Part 5


Jesse came to a halt. He was acutely aware of everyone's eyes riveted on him in hopeful expectancy - even more acutely aware that he had little positive news to offer.


He cleared his throat, reaching for his professional, reassuring smile. "Um...he's in ICU..." the familiar terminology helped him get a better grip on himself and he continued more confidently. "He's on oxygen - his breathing still isn't too reliable. Right now they're trying to warm him intravenously - core body temperature was pretty low, just below ninety, so we don't want to do too much else until that's under control. I did take blood samples, though - white cell count is high and the blood gases are low."


Mark stared painfully. "So what are you saying?"


Jesse frowned at him in surprise. He couldn't quite believe that Mark wasn't following his implications.


"Well," he continued patiently, "I think he's working on an infection of some kind - whether from the knife wound, or being out in the rain with the flu or both, it's too early to tell, but we need to be prepared, because his temperature may suddenly take a big jump once we have it back into normal range and his body is out of dormancy mode. I packed the wound, but I didn't want to jostle him by trying to close it until he's a little more stable. The low blood gases could be a result of the hypothermia, or he could be headed toward -" He stuttered to an abrupt stop when he realized he was talking to Mark like a colleague discussing an interesting case instead of a doctor informing a distraught next of kin.


"Pneumonia," Mark finished for him quietly.


Jesse nodded. "I don't know much for sure yet. It's kind of a waiting game. His vitals are stable - well, more stable than they've been - and I've got him on a tight monitoring schedule. I'm hoping we can get him back up to, say, 96 degrees in the next few hours, then we can take a closer look at the rest and decide if more aggressive treatment of the other symptoms is required. From what we can tell, the stab wound doesn't seem to have damaged any vital organs, and that's probably the main reason he's alive. But he's lost a lot of blood and..." Jesse broke off again, his expression troubled. "Mark? You okay?"


Mark had turned away and was apparently examining the far wall with intent and frowning interest. He blinked at the sound of Jesse's voice, but didn't look at him. "Can I see him?" he asked abruptly.


"You bet." Jesse's voice was jaunty and reassuring, but the look he shot Amanda and Tanis was frightened and questioning.


Amanda gave him a slight nod and stood up to put a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Mark," she murmured soothingly, "Do you want me to go with you?"


Mark turned to look at her, a stiff smile pinned in place, but his eyes still a little unfocused. "No," he answered definitely. "No, thank you, honey. Jesse...?"


"Right." Jesse tried to smile too and placed a hand on his back to guide him out of the room. But as they left, he glanced over his shoulder at Amanda and Tanis, his face creased with alarm.


The ICU seemed quiet after the comparative bustle of the hospital corridors; the predominant sound the steady beeping of machines. Mark paused outside the plexiglass cubicle for a moment, looking, almost unconsciously logging the different equipment in his mind: oxygen mask...IV fluid...blood transfusion...thermal space blanket. He moved silently past Jesse to enter, glanced over the readings on the monitor, his feelings remote. Pulse was slow. BP low, but it had been palp and thready, so that was still better. Temperature was almost at 90.


He heard Jesse clear his throat tentatively behind him. "Want me to...?"


"It's all right, Jesse." His voice sounded so calm - detached. "You don't need to stay."


"I could - "


"It's all right." Probably he was being rude, but he couldn't find it in himself to care too much. "I know you had a long shift. You can go."


He was aware, peripherally, of Jesse lingering in the background, then he heard the sound of his rubber-soled shoes making their way out of the cubicle. He waited until he was sure he was alone, then found a chair and drew it close to the narrow bed. These chairs were always so uncomfortable, he thought absently. Somebody should do something about that. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.


It was hard to really see Steve with the oxygen mask covering so much of his face, his eyelids sunken and still. In the half-light that illuminated ICU he appeared insubstantial - fragile. It was difficult to associate that word with his athletic, vital son, but right now the edges of his bones seemed to thrust through the skin, hollows shadowing his cheeks and neck where his body worked hard to breathe. Mark brushed his knuckles lightly against one prominent cheekbone and sighed. Cold, still.


