Part 16

Mark moved on autopilot through the corridors toward the room that had been assigned to the young man who was responsible for his son's poor condition. Considering the fact that Steve was already showing signs of beginning pneumonia, he couldn't have been in any shape to fend off two burglars. Surely they had to have known that.

What in his home could be so important as to outweigh a man's life? Those were just things. Things could be replaced. He would happily have given over every possession he owned if it meant that his son would remain unharmed.

But that hadn't been the case. The image of Steve, again lying in the yard, covered with mud and debris returned to his mind. It tore at his heart with the same intensity as when he'd first found him. He wiped a hand over blood-shot eyes, as if he could physically wipe away the memory. Then, setting his jaw, he continued determinedly toward the room.

Half a dozen questions and accusations filtered through his mind. The injustice of it. He wanted to see the person who had done this face to face. The sight of the uniformed officer outside of the room barely broke his stride. He moved on past him and pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The young man was reclining on the bed with his eyes closed. A shock of dark hair stuck up at odd angles above a pale and slightly chubby face. His eyes flickered in response to Mark's entry, and he opened a pair of soulful brown eyes layered in sadness.

That brought Mark up short. Moving more slowly, he automatically reached for his glasses as he reached the end of the bed and removed the chart. There were no surprises there. Jesse had already shared much of that information. The only new things were a name to go with the face and an age. Twenty years old. In two days time James Bryant was going to turn twenty-one years old.

Mark sighed, frustration and anger and sympathy all vying for dominance. He looked up at the young man and found another emotion thrown into the mix. The boy's eyes were swimming in tears, and he looked off to the side, evading Mark's gaze.

The question that had dogged Mark's steps all the way from ICU, the whys? and how could yous? of the father faded a bit as he asked the doctor's question. "How are you feeling?" His voice sounded a little gruff, even to his own ears, and he knew he hardly looked the professional image that he usually tried to engender. But the badge pinned to his shirt identified him as a doctor if nothing else.

The boy looked hesitantly in his direction, tried to shrug, then winced as he realized his mistake. Shrugging wasn't advisable with a broken collarbone. With one arm in a sling and the other hand-cuffed to the bed rail, he had little means of wiping away the wetness that slid down his face. "I'm okay," he said softly.

Mark grunted a response and returned the chart to the foot of the bed. There was really nothing he could say. Nothing that he wouldn't regret. The boy had been caught, and punishment would come from the hand of the law. Everything else was out of his hands. "Just . . . uh, ring for the nurse if you need anything." He turned and started for the door.

"Sir?" The boy's voice squeaked a little as he called after him.

Mark turned back toward him, almost afraid of what he could possibly want. If it was medical assistance, he'd have to get a nurse or another doctor to help him. After the day he'd had, he knew that his own professional judgment was highly suspect.

"Can you tell me how he's doing? No one else will say."

Mark frowned. "How's who doing?" That wasn't the question he had been expecting.

"The policeman. . . from the house. He didn't look so good the last time I saw him, and the police lady said that they brought him here."

Mark felt a resurgence of anger, and was tempted to simply turn and walk out of the room. But something stopped him. He wasn't sure if it was the need for answers, or the honestly worried look on the young man's face or something darker that he didn't want to acknowledge. He turned back around to fully face the boy/man on the bed, but remained across the room. The distance felt necessary.

"He's . . . not out of the woods yet," Mark said, unable to prevent himself from adding with a touch of bitterness, "He was already ill with the flu. To be stabbed and left for dead out in the cold and the rain didn't help him."

The boy swallowed. "I should have never listened to my cousin," he admitted. Tears continued to roll down his face as he spoke. "He said it would be easy, you know. He'd done it before, said it would make me a man. But everything went wrong. It all got out of control. When I came back and saw that cop lying out on the deck, I tried to help him up a little, he looked so . . . so sick. But Ritchie wanted to dump him in the ocean."

Mark felt his chest tighten at the recounting of what had taken place. He lifted a hand involuntarily almost as if to ward off the images it brought to mind, the pain and anguish that came with it.

James Bryant didn't seem to notice the motion. His gaze was focused in the distance as he continued to talk, unknowingly buffeting Mark with his quietly spoken words.

"I didn't want to do that. But Ritchie said he was going to die anyway. I . . . " He released a breath. "I tried to get him down the stairs to the beach, but somehow we fell. And he started running and hid someplace. I saw him, but I didn't tell Ritchie. And we just went back inside and grabbed a coupla more things and tried to leave. We never saw that truck coming.

"And now . . . Ritchie's . . . gone. And that cop is real sick. And - and I deserve whatever I got coming my way." He looked away from the spot on the wall toward Mark, finally focusing. He looked at him for a long moment and silence grew in the room.

Mark couldn't speak if he wanted to. He was riveted to the spot, and his mind and heart were in turmoil.

A bit of a curl stretched James' lips into a wry almost-smile. "Thanks for listening to me, doctor. I'm sure no one else would have. That cop didn't deserve what happened because of me. I just wish I could tell his family how sorry I am."

Mark nodded. It was time to leave. He turned and walked out of the door, unable to move further than a few feet along the corridor before he leaned back into the wall and stared sightlessly ahead. "You already did," he whispered in response to James Bryant's final plea. "You already did."

With that, he blew out a breath and headed toward the on-call room. He was still deeply worried for his son, but the darker pent up emotions that he had been carrying for what seemed an eternity were fading. It was time to try to get some rest.