Chapter Ten : Motions

Mark tapped lightly on Steve's bedroom down. He could hear sounds of activity on the other side, but didn't want to barge in to his personal space. At the sound of a faint "Come in" he moved on into the room.

"Morning." He called a greeting to his off spring. He didn't immediately see him, but the air bore the heavy smell of soap as if he'd recently taken a shower.

"Morning Dad," Steve appeared from the walk-in closet dressed only in dark-colored pants. He carried a shirt, socks and shoes toward the bed. He paused as he took in Mark's attire. "You have to go to work?"

"Yeah," Mark said. "I just wanted to check on you before I left. I shouldn't be too long. No more than 2 or 3 hours. But I noticed that there's no one outside this morning."

"Oh, that." Steve threw the socks onto the bed and turned. "I called it off."

The light reflecting in through the window shown on Steve's bare chest. Mark couldn't help but notice the nearly completely faded remains of the bruises from the beating. But it was the internal bruising, most especially the bruised lungs and damage to his spleen that were worrying. All of the tests that had been run before he'd left the hospital had shown him to be well on the way to recovery, but Mark decided that he looked a little tired.

"Why did you do that?" Mark asked in response to Steve's answer. "Amber is still out there." Over the past couple of days he'd thought to share his conversation with her on the beach, but in the end had thought better of it. He felt strongly that the action would have meant playing into her hands in some way. Steve would surely approach her about the proximity to his home. Mark couldn't but wonder if she was attempting to push him into a situation that jeopardized his career.

"I did that," Steve answered his question, "Because I'm better now, Dad. I don't need a body guard. I can take care of myself." Determined blue eyes flashed in his direction, as he shrugged into the shirt, thus covering much of the evidence of what had occurred.

Mark sighed. He'd been down this path before. Steve was a strong man, who didn't like to show weakness. He wouldn't be coddled. But Mark still worried that he was pushing himself too fast. He wasn't completely back to normal health. The fact that the night before he'd dropped off to sleep almost as soon as they arrived home, and then again right after dinner, seemed to bear out that fact.

Regardless, he knew that he couldn't force Steve to accept protection from the other officers. Most especially volunteer protection. But he could try to keep him close himself.

"Listen, this consult shouldn't take long. And I know your appointment isn't until tomorrow. But why don't you come on in with me today and have those last tests done. By the time you're done, I should be done and we can work the case together."

Steve saw right through the request, but acquiesced slightly anyway. "I'd like to dad. I really would. But Cheryl's expecting me at the precinct to go through the items that were found at Breckish's apartment. I might be able to help tie something to Amber. I'll come in right after, okay?"

"All right." Mark gave in. That was the best he was going to get, it seemed. He glanced down at his watch and was immediately surprised at the passage of time. "I've gotta run. I'll see you about what time?" He was moving out of the room as he spoke.

"'Bout ten-thirty-ish," Steve responded. "Bye Dad."

-- --

Steve smiled after his father, shaking his head slightly. He really did try not to be over protective. He remembered the early years of his police career when things had been very different. Not that Mark had said anything, or expressed a lack of support. It had been obvious though in his reactions, in the worry in his eyes when he thought Steve wasn't looking.

He had to admit though, that of his immediately family, only Carol seemed thrilled with the idea of him being a cop. She thought it was 'neato', and that he could be like "Ponch" on "Chips".

Tucking away those memories, Steve pulled on a blazer. The ring of his cell caught his attention, reminding him that it was still tucked into the charger on his bedside. He moved across the room and grabbed it up.

"Is this Lieutenant Steven Sloan?" A cautious, soft-spoken male voice sounded from the other end of the connection.

"Yes it is," Steve replied, at a loss as to who the caller might be. The voice was completely unfamiliar. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jonathan Bright. I believe you talked to Doc Gibsen about me yesterday."

Steve's mouth dropped open at the stunning reply. Then, years of police instinct kicked in. "Mr. Bright, where are you? Have you been receiving any threatening messages or otherwise noticed anything unusual?"

"Outside of Doc Gibsen telling me you were looking for me you mean?" Bright asked with a trace of humor. "No. Nothing like that. But we do need to talk. It would be better for me if you could meet me here."

"No problem." Steve was happy to oblige. He couldn't believe that Gibsen had actually contacted the man. His respect upped a notch for the old doctor. Though he couldn't fault the man for sticking to his guns, he'd felt certain that his request wouldn't have gone any further than the older man's ears. But he had apparently passed on the information, allowing his patient to make his own decisions. And Jonathan Bright had had the courage to come forward.

"I'm at Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility. If you'll ask for me at the reception desk, I'll come out and speak with you."

Steve paused, his hand frozen over a notepad as Bright continued. Had the man gone back to old habits, even after killing half of a family? His voice was soft spoken and his tone mild, but Steve knew that those were hardly indicators of the type of addictions a person might have. He wondered, for the first time, just what sort of person Jonathan Bright might be. Not that it mattered. He had a job to do.

He glanced at his watch. "I'm not far from you. I'll be there in about 20 minutes."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be waiting for you." The phone went dead as the other man hung up.

Steve stared thoughtfully at the phone for several moments, wondering. He then dialed Cheryl, explaining to her why he would be late.

"Want company?" she asked him.

"Nah. Keep doing what you're doing. I'll be there before too long." He dropped the phone into an inside blazer pocket and was out of the door.

-- --

The reception area of Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility was on the first floor of the main building of a sprawling two story complex gated complex. The woman behind the counter was friendly and seemed to expect his request to see Bright.

