(Chapter 26.  CGH, beach house, safe house.  March 29, 2033.)

The first rays of morning were just peeking into Emily's room when Olivia realized just how uncomfortable she was.  When Keith had first come to her and apologized, she had been so glad to see him, so happy they were again united in facing what the world sent their way, that she hadn't questioned the wisdom of Keith settling her in his lap as he sat at Emily's bedside.  Now, hours, maybe ages, later, she really didn't know because time had ceased to have any meaning for her the moment she heard the first gunshot and saw Emily's shoulder stained bright red, she was beginning to realize that they should have brought in an extra chair.

Olivia's shoulders and arms were aching from stretching to reach Emily's hand, her rear was going numb from her lumpy seat on her husband's lap, and she could only imagine how Keith's legs would feel when he finally woke and tried to stir.  He had fallen asleep some time ago, and she had been content to let him rest, but now, with the light of day, she felt the need to be up and moving.

Taking a moment to consider her situation, Olivia realized that she could stand up, still in the circle of Keith's arms, and relieve the pressure on her bottom.  That, at least would be a good start.  Then, if she were careful, she could slip her hands free from Keith's, leave him holding Emily's hand, and duck under his arms without disturbing either of them.  A quick trip down to the hospital cafeteria, and she could bring Keith back some breakfast and a cup of what passed for coffee around here.  They would both need something to fortify them for the long day of waiting that was ahead of them.

Slowly, Olivia eased forward on Keith's lap, and when her feet could touch the floor, she stood up.  Pins and needles ran up and down the backs of her thighs, and she knew she would have to stay in one place a while longer.  If she tried to walk off now, her legs would probably give way beneath her, they were so numb.  As she stood there, waiting for feeling to return, she watched her daughter. 

Pain showed in Emily's face, even in her drug-induced slumber.  She wore no hospital gown under her sheets, but her chest, abdomen, and shoulder were so heavily bandaged, and so many other things were going into her, coming out of her, and stuck on her that she didn't need anything more to cover her.  The ventilator tube, which went in Emmy's mouth and down her throat, jerked slightly with every puff of air it forced into her lungs, and an NG tube snaked its way up her nose and down her throat to suction off pinkish tinged gastric juices so that her injured stomach could heal.  Wires led off to various machines to monitor her essential bodily functions, tubes led out of her wounds to drain off fluids, and vinyl, thigh-high boots periodically inflated and deflated around her legs to help reduce the risk of blood clots.  More tubes led into Emily's body by way of an IV pump and carried nutrients, blood, and medication into her through a catheter in her good shoulder.  Another kind of catheter tube hung down over the side of the bed and carried urine, bloody now that the swelling around the ureter that led to the damaged kidney was going down, to a bag that hung from a rail under the bed.

As a doctor, Liv had seen all of this paraphernalia in use on many occasions and understood how each piece of equipment was essential to her daughter's survival and recovery.  As a mother, she found it all quite frightening, and she needed to leave.  Struggling to hold herself together so that she disturbed neither her husband nor her daughter, she began to gently disengage her hands.  Suddenly, she felt a strong grip squeeze her fingers, not from the large, warm hands of her husband, which were wrapped around hers, but from the cool, slender fingers of her daughter's hand, which she had held through the darkest hours of the night.

"Emmy?"

"Zelotes, is there any sign of Deputy Chief Sloan?" the anchorman said, looking toward a monitor off to his right.

"No, Dan," the woman with the odd name replied, live, via satellite, "His father and son came home around three in the morning, and his wife a little after four, but the Chief seems to have gone underground."

Moretti stopped to stand behind the couch and watch the report.  He would have had a seat, but Agent Wagner was still sleeping soundly, and the living room of the tiny safe house had only room for the sofa, the TV, and an end table.  There was nowhere else to sit.  Last night, his two protectors had given him the bedroom, and Al had spent the night in a sleeping bag on the hall floor.

The words at the bottom of the TV screen said, Zelotes Guzman.  Deputy Chief Sloan's house.  Malibu.  In the background behind Zelotes, the beach house, and the sand and surf beyond it, were limned with a delicate pink hue cast by the rising sun.

"Do you think he's likely to run, Zelotes?  Should the police be watching the airports?"

"I don't think so, Dan.  Sloan is proud to a fault, and he has a temper.  He also has strong ties to the area, family, friends, and history.  He's going to fight this, despite the overwhelming evidence."

Moretti kept the TV volume low so that Agent Wagner could continue sleeping.  It had been late when they arrived at an FBI safe house in Barstow, and Moretti figured Wagner would need some rest if he were to drive safely back to LA that afternoon.

"Do you think there is any truth to the rumor that Lieutenant Stephens is his daughter?"

Moretti spluttered and spurted his morning coffee all over himself and the sleeping Fed.

"I don't know about that, Dan, but it is possible . . ."

"What in the hell . . . ?"  Wagner complained as he woke up.

"Shhhh!"  Moretti turned up the volume and they both watched, transfixed.

"Word around the neighborhood is that Sloan and the lieutenant's mother were almost married thirty years ago, at just about the time the lieutenant would have been conceived.  We know from old news documents that Dr. Stephens, then Regis, was his doctor when he was injured in the line of duty back in 2002.  And then, of course, there are the tapes."

