Chapter 10

Steve threw the stack of photos aside and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. Had to go a little easy on those blood spatter shots - if he tossed another meal, he'd never hear the end of it. He'd tried skimming the notes, but the words still jumped and blurred together. Jesse was right - still too soon for close work. He picked up the television remote and thumbed it on to give his vision a change of pace. Nothing, nothing…afternoon television really was a vast wasteland. Suddenly he paused, glanced at the clock. Hm. Maybe…he listened carefully for any sign of his father, who was returning some calls to the hospital, but all was silent. Must still be busy. Good. He didn't need anybody to catch him doing this…cautiously, he flicked through the stations, searching. He found what he wanted and settled back to watch.

Oh, my love, if only you could remember our much longed for children…Yeah, yeah, yeah - get to the good part. Like what you're going to do about it.

Perhaps Dr. Adams can help, with his miracle drug. Oh, come on - if you're going to be ridiculous, then just forget it. What else you got?

But the tests show I have a very rare blood type and it would be dangerous for me to try…

Steve groaned out loud. Oh, please. Like we couldn't see that one coming…so much for Jesse and his theory that television doctors get their information from real life. He reached for the remote.

But wait…perhaps…there is something I could do…

The music reached a dramatic crescendo and the picture faded to a commercial. Steve hesitated. Probably they were going to suggest a brain transplant or something, but…he turned on the closed captions, turned down the sound, and picked up his photos again. But it wouldn't hurt to hear what they had to say.

He looked at the photo on top. A long sea fan of blood swept across the wall in a slight arc. Must have happened while he was turning…he closed his eyes and tried to picture the Fullers' entryway. He'd been there a couple of times before that last visit - at least twice to visit the David Fuller murder scene, one other time when the crime scene tape had come down - he could see it pretty clearly in his mind's eye. If someone swung from the left and caught here…he touched the bandage over his ear lightly…that would cause a spray like that, if he was trying to turn away and had been facing away from the front door. He flipped to the next photo. Spatter got lighter here, more elongated…he studied the area the forensic team had circled. A break in the spatter there, so something had been in the way. Furniture, possibly, but why would somebody move it? And who would even have the chance? So, another person? Maybe Brian Fuller? But wouldn't he have seen him if he were there? He grimaced. Maybe he had. If only he could remember…

He glanced back at the television. Some blonde woman he didn't recognize was weeping to an older woman that she was pregnant. He returned to his photos. There was something in here somewhere, if he could only figure out what it was…The next photo showed the floor, a dark puddle stretching across the flagstones of the entryway, soaking the living room carpet. He felt a funny frisson down his spine. His. You know, it was one thing to look at crime scene photos, it was another to know…he set the photos aside a little hastily, leaning back and closing his eyes again, taking slow breaths. So that was what his father had walked in on. Nice. Except that he had still been lying there then, and…oh, damn. He rubbed at his temples.

If anyone needed this thing to be over and behind him, it was his Dad. There was no way he could keep dredging it up for him, make him relive it again and again. If he had his own doubts, well, then that was his problem to take care of and nobody else's. Besides, he probably was just a guy whose whole perspective had been skewed by a whack to the head. Madge Fuller could just as easily be haunting him because she was guilty as because she wasn't. Except…he let his hands drop. That he didn't believe for a minute that she was.

He opened his eyes. What he needed was to remember. What they had said to each other. Who was there. Who had hit him. He needed details. Or if he was on the wrong track, if his mind was playing tricks on him, then he needed to know that too. He needed to be sure.

He noticed his fellow amnesiac was back on the television screen and pushed the mute button to restore sound.

…Oh, Eric…you know how I yearn to remember…Yeah - you and me both, lady. But it is out of my hands! You need to be patient!

How can I be patient when you hold all my happiness in your hands? You tell her, Eric. When I can't even begin my life again until you have recovered yours? I know just how you feel.

You know I am doing everything I can! My life is on hold as well! I have heard that a second blow to the head can sometimes restore memory…Oh, please. Even I know that doesn't work. My dad could give you a whole lecture on that theory.