He hunted among the tubes and wires until he found one limp, quiet hand, curled impassively inward, and picked it up, holding it lightly within his own. He needed to be careful: hypothermic skin was fragile and bruised easily...He sat looking at it, tracing his fingertip down the long fingers, turning it over to study the palm, mindlessly tracing the crease there. The lifeline, a fortune teller would say.


"When you were growing up - " he began conversationally, "I used to look at your hands all the time. I don't think I ever told you that. One day they were a little boy's hands, and the next day they were so long - elegant, almost - with such sensitive fingers - the hands of a born surgeon, I used to think. I'd watch them curve skillfully around a basketball or a baseball bat and later a football, or see how agile and dexterous they'd be putting a model together and I'd think - 'it's only a matter of time.' Clever hands. Meant to do fine, intricate work..." He ran a thumb carefully over the blue-tinged nails.


"You know, even though my father and his father before him were police officers, I don't think I ever really considered the idea that you might decide to wrap them around a gun instead?" His voice fogged, and he broke off to clear it, placing his other hand carefully over the one resting within his own.


"I don't want you to think that I regret what you chose, Steve - regret isn't the right word...I always knew that you had to make your own choice just as I made mine, and I was proud of that - am proud of it. But sometimes..." The hands blurred before his eyes, he felt the moisture there pool and overflow, but he didn't want to let go long enough to do anything about it. "Sometimes..." his voice dropped to a whisper and he shook his head, folding his hands delicately around the one he held, trying to warm it. "Sometimes I wish you had made another choice." He closed his eyes. "Any other choice."


*


Jesse watched from a distance as Tanis spoke with a forty-ish woman with a worried expression that seemed permanently etched into her face. The woman wrung her hands, nodded her head and spoke occasionally in response to the detective's questions.


Jesse looked away from the scene and focused toward glass windows set up high in one wall. Night had long since fallen, but rain still splattered against the windows. The thunder and lightning were no longer in evidence, but figuratively, the storm raged on.


Amanda was busy in the path lab, going over the young man who had died in that afternoon in the van. It didn't take much work for him to figure out that this woman was the mother of the other young man. Neither of them had been much beyond their teens, but they had put in motion of chain of events that put four lives at risk.


Mark was caught up in near debilitating worry for his son. He hadn't moved from the room in the past 3 hours. He'd remained a silent brooding presence through every check the nurses had done.


Tanis had spent every moment since he'd initially announced Steve's condition working the robbery and assault at the Sloan household. She had spent quite a bit of time on the phone ensuring that the evidence from the van was carefully collected and logged. Jesse had a feeling that the young patrolman from the site had been drafted to protect the integrity of the scene, both in the van and at the beach.


And then there was Steve. . . "Any change?"


Jesse startled when he heard Tanis's voice at his side. He hadn't heard her approach, having been wrapped up in his thoughts.


He nodded in response to her question. "Some. His breathing is still a bit shallow, but more stable. And his core temp is climbing pretty well. If things continue as they are, I expect his temperature to be in the normal range by his next check."


Tanis's expression turned hopeful. "So he's getting better?"


Jesse made a face. "Yes, in the sense that his body temperature is increasing. But there are still a few more hurdles to cross. We're giving him broad spectrum antibiotics in the hopes of warding off any potential infection. I'm really worried about him possibly spiking a fever. That could cause a whole other set of problems. And there's still the abdominal wound that needs to be taken care of. As soon as he's strong enough, we'll schedule the surgery. For now, we're sort of in a holding pattern."


Tanis nodded her understanding. "You'll let me know if anything changes?" she asked.


"You bet." Jess gave her a wry half smile.


She seemed a little uneasy, but then continued. "I hate to leave now, but there are some things I need to follow up on. I want to make sure this is done right. For Steve. And Mark."


"I understand," Jesse assured her. Then gesturing beyond to the woman at the end of the hall, "She the mother?"


Tanis nodded. "Yeah. He got off with a broken collarbone and a mild concussion. But he confessed to everything. The knife belonged to his buddy. I've placed him under arrest until he's released. His doctor said that would probably be in the morning."