"Oh, yes, but I thought it was just one tape," Dan said.

"Yes, Dan," Zelotes replied, "only one has surfaced so far, but the LAPD removed several hundred audio and video tapes from a private apartment attached to a warehouse owned by our late colleague, Roger Gorini."  Zelotes' voice dipped with false regret for the loss of her fallen comrade, "There's no telling what might be revealed when they are made available to the public."

Dan's glance cut off to the left to another monitor showing a young man standing outside the Valley Bureau's headquarters building.  "Either way, Jonas, it looks like father and would-be daughter are going to be spending a lot of time in jail."

"Oh, absolutely, Dan," Jonas agreed.  "If even half of these allegations are true, a lot of people will be going to jail, some of them at the very highest levels of the LAPD and the FBI.  Sloan himself has already suspended two rookies from the task force without pay, and Lieutenant Jonathan Miller from the Internal Affairs Division has begun an investigation into their activities.  It is unclear at this time whether they have actually broken any regulations."

"Meaning what, Jonas?"

Treading carefully, Jonas made certain to imply, rather than directly say something that would make good copy.  "Meaning, if they did nothing wrong, and they knew what was going on in the taskforce, they could be a threat to some very powerful people."

"And Jonas . . . Wait.  Hold on."  The newscaster back in the studio pressed his earpiece to his ear so he could hear better.  "Jonas, we'll come back to you in a few minutes.  Zelotes, if you could just hang on a while, we have word that Lieutenant Stephens is just coming round at Community General Hospital, and I am being told we have to cut to Robert now."

"Ok, Dan.  I will see you later.  This is Zelotes Guzma . . . "

Zelotes was cut off by a burst of static, and a moment later, a middle-aged man in front of the hospital replaced her.

". . . squeezed her mother's hand."

As the fingers of dawn pried their way into the Sloan household, three very gloomy individuals sat in the wan, gray light of the kitchen, commiserating over hot, fresh coffee.  Sleep, which had come late to all of them, had not been restful, nor had it lasted long, and now, though poorly recovered from the trials of the previous day, they knew they had yet another one ahead of them.

A roach coach had set up across the street, and was serving breakfast burritos and sausage and egg sandwiches to the media hounds who had camped out on the sidewalk at the end of the driveway all night.  Maribeth had called to complain and asked the department to send the vendor on his way, hoping to make the reporters disburse in search of sustenance, but she soon got a call back that the man's vending permit included her neighborhood and he just hadn't serviced the area in years because he never did a very good business.  Now, though, with a captive audience, trade was brisk, and he was determined to feed his customers.  When she suggested that the reporters be cited for loitering, the officer had gently reminded her that the sidewalk was a public place and as long as they didn't obstruct traffic, they were well within their rights to be there.

"You might try to get a restraining order, ma'am," the young officer had told them, "but your husband is a public figure, and from what I hear, he has a lot to answer for."

She had barely managed a terse, insincere, "Thank you, Officer DeLong," before slamming the door in the young man's face with such force that he staggered backwards and stumbled down the steps.

Maribeth took another gulp of coffee and squeezed her eyes shut as it scalded its way down her throat.  Meeting Steven's eyes as he came back to the table from checking on his father for the third time that hour, she asked, "How is he?"

"The same, Mom."  Steven said, pouring another cup of coffee.  "He's just sitting there, staring.  He didn't take any of the coffee I brought him, so I just left it on the nightstand beside him.  His blood pressure is a little higher than I'd like it, but given the stress he's been under, I'm not surprised.  How much sleep would you say he got?"

Maribeth shrugged.  "Maybe an hour.  Hour and a half tops.  Not much more than I did."

"I'd like to sedate him, Mom."

"No, not yet."

"But Mother!"

"Steven, no."  For a while, nobody said anything.  Steven knew better than to argue with his mother and Mark knew he did not need to intervene.  Finally, Maribeth got up and put her cup in the sink.  She pulled her robe tighter around her, and as she shuffled through the kitchen, she said, "I am going to have a shower.  Then I will call Alex at the hospital and see how Emily is doing.  Maybe, if she is still stable, Liv and Keith will consider coming out and helping us clear up this mess.  If not, then you may sedate him."

"Yes, Mom."

Leigh Ann sat in her cell and giggled maniacally.  Having worked for Sloan for four years, she knew the law and knew if she requested news from outside they had to provide her with a paper.  That idiot Murdoch had taken every word she had given him and typed it up into a devastating story of intrigue, duplicity, and scandal.  She had already more than gotten her revenge, and for Sloan, this was just the beginning.  She sat back, content, knowing it didn't matter what happened to her now, she had accomplished what she needed to.

"Get up," the guard said gruffly, "you have a visitor."

It was almost seven when Alex finally emerged grinning from Emily's hospital room and went straight over to Liv and Keith, who, absorbed in prayer, were standing just down the hall, holding hands, so close together their bowed heads were touching.  He waited a moment as they finished.

"Please, Lord," Liv said, "make her whole or take her home.  Do not leave her here to suffer.  Amen."

"Amen," Keith finished.