I will not let you risk such a thing, Miranda. Good choice, Eric. Could mean brain damage or even death. We will just continue as we are, the best we can. I will take you tomorrow to where we were wed and we will see if that helps restore your memory. In the meantime, we will…wait.

And pray, Eric. And pray.

Steve sighed. Well, good luck, Miranda. Hope you make out better than I am.

"What are you watching?"

Steve started, then fumbled hastily to stuff the photos of the bloody entryway back in the file. He really wished his father would wear noisier shoes…"Um - nothing." He punched the off button on the remote, but not, he was sure, before his Dad had gotten a look at the screen, if the faint smile that twitched upward under his mustache was any indication.

"Really bored?" he asked sympathetically, seating himself on the coffee table opposite. "We could have that rematch game of Gin Rummy."

"Sure." Steve discreetly tucked the file out of the way.

Mark rose to fetch a deck of cards. "Why don't we play at the table? So you don't have to lean forward."

Steve hefted himself to his feet and managed to negotiate the coffee table without barking his shins. Feeling a little more confident, he maneuvered his way to the table with only a couple of casual gropings for support on the furniture and walls. "But I'm doing a lot better with the leaning. Doesn't send me straight to the floor any more."

"Well, that's good, but no reason to push it. Want a soda?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Mark plunked a frosty glass in front of him, then picked up the deck and shuffled briskly. "And now, my friend," he added with a smile, "you will get your comeuppance." He started dealing. "Cheryl have any news?"

"Yeah. All bad. Brian Fuller's missing."

Mark paused his dealing. "The son?"

"Uh huh. Didn't show up at his after school job. They have an APB out on him."

"Now, where on earth would he…never mind. If you knew that - "

"He wouldn't be missing." Steve finished with him. "Right. Judge denied bail."

"Well, he'd almost have to, wouldn't he? Does he think she knows where he is? That they were planning to flee?"

Steve shrugged moodily. "I don't know. I'm busy nursing my boo boo. I don't know much of anything."

Mark eyed him sharply, then picked up his cards, arranging them meticulously. "You were seriously hurt, you know."

Steve glanced at him quickly, felt his color rise. Oh, damn. Just what he hadn't wanted to remind him about. "I know…"

"Injured in the line of duty. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know, Dad…"

"No different than being shot, really. And a police officer who isn't fully fit is a danger to himself and everyone around him."

"Dad - " Steve put a hand on his father's cards to get his attention. "I know. I'm sorry. I just - " he grimaced apologetically. "I hate being sidelined, that's all."

Mark's face relaxed into a smile. "Always did - even as a little boy. Just couldn't stand to sit the bench."

"Well, some things never change, I guess."

"You know, son, I really think you can trust Cheryl to take care of things for you. Just like you'd do for her."

"I know that too. I just - " Steve fanned out his cards, then pushed them back into a stack.

Mark glanced at him over his glasses. "You must have some matches in there."

"Hm? Oh. Yeah." Steve fanned his hand again and stared at the cards.

"You think you could have done something differently."

"Well, I think if I HAD done something differently then a sixteen year old kid might not be God only knows where doing God only knows what."

"Uh huh. Like what?"

Steve folded his cards back into a stack. "I don't know - I'm working on that."

Mark picked through his own cards, arranging sets. "Maybe you can't think of anything because there isn't anything." Steve was silent. "Steve, sometimes you do everything right and things still go wrong. There's no point in beating yourself up about it."

"Maybe not, but you can at least do everything you can to make it right again."

"And what is it that you think you can do? That the rest of the police force can't manage without you? You need to pick a card - I dealt."

"Oh." Steve drew a card and put it in his hand with the others. "Now you sound like Cheryl."

"Always liked that girl. Discard."

"Hm?"

"You took a card. You need to - "

"Oh. Right." Steve tossed down a card.

Mark looked at him more closely. "Are you sure you're not just tired out? That could be making you blue. Maybe you need a nap."

Yeah, great - then maybe Brian Fuller can visit me in my sleep, too. "Dad, I think I've gotten enough sleep over the last couple of days that I shouldn't need to close my eyes again for about two years."