While waiting, Steve took a moment to take in more of his surroundings. The reception area wasn't overly large, but contained many groupings of chairs and towering greenery. It reminded him more of the lobby of a small hotel which allowed people to assemble in small private groups than a rehab.

He'd heard of Clear Skies a few times. He knew that it was relatively new. But it wasn't the sort of place he often had opportunity to visit. There were many exclusive rehab facilities in the Malibu area that catered to the Rich and Famous who also added addiction to their woes. Clear Skies wasn't exclusive, nor was it state run. It was more a middle-of-the-road facility.

He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and took in the sight of a thin, slight man with mildly thinning blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

"I'm Jonathan Bright." The man extended his hand.

Steve took it. "Steve Sloan." He glanced around cautiously. "Is there any place where were can go and talk in private?"

"Yes, of course." The man led him back the way he had come and through an access-controlled area marked "Staff Only". They continued on through a large lounge area and into an enclosed courtyard of stone benches and tables.

"Would this be okay?" Bright asked, gesturing for Steve to have a seat at one of the smaller tables.

"Sure. This is great." Steve replied, looking toward a small fountain at one corner of the courtyard. The soft sounds of running water added to the relaxing atmosphere of the place.

"The staff needs downtime, too." Bright explained. "Rehabilitation can be just as hard on them as the people they are here to help. I wanted them to have a place to go where they could feel like they were stepping away from the job, if only for a few minutes."

"You designed this place?" Steve asked, surprised.

"You thought I was a patient," Bright answered the question that hadn't been asked. "No. I didn't design it, exactly. I hired a contractor. I created this facility from money that I was left in trust. I can't bring back the people I hurt, but I can help others. And I want to do what I can to help you."

Steve frowned. "What did Gibsen tell you?"

Bright shrugged. "Just that you were a policeman. That you were looking for me to help prevent a murder. Possibly my murder."

"That's right. We're not certain that you're the one she's after. But based upon her prior motivations, it seems very likely. All the records from back then are sealed, so she may not know who you are just yet. But I think we should take measures to ensure your safety."

"I believe I'm safe here. All the entrances are controlled. And the staff, though they look friendly, are highly trained specialists."

"She may not come at you in a frontal assault," Steve tried to explain. "Her only constant is that in some way, she tries to make the punishment fit the perceived crime. Do you have any family? A car?"

"No family. But yes, I do have a car. But it is parked in a secure lot."

Steve thought about that. He was sure that Amber could find a way. "You have to leave at some point. She could be out there waiting for you. Is there any way you can stay here until I have time to check into a few things?"

Bright considered that. "I can," he nodded.

"There's something else that might help us." Steve hesitated before he continued. "And you're really under no obligation to answer this question. Can you tell me what happened that night? It might be helpful."

Bright looked at him sadly. "I'm afraid I don't remember any of it. All I've ever recalled is what I was told. I'm sorry Lieutenant."

Steve nodded. "Thanks for your help." He glanced at his watch. "Listen, I need to be going, but I'll be in touch." He was going to have to hurry if he was going to make it to the precinct and then to the hospital. If what Cheryl had found was substantial, he might even have to cancel.

Bright stood.

Steve stood as well and was immediately swamped by a wave of vertigo as the whole of the courtyard seemed to tilt before his eyes. He vaguely registered settling hard back into the chair and then he heard someone calling his name as if from a distance. Then everything coalesced back to normal.

"Lieutenant Sloan! Are you okay?"

Steve nodded shakily. He was beginning to feel slightly nauseous, but the sudden dizziness was passing. "I've been on pain medication. I probably just stood up too quickly."

"Would you like something to drink? We have a medical staff here. Someone could check you over."

Steve shook his head. "No, I'm fine." He stood up more slowly, and was happy to see that the surroundings stayed where they were supposed to. He breathed a deep cautious breath. "My father's a doctor," he added to assuage the worried expression he saw on Bright's face.

"Okay. But please have yourself checked out, Lieutenant."

"I will. Thanks again."

Steve made his way to his vehicle. He hadn't quite gotten around to breakfast yet, but had taken the pain meds anyway because the aches had seemed to be hanging on. Maybe getting something in his stomach would alleviate the nausea. As for the lightheadedness, he wasn't sure. Maybe he was pushing himself too hard too fast.

He caught sight of the colorful logo of a Burger King restaurant, and decided that a whopper for breakfast sounded like a great idea. To make it more healthful, he decided to accompany it with an orange juice.

As he ate, he reviewed the case in his mind. Such as it was. The police department only considered his assault as an open case. His and his father's idea that Amber was after someone else was all supposition. They had no proof. But if he could tie the assault to Amber then he would have a basis for building the case against her for the attempt that he knew was coming on Bright. He would need hard evidence, though.

He'd downed the juice and finished the sandwich, and was one-handedly stuffing all of the trash into the bag when all of a sudden the nausea hit again, only much worse than before. He barely made it to the side of the road and out of the rented vehicle before he fell to his knees and lost all of the recently acquired stomach contents and then some.

His head spun wickedly as he tried to control his body's violent reaction. He didn't think it would ever end. Finally, he was left breathless and panting. His entire body was shaking from the experience. Recently wounded chest muscles added their objections as well, sending sharp pains through his torso.

Making his way slowly to the car, he grabbed a couple of napkins and cleaned himself up as best he could. The blazer was a total loss. As he rolled it up and dropped it into the trunk, he swore to himself that he would never, ever again eat a whopper with everything under any circumstances.

Settling heavily back into the car, he stared out of the windshield and tried to get his bearings. Home was the opposite direction, but that was definitely where he needed to be before he even considered doing anything else. He rested a couple of moments more, then leaned over and started the car.