Alex cleared his throat quietly, and both worried parents looked at him with expectant dread, but when they saw his grin, they both began to smile.

"Keep up those prayers, you two, because they are really helping.  I have never seen anything like it."

"What?  Alex, how is she?" Now that she knew the news was good, Liv was even more desperate to hear it.

"Well, her blood pressure and heart rate have stabilized.  Her BP is still low, and her heart rate is still a little fast, but that is to be expected.  As far as I can tell, she is lucid and aware of her surroundings, and she knows more or less what happened and how she got here, but we'll be able to assess that better when she comes off the vent and can speak."

"Oh, thank God," Keith sighed.

"Absolutely," Alex agreed, "because medicine couldn't achieve this much this fast.  Now, all the same risks are still there.  A blood clot could be lethal, but, barring complications of that nature, now that she has come round, her prognosis is much better."

"Can we go back to her now?" Keith pleaded.

"Yes, for a little while.  She is still in a lot of pain, and she needs more rest, so in a few minutes, I am going to sedate her.  When I do, I want the two of you to go get a bite to eat and some rest, understand?"

"Ok," Liv agreed, "but we can see her now?"

"Yes," Alex said happily, and he stood aside and swept out his arm in a gallant gesture toward her room, "you can see her right now."

Too excited to thank him or even excuse themselves, Liv and Keith hurried down the hall back to their daughter's bedside.

"Looks like the Lord isn't ready for her yet," Liv said.

Laughing slightly, Keith said, "Will he ever be?  This is our Em, remember."

Dr. Martin, you have a call on line one.  Dr. Alex Martin, you have a call on line one, please.

Alex, chuckling with pleasure at having been able to deliver the good news, went to the nurses' station to pick up the phone.

Moretti and Ron were still glued to the television.

". . . just got word, Dan," Robert said from the hospital.  "Lieutenant Stephens' has apparently made a miraculous recovery."

"What the hell?" Moretti looked at Agent Wagner.  "You saw her, right?  You know how bad she was hurt.  It'll be days, maybe weeks, before they can even say if she'll survive!"

Agent Wagner gave a sarcastic smile, "It's on the news, Moretti.  It must be true."

Holding his earpiece tight into his ear, Robert continued, "She is conscious and coherent and has made it clear to her doctors that she wants to be discharged, but for some reason, her physician, Dr. Alex Martin, has decided to keep her sedated."

"Now, why would they do that?" Dan asked from the studio.

Before Robert could answer, Jonas contributed a theory from Valley Bureau Headquarters.  "It could be like the rookies, Dan.  Someone, somewhere sees her as a threat."

"What an idiot!" Ron said.

"I don't think so, Dan," Robert disagreed.  "After all, the four most important words of the physicians oath are 'First do no harm.'  Dr. Martin has been a well known, highly respected doctor at Community General for over thirty years . . . "

"Finally, someone who makes sense," Moretti sighed with relief.

"Which makes it possible for him to effectively handle certain problems for his friends, and he and Deputy Chief Sloan have been friends for almost forty years now," Jonas countered.

"Ok, Jonas," Dan said in the jovial tone of a proud parent hoping to temper the actions of a precocious child.  "We do understand that all the elements for a conspiracy are there, but for now, that is just a theory, and until someone proves it's valid, if you say very much more about it, you could get us all in very serious legal trouble."

While Jonas pouted, Agent Wagner said, "Thank God they shut him up."

"Aintcha a little old ta be such a sucker, Wagner?"

"Huh?"

"They knew when they put him on this story that he would be talkin' conspiracy.  That's why they gave him the assignment," Moretti said disdainfully.  "His job is ta make everything that happens look like it's part of some big cover up.  He's there ta crucify anyone he can nail ta a tree."

"This is Dr. Martin.  How can I help you?"

Maribeth frowned in confusion.  The voice coming down the line was far too cheerful for someone at the end of a long shift.

"Alex, it's Maribeth.  How's Emily?"

Alex couldn't contain his grin, and his voice when he answered carried it down the telephone line.  "Emily is . . . amazing."

"Amazing?"

"She woke up about half an hour ago.  She's in a lot of pain, but she's stable, conscious, alert, and already seems anxious to get out of here.  She should never have come round at all, let alone this quickly.  It's unbelievable.  I thought I understood what you meant about praying for miracles, Maribeth, but now, I know I do.  Between you and me, if there are no further complications, I think she will recover quite nicely."

"And Liv and Keith?"

"Delighted.  They're in with her now, but in a few minutes, I am going to sedate her so she can get some rest, she's in too much pain to sleep properly without it, and then I am sending Liv and Keith off to have some breakfast."

"Alex, have you read the paper?"

"Oh, gosh, yes," Alex said, shock and dismay creeping into his voice.  "Remember, I called Peter to come in and cover for you?  I guess I should tell them about it, shouldn't I?"

"Yes, please do," Maribeth agreed, "and see if you can convince them to come out to the beach house.  Steve came home last night and got a look at it.  He was all alone, and I think it actually sent him into shock.  Now, he's just sitting there, staring.  Won't talk, won't eat, nothing."

"I see.  Do you want me to come out to the house?"

