Chapter 15: Heroes

Cheryl thought that her heart might stop when Steve just seemed to slump bonelessly over into the water. In far too short a span of time his head went completely under. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Mark to see that, and she didn't take time to look.

Where she had been moving at a jog, she put on a burst of speed taking the remains of the decline down into the relative shallow waters at breakneck speed. She had no intention of getting so close, only to see him drown before her eyes. She wouldn't let that happen to his father, either.

The time to reach the water's edge seemed interminable. She splashed into the shallow waters and found herself confronted with an odd situation. Steve was laying on his side, beneath the water, very still. Findley, coughing and sputtering, seemed to have propped himself up on Steve's legs, thus remaining above water.

She needed to roll Steve in order to get him out of the greenish liquid, but that would be difficult without potentially drowning Findley. Not that the idea didn't have its share of merit, considering.

Mark splashed into the water right behind her, ending the dilemma. He immediately went for Steve's shoulders, turning him while Cheryl quickly re-adjusted Findley's position. The irony wasn't lost on her that a murderer's life was being saved by an individual who was dedicated to ensuring that he was punished. Considering the nature of the crimes, Findley could likely be up for the death penalty.  

Once Findley was again resting across Steve's legs, Cheryl moved quickly to his shoulders to hold onto Steve in similar manner so that Mark could examine him. They had been no words spoken as they'd worked. It was as if they had both known what needed to be done and did it. Mark's movements were almost mechanical, as if he had been programmed to show no emotion, only to do the job.

She didn't need to hear him say the words to know that Steve wasn't breathing. Thankfully, he still had a pulse. Mark began artificial respiration. It was odd to feel his lungs expanding and releasing while his father blew a breath into him. And then another. And another. Suddenly she felt another kind of movement, almost a rippling.

"Mark." She spoke his name, but before either of them could react further, Steve began to cough as his body attempted to expel the water that had entered his lungs. His head was quickly turned to the side so that the liquid could drain away.

The sound of the approaching footfalls as the EMTs entered the water drew Cheryl's attention, at which point the scene began to bustle with activity. She quickly identified herself and Steve as LAPD, and the man trapped beneath the truck as a man who was going to be placed under arrest.

Mark spoke up as well, a bit gruff-voiced, and explained that Steve was a near-drowning, and had not been checked for other injuries, also that a loss of consciousness had led to his going under the water. The first EMTs acknowledged them as he quickly went to work on Steve, while the other man started on Findley.  

In short order, Steve was strapped onto a stretcher and moved out of the water. The whirring sound of an approaching MedEvac chopper quickly followed. When Cheryl looked back down after it lifted into the sky carrying both Mark & Steve, she was surprised at the amount of equipment and number of personnel on scene as they began the work of disentangling their murder suspect. She started to read him his rights, at which point he informed her that the detail had already been taken care of by Detective Sloan.

~*~

Jesse  was standing by when the gurney carrying Steve was brought in. The usual adrenaline rush that kicked in when he was working a trauma flowed through him. It allowed him to ignore the worry for a close friend who had been injured and to get on with the work of helping him to heal. He spared a glance in Mark's direction, noting that his expression was stark with worry and his clothing damp and stained. But despite that, he seemed to have no immediately visible physical injuries. He expected Amanda to be down at any moment, and trusted that she would assure that Mark was okay.

She appeared before he completed the thought and moved to Mark's side, leaving Jesse to listen to the stats from the transferring EMTs while he did a quick exam of his own. Steve was unconscious and in shock. There was a dark bruise along his left temple, oozing blood. But his pupil response was encouraging.

"Let's get him to Trauma One!" he ordered, continuing his examination as he moved alongside the gurney. "I need an abdominal series and a head CT," he called in response to the rigidness in Steve's abdomen. He added several other tests as he noted the swelling and darkening bruises which ran the length of the left side of his body. One side of his trousers had been cut away, and then there was the matter of the green stains that had drenched his still damp clothing.