A uniformed policeman appeared at the end of the hall and Tanis gestured at him, waving a good bye to Jesse.


Jesse turned away and debated heading to Pathology before he went back to ICU, but decided on ICU. He really wanted to see how Steve was doing. He was also worried about Mark. He couldn't remember having seen him this way before.


Where Jesse had showered and changed in the doctor's lounge, Mark couldn't be convinced to leave Steve's room. In the end, Jesse had resorted to getting some of Mark's clothing out of his locker and bringing it into Steve's room so that Mark could change out of his wet clothing there. It was almost as if Mark was worried that if he was away for just a moment things would take a turn for the worse. Jesse knew that the constant vigil had to be wearing on him.


He'd just rounded the corner into Steve's room in time to see Mark rising from his chair.


"Jesse, I think we have a problem," he said, moving around to the opposite side of the bed. His moments were more brisk than when he'd initially entered the room. He still looked and sounded deeply worried, but the fugue that he had been in appeared to have lifted somewhat. Jesse was so surprised at the change, that he almost missed the words.


"What kind of problem?" he asked, moving farther into the room, checking out all of the monitors for some type of heads up.


"His temperature's starting to spike."


*


Mark stood back watching Jesse examine Steve. He trusted Jesse completely and he knew he wasn't in the best shape to provide any help. The entire incident had completely shaken him. He'd been worried about Steve all day, but he never could have imagined how the day would turn out. He shivered at the memory of Steve lying on the beach out in the wild storm: cold, hurt and sick. Why hadn't he gone to check on him earlier? He'd been worried about him, knowing something was wrong. Painful experience should have told him to listen to his instincts. If he'd been there, Steve certainly wouldn't have been left for dead in the bad weather. Or at least, he would have been found much earlier. Mark refocused his mind and attention back to Jesse who was giving the nurse some instructions.


Jesse finished talking to the nurse and walked over to Mark. "His temperature has spiked, but it's not really surprising. The wound isn't infected, which is good news, so I strongly suspect the fever is coming from him being sick. The main danger is if his temperature gets too high, but I'm hoping a change in antibiotics will get this under control. We'll have to keep a very careful eye on him for the next few hours."


Mark sighed deeply. Things so often became complicated with his son. Without warning he started to sway slightly. Jesse took Mark gently by the arms and shepherded him to the chair. "Mark, you're exhausted. I know there's no point in trying to get you to leave, but I'm going to get you some coffee and food. Steve is going to need a lot of care and you won't help him if he's worried about you. He's strong and healthy, Mark, he can beat this."


Mark nodded weakly. He knew his son was strong, he had survived ordeals that would have killed weaker men, but it didn't mean it became easier for him to see him fighting for his life. It just seemed at times that they went from one crisis to another and he really didn't know how much more Steve's body would take. Jesse watched him sadly before turning to leave.


"Any word on the other burglar?" Mark surprisingly asked.


Jesse was startled. Mark seemed quite impassive, but there was something in his voice that bothered him.


"He's got a mild concussion, and broken collarbone. He should be released tomorrow," Jesse said.


"He got off pretty lightly for nearly killing my son. Steve's going to be in here for considerably longer than overnight," Mark spoke quietly.


Jesse was growing increasingly worried. This did not sound like the normal Mark Sloan, not even the one who desperately worried about his much-loved son.


"The knife belonged to his buddy. From what I can understand, it was the other one who stabbed Steve, and he died in the accident."


Mark nodded slowly. "But he didn't help Steve, did he?"


Jesse couldn't answer, he didn't know how. He turned to leave, wanting to get some refreshments for Mark.


Mark was left alone with his gloomy thoughts. His anger was starting to grow again, especially when he realized his son's attacker would be released from the hospital the following day and his son's hospital stay would be considerably longer. He didn't believe in revenge, but he did find himself questioning why this happened, and why the guilty party got off so much more lightly than his son. The only thing he'd done wrong was to try to tackle the burglars when he wasn't in a fit state. This was something they would be discussing when he woke up. If only he would wake up.


to be continued . . .