"No, thanks.  Steven, Dad, and I can take care of him for now.  I just think Liv might be able to get him to open up.  If Olivia would just settle this issue about who is really Emily's father, at least he won't have to bear that uncertainty any more."

Alex was thoughtful a moment.  "Ok, Maribeth, I'll see what I can do, but you have to realize, they may want to stay with their daughter."

"I know, Alex, all I am asking is that you try."

"All right, then.  I will call you back later."

As Alex hung up the phone and walked back down the hall toward Emily's room, he didn't see a nurse pick up the phone and dial 584-NEWS.

"Oh, it's you," Leigh Ann said rather carelessly when she entered the visitation room to see her flabby, middle aged husband, Rick pacing the room, looking like a wrung out dishrag.

"Yes, it's me!"  Rick snapped in surprise and moved to kiss his wife, but she turned and walked away from him, the irons she was wearing on her wrists and ankles jangling slightly with each step she took.  "Leigh Ann, what did you think you were doing?  Why did you do it?"

She sat at the table and folded her hands in front of her.  When she answered, she smiled up at him, but still managed to look disappointed and speak condescendingly. 

"My name is Liana," she said.  "My father was Ross Cainin."

She waited while Rick searched his cluttered little mind for the name.  Finally, he said, "The mafia don?"

"Yes.  Years ago, when Deputy Chief Sloan was a lieutenant working for Chief John Masters, he helped my father take over the Ganza organization.  My father was an undercover cop at the time."

"A dirty cop, yes, I've heard."

Leigh Ann was silent a minute.  As she sat there, she flexed her fingers, and as Rick watched her long red nails flash in and out of the shadow of her palms, he thought of a big cat, sheathing and unsheathing her claws, preparing to pounce on her prey.

"My father," she said patiently, "was a powerful man, a man who knew how to take charge of things.  Masters should have known my father would not be content to answer to him indefinitely.  When he grew tired of taking orders, he simply . . . " she rolled her eyes, searching for the right phrase, " . . . started writing his own orders."

"What does all of that have to do with you smuggling a gun into the federal courthouse and shooting a cop?  I heard you were gunning for Chief Sloan.  Is that true?"

"Oh, will you shut up!"  She had already lost all patience with him, but in the next moment, she was oozing sweetness like honey.  "You see, Rick, that's why you'll never be a powerful man.  You don't know when to exercise patience and when to press an issue.  Now is a time to be patient, darling.  Relax.  I'll tell you everything you need to know, in my time."

"Ok, I'm listening," Rick said anxiously, taking a seat across the table from her, "just," he made a rolling motion with his hands, one circling the other, "get on with it, so I can call a lawyer for you."

Leigh Ann sighed deeply.  "What is a woman to do?"  She sat very primly, and smiled at Rick until he ceased fidgeting and gave her his undivided attention.

"Now, as I was saying, my father decided to take charge of things for himself, and when he did that, my mother left him.  She didn't understand him.  Mother was a good teacher, but she wasn't very clever, you know?" 

She spoke of her mother as if she had been a simple child.  "She knew how to use a man, how to get what she wanted out of him, and she taught me that, too, but she didn't know how to deal with a powerful man.  When she left my father, she changed our names so that he couldn't find us.  I was six years old when I had to start calling myself Leigh Ann and calling her new husband Daddy."

She paused, and waited for Rick to jump in again.  He looked like he was itching to say something, but he held his peace, waiting.

"See," Leigh Ann said with mock encouragement, "you are learning patience already.  More's the pity, it's too little too late." 

When he remained silent in the face of her taunts, she smiled impishly and continued.  "As soon as I was old enough, I came back here, back home, to find my real daddy, but by then, he'd been killed by one of his . . . subordinates looking to move up in the organization."

"Cainin was killed by another dirty cop!" Rick interrupted.  "One he brought into the organization, and from what I hear, he had it coming.  In the ten years he was in charge of the Ganza organization, he killed ten cops, men he had worked with, who trusted him with their lives."

"What you hear!  What you hear!"  Leigh Ann was losing patience again.  "What you hear is what the police public information officers want you to hear.  My father was a man ahead of his time, killed by a petty fool who could not see his vision and was afraid."

Rick couldn't believe what he was hearing.  He was certain his wife was losing her mind.  "So why try to kill Sloan?"

"Because I could get to him!  Because he took my daddy away from me.  Because Masters was a long time dead and Archer, she's a woman, she was much too clever.  I was going to practice on Sloan first, but that bastard brat of his got in the way!"

"Sloan didn't kill your father."

"No, but he helped Masters and Archer put him in charge of the Ganza family."

"But your father is the one who turned dirty.  He chose his life Leigh Ann, don't you see that?  He is responsible for his own death."

"NO!"  Leigh Ann began to tremble with rage, but she quickly controlled it and continued her rambling.  "He would have excelled whatever he did.  Masters, Archer, and Sloan put him in charge of the Ganza family.  They took him away from me.  Men like my father are like shooting stars.  They burn brightly and die out quickly.  He was only here for a short time, and I didn't get to share it with him, because Sloan and his ilk removed him from me.  Just like Mr. Gorini!"