His shirt had also been cut open, revealing the dirty, blood stained bandage that he had only just changed the day before. It too was tinted the same green that was on Steve's clothing. He wasn't sure that he wanted to know what it was, and the faint smell that accompanied it wasn't overly reassuring.

Jesse sighed internally. Okay, buddy. Let's get you fixed up. Having reached Trauma One, he initiated the move from the EMT gurney to the one in the room. Focusing on his patient, he began the work of helping his friend back to health.

~*~

It was dark, and the smoke billowed all around him, seeking to still his breath, his very life. But he knew that he had to keep going. He had to save them. There was still time. Wasn't there? Confused, he ran on, coughing and sputtering as the noxious fumes seemed to burrow their way into his lungs. He felt the world graying around the edges, knew that he was a goner, felt himself falling, the painful sting of failure settling over his heart.

Suddenly, he splashed down. The waters were up over his head. His eyes flew open in the green-tinted darkness. It burned into his retinas but that was all he had. The air had been stolen from his lungs. If he was to breath, he had to make it to the surface. He could just see the light up above. He kicked his legs, struggling to make his way toward it.

But then the voices came. It was that song again. The smoke and the voices. Those cries of the innocents. He looked backward and down into the mire. There just beneath him were the two beautiful girls. They stared at him with unblinking, dead stares, blonde hair floating wraith-like about them in the green brine. But their lifeless eyes called to him, trusting in him to save them. Every moment in the water drained a bit of life from him. They would take more, still. Yet, he couldn't leave them.

The mire pulled more and more heavily against him as he descended. It pressed into his chest, weighing him down with impossible burdens. Still he drew them close and started up again. But the drag was too much. The light above seemed to be receding away. He felt as if he was going backward.

Frantically kicking his legs, he worked harder, struggling. There was no more air! He had to reach the light. He had to draw breath. Then he was entangled. Something was grabbing at his legs, preventing their motions.

He looked downward, fighting the rising panic, the deepening need to have fresh air. The fringes of the girls' dresses had become green and vine like. They were wrapping around and around their legs, keeping him from moving. He looked up into their faces and registered shock.

The once blue eyes had turned green and morphed into the features of a man. A man with a gun. A man who had killed four people. The gun went off, sending a soundless concussion through the water. It exploded into his chest, knocking him backward and away. He was free-falling. From a far distance the ocean released a mournful cry as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Steve's eyes shot open, and his chest heaved. It took several moments for him to realize that he was on the deck in a lounge chair. The sun was bright overhead, shining late-morning warmth onto the beach front. He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. It had been a dream. Just a dream. A sound at the door leading to the den area drew his attention. Without turning his head, he knew who it was.

"I'm fine, Dad." The words seemed to simply pour from his lips, without thought. It had been five days since he had gone off the road at Dustan Curve, nearly a week since Vincent Findley had been taken into custody for the murders of Adam Michaels, Tessa Cohen, Sam Jarvis and Jeff Johansen.  Steve had spent much of that time in Community General fighting a raging infection. He'd been allowed home the day before, and since that time his father had seemed to be hovering more than usual.

"I'm sure you are, Steve. I just thought I heard you say something."

Steve noted the humor that Mark had tried to inject into the words, but he also caught the edge of worry. He turned carefully, fighting the stiffness and aches which remained from the surgery to repair his spleen and still healing fractured ribs. "I'm maybe a little hungry," he said, not willing to talk about the dream. Though it had taken on a disturbing new tone, he'd gotten past it before and he would again.

"Okay. One early lunch, coming right up." Though Mark smiled, he gave him a considering look before he headed back into the house.

Steve sighed. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to be able to hold his father off for much longer. So much had happened, and they hadn't had a chance to talk about it. He thought back to the day, two days prior, when he had woken up well enough to be cognizant of his surroundings.

"Steve . . . " The sound of his dad's voice penetrated the thinning mists as he opened his eyes and slowly focused on the room around him. He easily recognized the room in one of the wards at Community General. If he concentrated his tired mind, he could even name some of the machines that sat nearby. But he couldn't say what it was that had brought him there.