Mark selected a card and studied his hand, smiling slightly. "If only it worked that way." He discarded, then waited. "Steve," he said finally. Steve looked up, surprised. "It's your turn."

"Oh." Steve looked at the cards in his hand as if he wondered how they had gotten there.

"You need to pick a card?" Mark suggested patiently.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Steve picked up a card and added it to his hand.

Mark waited. "And discard."

"Oh." Steve selected a card at random and threw it down.

Mark nodded. "Okay. That does it." He tugged the cards out of Steve's hand and swept them together with the rest of the deck.

Steve stared in surprise. "I thought you wanted to play."

Mark thumped the deck on the table to tuck all the cards together. "It will be no fun beating you if aren't even paying attention to the game. What do you say we have dinner instead? Maybe that will settle your mind down."

Steve scrubbed at his forehead. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"No, no - we'll play later." Mark got up to put the cards away. "What would you like for supper?"

"Ribs and a beer."

Mark chuckled. "Those will taste good for about the first five minutes."

"Am I allowed anything that doesn't taste like cardboard?"

"Well, there's a reason they call it a bland diet, but I'll see what I can do."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Well, let's see. When's the last time you took your medication?"

"I meant to get dinner ready. And I'm only supposed to take it as needed."

"Mm hm. Why don't you take some now?"

"Because I don't need it now."

Mark set the bottle in front of him. "Humor me. Then you can set the table."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, stopped himself. After a second he popped off the safety top and shook two pills into his palm, swallowing them with a chaser of soda. He pushed himself to his feet and took a moment to be sure of his balance. "Just plates and silverware?"

"That would be perfect. I could get them out of the cupboard for you."

"No, I'll do it." Steve made his cautious way to the cupboards, pleased to see he was managing better. "As long as nobody's in a hurry."

"We await your convenience."

Steve slid two plates out of the cupboard and opened a drawer to forage for silverware.

"Anything you wanted to talk about?"

Steve looked up in surprise.

Mark smiled mildly. "Just seems like you have something on your mind. If you wanted to talk about it."

Yes. No. "I'm - just thinking about the Fuller case."

"And Brian Fuller."

Steve nodded, easing his way back to the table with his burdens.

"Anything specific?"

Steve hesitated, keenly aware of the laser-like blue gaze upon him, feeling uncomfortably transparent.

"Because something really does seem to be eating at you."

Steve's hesitation was longer this time. He had never been any good at keeping anything from his father. Then his eyes fell on the prescription bottle and he remembered the crime scene photo of the entryway. On the other hand, there were some things it was better not to dredge up…he centered a plate on each place mat. "Nothing special," he managed finally, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the table. "Just in general."

"All right." He felt his father turn away, knew with certainty that he hadn't in any way convinced him. "But you know I'm here if you want to talk."

That was almost Steve's undoing. "Yeah. I know. Thanks, Dad." He distributed silverware, straightened, suddenly noticing something. "Hey, you know what? I think my head must have been hurting - I do feel better."

Mark chuckled. "I know. You always get that little crease between your eyebrows when you have a headache."

"I do?" Steve rubbed automatically between his brows, frowning suddenly. "What else do I do that I don't know about?"

Mark added water to a pot on the stove. "Oh, no. I can't give away all my secrets."

Steve gave him a small smile. "Just have to keep the upper hand, don't you?"

"Yup. It's part of the father's rule book."

"Table's set. Need help with anything else?"

"Why don't you just have a seat? It should be ready shortly. Because with all due respect, son of mine, I will decline your help with cooking dinner. "

"Very funny." Steve re-seated himself at the table. "I took first place in the chili cook off two years in a row, I'll have you know."

"And the next time we have chili, I will leave it in your very capable hands."

"Mm." Steve picked absently at a place mat. "Sixteen's just a really bad age to lose a parent, you know?" he blurted suddenly.

Mark glanced over his shoulder at him. "I'm not sure there are any good ages for that," he suggested gently.

"Yeah." Steve returned to his contemplation of the place mat, but he was really seeing the playful baseball photographs decorating the walls of the Fuller living room, surrounding the warm family portrait. He blew out his breath softly. "Yeah."