Tears were spilling down her face now, and Rick watched in amazement.  It was the first time he had ever seen his wife cry.  Neither the pain of childbirth nor the death of her own mother had brought a tear to her eyes, but now, she was weeping over a man he'd never heard her speak of.

"Just like who?"

"Roger Gorini, you idiot!  He was my lover!"  When she saw Rick's look of surprise at her revelation, a cruel smile lit her face and she began to laugh wickedly.  "Oh, my, Rick, you simple, silly fool, surely you must have known I had taken a lover."

"No, I . . . that is . . . I thought you loved me.  You married me, we . . . we said our vows," even in his shocked state, he knew it was lame, but he really had never realized.

"Loved you?"  Leigh Ann laughed at her husband in disbelief.  "Loved you?  Rick, darling, if I had loved you, I never would have married you.  Marriage is a political institution designed so that two people can share their assets and have a better chance at financial success.  It's nothing more than a business arrangement cloaked in romance.  I married you so I could live in Beverly Hills and play tennis at the club."

"But, the kids, Leigh Ann.  What about the kids?"

"Oh, you can keep them."  She waved her hand dismissively.  "I never wanted them anyway.  I just had them to keep you happy, or didn't you know that, either?"

"No," Rick said, in shock, "no, I didn't know.  I don't think I ever knew you at all."  He went over to the door and knocked.  When the police guard opened it to let him out, he muttered to the officer, "I guess I should call a lawyer."

"Criminal or divorce?" the young man asked, forgetting for the moment that eavesdropping on prisoners' family visits was frowned upon, if not illegal.

"I . . . I'm not sure," Rick replied.

Rick stumbled out of the station, heartbroken, his mind filled with confusion, wondering what he would tell his children and his parents.  His parents had really liked Leigh Ann, and his children, well, she had never been the most affectionate of mothers, but he was sure they loved her, and he thought they had always believed she loved them.  Perhaps it was the change of life.  Some women just fall to pieces when the time comes.  Maybe I should have been more attentive.  Maybe she's just lost her mind.

As he came out of the police station, he was momentarily blinded by the bright lights of a television news crew.  He threw up his arm to shield his face, but he stopped in mid stride when he heard the reporter mentioning his wife's name.

"Lieutenant Stephens and Leigh Ann Bergman, Chief Sloan's personal assistant, are the only ones who have been charged so far in this case, Dan, but the list of possible indictments is already enormous and still growing," Jonas said from the Valley Bureau headquarters.

"I can't believe they're putting him back on," Al Cioffi complained.  "The man is an idiot and an instigator."

"First, there's Lieutenant Stephens, who organized the plot to kidnap Mr. Moretti.  Then there are her cohorts, Lieutenant Martin Rossi, Sergeant John Velasquez, and Officer Donald Marino." 

"That's exactly why they're puttin' him back on," Moretti said.  "His bullshit makes good press, great ratin's.  He's their bread an' butter."  Looking from Captain Cioffi to Agent Wagner, he added, "You know your names will come up sooner or later."

"Yeah," Wagner agreed, "we know."

"And it won't be the first time for either of us," Cioffi added.  "It's easy to find a scandal when you only have half the story and you speculate on the other half.  The hell of it is, by the time the truth comes out, people have generally gotten bored and stopped listening."

"Federal Marshals Ray Swanson and Nick Caputo as well as FBI Agent Timothy Brown were late for their shift at the safe house where Mr. Moretti was being kept when he was kidnapped," Jonas continued.  "They could be charged with dereliction of duty at the least, but charges against them could include accessory to kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder before it's all over."

"But he's full of it!" Agent Wagner exclaimed.  "I talked to Tim Brown.  They were late because the car they were traveling in had a flat.  They all met at FBI headquarters and shared one ride to the safe house so as not to draw attention."

"That doesn't matter," Moretti explained.  "People wanna good story, an' he can make it up on the fly.  The juicier it is, the more people watch, the more advertisers wanna get their ads on this station, the more they can charge ta run the ads.  It's all about money."

"Deputy Chief Sloan likes to keep his friends close," Jonas said, "and this list proves just how many friends he has.  Besides Ms. Bergman, the task force included six members of the LAPD, three FBI agents, and a number of civilians."

"I know," Wagner said, "but it stinks."

"Everybody knows it stinks," Moretti agreed, "but they still don't turn it off."

"Chief Sloan, Commander Cheryl Banks, Captains Alberto Cioffi and Dion Bentley-Wagner, and Officers Alfredo Cioffi and Charles Donovan, the two rookies Sloan has suspended, made up the LAPD contingent.  Ron Wagner, Special Agent in Charge of Missing Persons Investigations for the FBI's LA field office, and two of his subordinates, Agents Timothy Brown and Nicholas Solomon contributed on behalf of the FBI and helped program Lieutenant Stephens and all of her disguises into the national missing persons/most wanted facial recognition program.  Chief Sloan himself delivered to Lieutenant Stephens $100,000 provided by her parents.  That's aiding and abetting a fugitive.  Chief Sloan's father, wife, and son, Mark, Maribeth, and Steven Sloan; as well as his business partner, Dr. Jesse Travis; his close friend, Chief County Medical Examiner, Amanda Bentley-Wagner; his goddaughter and godson, Hannah Wagner and Dr. CJ Livingston-Wagner, and his goddaughter, Lauren Travis also worked with the taskforce from time to time.  The indictments could reach all the way back to Lieutenant Stephen's birthplace in Clearfield County, Pennsylvania.  As I understand it, her uncle, Clearfield County Sheriff Kenneth Stephens played an integral part in the taskforce . . . "

Much to Agent Wagner and Captain Cioffi's disgust, Jonas continued rambling on and on, naming people neither of them had ever heard of as possible contributors to a vast conspiracy to eliminate Moretti before he could do any further damage to Vincent Gaudino's organization. 

