I'm afraid you're stuck here for a couple of days. If you're good, I'll release you the day after tomorrow."

"What if I'm very good? Can I go home today?"

Cheryl's return interrupted Mark's laughing response.

"That was a report from CHP," she began. "They found your truck. Someone wrapped it around a tree."

Steve groaned. "There goes my insurance premium."

"It would have been worse had you been in it," Cheryl shot back.

"She knew what that truck meant to me. That and this," he gestured vaguely over his body, "is her way of getting back at me after that article."

"Steve I hate to say this," Cheryl disagreed. "But her MO leans more toward murder than property damage."

"Oh but she's not done with me yet. There's still this someone who is going to die. Unfortunately, our best guess at a victim is still unknown since, at the time of the drunk driving incident he or she was a minor with extenuating circumstances, the records were sealed. Then there are hundreds of other possibilities of people who might have offended her. Until she's done with her game, I'll live."

"I tend to agree with Steve," Mark backed him up. "We learned some very interesting things yesterday in her hometown. There were several instances when she was a teenager where when things didn't turn out her way, odd and very coincidental things happened."

"Really? Like what?" Cheryl folded her arms, very interested.

"Well, when she was in high school, she wasn't chosen as a cheerleader her freshmen year. The captain of the cheerleading squad broke her ankle a week later when a cheering prop broke. No one could prove that it had been tampered with. Then there was her chemistry teacher. He gave her a failing grade. He received 2nd degree burns when the labels on some bottles of chemicals that he was using for a demonstration were mixed up."

"Is that it?" Cheryl asked.

"Oh no. There were other things, too."

"Okay, but that isn't going to prove that she was behind this assault. Everything points to robbery. The truck was abandoned after the accident; the keys were still in the ignition. And your bank bag had been thrown on the floor of the passenger side. It was empty. Crime scene is going over it.

"I'm going to go get started on this phone call business. I'll keep your posted."

"Thanks Cheryl."

Steve waited until she'd left before he turned to his father again. "I really can't stay here and do nothing. I need to be out there, trying to find out what she's up to."

"I know it's hard, son. But if you don't let your body heal, we won't need to worry about what Amber might do to you. Even a minor spleen laceration is nothing to mess with Steve. Until we're sure that there is no more bleeding, this is where you'll stay. The best I can offer is to bring your files in. That way you can at least go through them while you rest."

Steve allowed a bit of a smile to break through his frustration. He knew that his father was right. And he hated that he'd driven him to giving a stern mini-lecture on the state of his health. His father had enough to worry. "Sorry Dad. And yes, please bring the files. I'll be good."

-- -- --

Mark stepped into the first floor elevator carrying an overnight bag for Steve as well as his case files. He had been over everything in his mind during the drive back into LA, and he was certain that he knew why Amber had retaliated in this manner. She would perceive it as suitable retribution.

A cheerleader who had crossed her path received a broken ankle; a teacher, burned hands. An ex-boyfriend who took another girl to the prom had his car vandalized. The two doctors who she felt had deprived her mother of life had been overdosed on Coumadin so that their blood would not clot. And then, when the brakes on the car that they were riding in had failed, they had both bled out after the crash.

A cheerleader used her feet to kick when she cheered. A teacher wrote a failing grade with his hands. The doctors had prescribed Coumadin, among other things, after denying Starla McPherson entry into the study program. And now, Steve had gone on the offensive with his interview with the Sensation, essentially attacking everything that Amber had carefully constructed for the media to report. And so she had arranged for him to be attacked in return, throwing in the added insult of having his truck and money stolen.

Mark sighed. Unfortunately, there was no evidence to prove it. But he knew, deep in his heart, that it was true. He only wondered if there was anything else surrounding the robbery that he had missed.

Stepping out of the elevator as he reached Steve's floor, he headed along the hall toward his son's room. It was mid-afternoon, and knowing Steve's medication schedule, Mark was fairly certain that he would be sleeping. Of course, that would have been after grumbling his way through a liquid lunch.

He chuckled at that thought. Jesse had no doubt been the unlucky recipient of those complaints. Allowing the smile to linger on his face, he pushed open the door to Steve's room. Expecting to see his son peacefully slumbering, he was positively stunned to find Amber McPherson standing over his bed.

(To be continued)