"Dorrie Fischer?" Cioffi asked as another unfamiliar name was mentioned.

Ron wrinkled his brow in thought.  "The pizza guy!" he shouted, snapping his fingers with sudden recognition.  "The same kid always delivered.  I remember him now.  Brown hair, freckles, his hair went every which way.  Yeah.  His name was Dorrie.  I asked him if he was the only delivery boy they had, and he said no, but we were becoming predictable, and he made it a point to be around when we ordered so he could get the run.  Apparently we were good tippers."

"I see," Cioffi replied.  "Maybe we should ask for a raise?" he suggested as he headed off for a shower.

Though they hated what they were hearing, they never turned the TV off.

"Emmy, sweetheart, I love you.  I love you, baby, and I am so proud of you."  Olivia ignored her own tears to wipe away her daughter's.  Unable to think of anything else to say as important as the few words she had just uttered, she stood there, crying softly, stroking Emily's hair, and dabbing away her tears as Keith spoke.

"You're a tough one, aren't you, kiddo?  Do you want to know what's happening?"

Because of the ventilator tube down her throat, it hurt to nod her head, so, without lifting her arm from the mattress, Emily gave her dad the thumbs up instead.

"Well, they got a conviction on Gaudino.  You remember that?"

Again, Emily gave the thumbs up.

"Good.  Moretti is safe.  Wagner took him to a safe house somewhere.  You did your job.  You saved the Chief, too.  By now, he's probably just waking up to breakfast with his father, wife, and son.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that young man of yours comes to visit you before the day is out.  Your doctors sent him away last night, but he said he'd be back." 

Emily heard the false cheer in her father's voice, and she narrowed her eyes at him.  Keith noticed the look.  Time to quit stalling.  She knows there's more, and she expects you to be honest with her.  Keith took a deep breath, he had to finish this, but he wasn't sure his daughter was ready to hear it anymore than he was willing to tell it.  "Leigh Ann shot you . . . four times.  She was gunning for the Chief, but you knocked him out of the way.  I saw it all, Em.  I . . . was right beside her, but I couldn't stop her . . . I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry, Em."

Emily was growing distressed, and it showed on the monitors, so Keith said simply, "I'll shut up now."

Emily would have none of it.  It hurt to move and she couldn't talk, so she started snapping her fingers until her dad looked at her hand.  Then she wiggled her fingers and reached weakly for him.  Keith slipped his hand in hers, and was surprised how cold her fingers were.  Slowly, painfully, Emily lifted his hand in hers to put it over her heart.  She winced slightly as the stitches pulled when the weight on top of her bandages stretched the skin, but when her father tried to pull away, she held his hand more firmly in place.  Finally, when she was certain he would not move, she gave him the thumbs up.  Then she pointed to herself and to her father and gave the thumbs up again.

Teary eyed, but smiling, Keith said, "I love you, too, kiddo, and thank you.  I tried my best, and it wasn't enough, but since you're forgiving me, I will try to forgive myself.  Now, may I move my hand so I don't hurt you any more?"

Emily gave the thumbs up again, and let her hand slide limply back to her side.  If the ventilator had not been regulating her breathing, she would have sighed in relief as the pressure on her incision was released.  As it was, she rolled her eyes, and Olivia, misinterpreting the gesture giggled and said, "That's your father, Em.  A little thickheaded sometimes, but his heart's always in the right place."

It took Emily a moment to figure out that the roll of her eyes had precipitated her mother's comment.  Then, appreciating the humor and the truth in it, and knowing there was no way she could explain the gesture, she just gave the thumbs up.

"Liv, Keith, may I speak to you a minute?"

Emily couldn't hear her parents' conversation with her doctor, but she could hear their voices getting more and more agitated and knew they were arguing.  They had always argued, about her, about money, about religion, politics, and ethics, but mostly about her, and somehow, she had the feeling that this argument was about her, too.  After a few minutes, her mom and dad and her doctor came back in.

"Emily," her mom said gently, "Dr. Martin is going to sedate you soon, but he wants us to go somewhere while you sleep.  There's a story in the newspaper, and it says some bad things about you and the Chief and some other people who have tried to help you and Mr. Moretti.  The Chief is very upset about it, and Dr. Martin thinks we could help straighten things out.  I told him we'd be happy to help, but only if it's ok with you that we go."

For the first time since she recovered from the BioGen virus, Emily was scared.  She was hurting and knew she was very ill, and she was in trouble and in a strange place, but her parents were asking if they could leave her alone.  She knew the situation with the Chief must be very serious, or her mother wouldn't be making such a request, but she was just so scared.  Finally, she snapped her fingers to get their attention.  Once her doctor was looking at her hand, she pointed to herself and gave the thumbs up.

"You're ok," Alex said with a smile.  "Well, thank you for your opinion, doctor, but . . . "

Snapping interrupted him, and he looked back to Emily's hand.  She pointed to herself, gave the thumbs up, and then held her hand slightly off the mattress and wobbled it right and left as if to indicate 'so-so.'

"Ohhh," Alex said as realization dawned.  "You're asking if you will be ok, aren't you?"

He was rewarded with the thumbs up.

"Do you want me to tell you about your condition?"

Thumbs up.

Alex drew up a chair and prepared to again recite the list of insults that had been inflicted upon her anatomy.  It was a list he had already committed to memory and didn't think he was ever likely to forget, especially as he had never expected her to see another sunrise, and yet, here she was.  "You took four ceramic polycarbonate bullets.  One to the shoulder, two to the chest, and one to the abdomen . . . "

"Wagner?"

"Yeah?"

"You think when you get in the shower, you can sorta take your time?  I wanna talk ta my son."

"You're gonna tell him who you are, aren't you?"

"I think so."

"Don't you think it's a little soon?  He just met you yesterday."

"It might be, but the way these reporters are goin' at it, they just might start lookin' inta everybody's background, an' once the word hits the street, it'll be too late for sure."

"I suppose so.  Ok, I'll try to give you an hour.  If you still need more time, I'll just go into the bedroom and have a nap."  Wagner stretched his long, lean frame, and said, "That couch is not the most comfortable sleep I have had, and I could do with some real rest."

"Ok, an' thanks," Moretti said, sincerely grateful.

". . . and so here you are," Alex finished.  "You can probably tell from how you are feeling that you are in very serious condition."  He waited for Emily to give him the thumbs up, which he now knew meant 'yes,' before he continued.  "You are at risk for a number of complications, still, including infection and DVT, or deep vein thrombosis, which means developing a dangerous blood clot.  Do you understand?"

Thumbs up.

"Right now, the best thing for you is rest," Alex continued.  "So, in a minute, I am going to sedate you.  Since you will be sleeping most of the day, I thought now would be a good time for your parents to go have a bite to eat, clean up, and change their clothes."

Emily again gave the thumbs up, agreeing with him.

"The thing is, Emily," Alex explained, knowing that he was about to ask a lot of both his patient and her parents, "some reporter has taken everything that happened over the past month and turned it into a huge scandal by leaving out important details, like the fact that you were protecting Mr. Moretti and he lived to testify.  It is creating a lot of problems for Steve." 

At her look of confusion, he clarified, "That is, this story, well, they're using it to make the Chief and a lot of other good cops look dirty."

Emily immediately became quite agitated, and Alex spent the next several minutes trying to calm her.  Finally, when he had convinced her that she was really at no fault for the stories and that they were all just the product of an irresponsible press, he presented his request. 

"Your parents could help clear up some of the misunderstandings about the money that they brought out for you, the house you stayed in when Jesse treated your injured shoulder right after you took Moretti, and other things," he said.  "They really don't want to leave you alone, and I know you probably don't want them to go, but they have decided to let me ask you a favor.  I am off duty now.  If I stayed with you until they came back, would it be ok for them to go talk to the Chief and try to straighten some of this out?"

Emily didn't bother to think over her response.  She knew what she had to do.  Snapping her fingers to direct everyone's attention to her hand again, she very deliberately pointed to her mother and then her father.  Then she made a flicking motion with her wrist to indicate they should go.  Pointing to her doctor, and then the floor, she asked him to stay.  Finally, she pointed to herself and gave the thumbs up.

"Ok, Em," Keith said, "you want us to go, and Alex can stay.  You'll be ok.  Is that right?"

She gave the thumbs up.

"You're sure?" Liv double-checked.

Tears streaming from her eyes, Emily gave the thumbs up once more, and then wobbled her hand in a gesture of uncertainty.

"Sort of sure, eh?  What if Daddy and I stayed with you until you were asleep, would you like that?"

Despite the discomfort of the ventilator tube, Emily wanted to make sure they knew just how much she would like that.  Slowly, painfully, she nodded.

"Ok, then, baby.  Alex is gonna sedate you soon, and when he does, Daddy and I will stay right here until you are asleep."

Alex slipped a needle into the catheter in Emily's shoulder, and as he did so, he spoke soothingly to his patient.  "This will make you sleep all day, Emily, and probably well into the night.  Just relax, and don't fight it.  Sleep is the best thing for you, now."

When he had finished administering the medication, Liv and Keith resumed their seat at her bedside, Liv on her husband's lap, holding her daughter's hand, Keith, with his arms around his wife, clasping her hands around that of his daughter.

"I'll be back in about ten minutes," Alex said.

"Breakfast is ready," Moretti said.

"Be there in a minute," Al Cioffi replied from the living room.

Moretti fidgeted nervously and fussed with the plates of food he had set on the table.  They were having omelets, heavy on the veggies, light on the cheese; 'fried' tomato slices, which had sizzled on the griddle in their own juices rather than a lot of grease; whole wheat toast with no-sugar-added peach preserves, fresh, sliced strawberries, and coffee.  It was a lot of food, to be sure, but Moretti had found that when he ate right, he could eat more for fewer calories and feel completely satisfied.

"Wow, that's a lot of food!" Al exclaimed when he came out to the kitchen to wash his hands because Agent Wagner was in the bathroom.

"I . . . I didn't know what you liked," Moretti explained, "So, I made a bunch of different things.  I figured somethin' would appeal to ya."

"Hey, it all looks great," Al said cheerfully, "and for future reference, I'll eat anything as long as it doesn't bite back."

Moretti laughed and said, "Ok, I'll remember that."

For a while, they sat in silence, Al relishing his meal, and Moretti just pushing the food around on his plate.  Eventually, Al, finally sated, looked up and realized Moretti had barely eaten.

"Something wrong, Moretti?"

"Huh?  Oh, uh, no.  I . . . I guess I got a lot on my mind."

Al nodded, and then looked the older man over closely.  He looked scared.

"Mr. Moretti, we will keep you safe."

"I know," Moretti said thoughtfully, then added, "but don't tell Wagner that.  It's too much fun ta needle him."

Al laughed aloud, then.  "I know what you mean.  He's a good guy, and I have known him a lot of years, but it is just so easy to get under his skin."  Growing serious again, he said, "So, if it's not that, then what's on your mind?"

"I been thinkin' about my kid," Moretti said, beating around the bush.  "When this is all over . . . I dunno . . . I'd kinda like him ta know . . . that is, I'd wanna tell him I'm proud of him, an' I'm sorry I wasn't there for him.  I suppose he was better off without me, but a kid needs a dad, an' I let him down.  Gimme some help here, how would ya react if someone like me came outta the woodwork ta claim ya for his son?"

Al became very thoughtful and uneasy.  Having grown up in a large, extended Italian family, he'd always felt somewhat ashamed to be the cousin with no dad.

"Mr. Moretti, I never knew my father.  My mother never told me about him, nothing good or bad, just that she knew she could never spend her life with him, and he didn't want to have a family with her anyway."

Al stopped talking as if he had said all he was going to, but Moretti needed more before he finally came out with the truth.

"How would ya feel about him if he finally showed up in your life?  Would ya hate him, or want ta get ta know him better?  What would ya say ta him?"

Though he didn't like the direction this conversation was headed, like so many other things that had happened the past couple of days, Al felt powerless to stop it.

"I don't think I'd hate him," Al confessed.  "I never did, but I missed him.  I always wondered why he never came to see me.  I figured maybe he was dead or in jail or something, but Mom never told me, and I never asked, because I knew it would hurt her too much to talk about it.  I guess . . . I guess I would want to know why he never gave a damn about me."

"I never knew about ya until about a year ago, son," Moretti told him softly, "an' when I found out who ya were an' what a fine man ya had become without anyone ta teach ya how, well, I figured I had ta do something decent for a change before I introduced myself."

"What did you call me?"

"Son.  I'm your father."

"No, you're not."  Al stood up from the table, clearly shaken.

Moretti looked up at his son, and regretted the years he had lost.  He felt guilty for changing this man's world so unexpectedly, and so suddenly, but he had to believe he had done it for the right reasons.

"Sooner or later, the press is gonna find out, Al," Moretti warned him.  "They're gonna dig deep into the background of everybody connected ta Sloan, an' they're gonna find out I'm your father.  I know ya don't wanna believe it, an' I won't blame ya if ya do hate me, but I figured it would be easier hearin' it for the first time from me than from some reporter who's stickin' a microphone in your face."

"You are not my father," Al insisted.

"Look, son . . . "

"NO!  Don't call me that!"  Al thrust his hand up, creating a barrier between himself and Moretti, and he began to back away from the table.  "I am not your son.  I don't want to be your son."

"It's not like ya have much of a choice."

"I said no!" Al insisted, and he stumbled into the living room where he stood, breathing heavily for a few seconds, trying to process what he had just been told.  Then he looked to the one bedroom of the tiny safe house and knew he had to talk to Wagner.

By about eight o'clock, Emily was sleeping soundly.  Liv and Keith each kissed her head, and, trusting her to Alex's expert care, they headed off to Malibu to see if they could help their friends.  They agreed that it was the least they could do considering all that the Sloan's had done for them in the time they had been in LA, and though the timing couldn't have been much worse, their daughter had reminded them that it was indeed the right thing to do.  They had always taught Emily to do the right thing, no matter what, and in the past few weeks, she had obeyed their teachings to the letter.  Now they were finding out how hard it was to live the lessons they had so easily taught.

As they pulled away from the hospital, Olivia looked up toward Emily's room and sighed deeply with the weight of tears she didn't dare shed.  "What if something happens while we're gone?"

"There's nothing we can do for her here," Keith said stoically.  "But we can put her mind at ease by talking to the Sloan's and helping them.  What's more, she asked us to do this.  What choice do we have?"

Olivia smiled weakly then, and patted her husband's hand as it rested on the gearshift, ready to put the car into reverse.  "Not much of one, I suppose.  All right, let's go.  Let's do this for Em and then get back here."