"Dad . . . what happened?" He asked in a raspy-voiced plea for information. And why was he so wiped out? He felt as if he might drop off at any minute and sleep for a hundred years.

"You've been very sick, son," his father said, resting a gentle hand on his arm.

Steve was surprised to find that it was in a sling. Other things came to his attention, like the bandaging on his left foot and lower leg. There was also a generalized pain that seemed to start in his mid-section and radiate outward.

"You've been in and out," Mark continued. "What is the last thing you remember before waking up just now?" 

Steve broke off in the cataloguing of his injuries and looked at his father. He focused his mind backward, dredging for past thoughts. He remembered chasing Findley, he remembered driving, he remembered going over Dunstan Curve. . . . The memory of that moment still had the power to shake him.

"I was chasing Findley," he said finally. "I remember crashing into the back of his truck, but not much after that." A dozen questions popped into Steve's mind, all vying for immediate answers. But his father side-tracked him.

"That was three days ago."

"Three days?" Steve was stunned. Despite feeling so drained, he worked up the strength to exclaim, "I've been out of it for three days!?"

Mark patted his hand in a calming gesture. "You were very sick, Steve. Your truck landed in that nasty green water off Dunstan Curve. Even with internal injuries, a broken foot, fractured ribs and a concussion, you managed to save Findley from drowning, and read him his rights." There was the slightest bit of exasperated amusement in Mark's tone.

Steve frowned. He didn't remember any of that. "So we got him?" he asked.

"We got him," Mark assured him. "But you swallowed some of that water, and it got into some of the injuries you received in the accident. Jesse began a course of broad-spectrum antibiotics, but still it was a hard road. Your body was already weakened from the gunshot - which Findley confessed to, by the way. He also confessed to tampering with your brake lines. Although, he hadn't intended to be any where around the next time you tried to drive."

"There's karma for you," Steve said, still trying to take it all in. He could see the strain on Mark's face despite his smiling countenance, and knew that while he had been fighting the infection, his father had been there right beside him, wearing himself out. As he expected, Mark smiled agreeably at his attempt at humor.

"Cheryl has been by to see you everyday. But she's already left. She wants you to know that there is an iron-clad case against Findley. They found the gun at his home. Along with drawings that speak of his obsession with Maeve. He actually created comic book stories involving the two of them."

Mark paused for a moment as if debating how to continue. He drew in a breath, then continued, "You were in them. The Michaels' had an intercom system that was stuck in the on position which gave Findley an opportunity to hear Maeve's side of all of those conversations she had with Carla about her . . . . er . . . adventures. He viewed you as one of the ones who had hurt her. When he heard her telling Carla about what Jarvis had done, it seemed to have pushed him over the edge, so to speak. He started acting out the things that he'd written about in his stories. He drew her as a Greek goddess, and himself as her protector, trying to save her from those who wished to harm her."

Steve nodded, saddened by the entire situation. Suddenly the exhaustion seemed too much, but he had another question. "He's not going to be able to stand trial, is he?"

"I'm afraid not, son. He has other issues that need to be addressed first."

Steve figured as much. "How's Maeve taking it?"

"I think she's going to be fine. She brought you this." Mark held aloft a plant sitting nearby. "There was a very nice card, too."

Steve looked toward the plant, noticing the way it blurred around the edges. "That's very nice, Dad . . . ." he managed. His own voice seemed to be coming from far away, and he knew that sleep was inevitable. Just before his mind tripped completely over the edge, it occurred to him to wonder if his father had been opening and reading all of his cards.

Steve blinked away the memories at the sound of another step at the door leading out onto the deck. Figuring it was his father, he was surprised when he looked up to see someone else standing there.

"Fred? What are you doing here?"

"Visiting you. What does it look like I'm doing?" The other detective offered a nervous chuckle to soften the words. The stress and strain that seemed to live as a part of the man's expression had softened, and Steve realized that he again looked like the Fred Mancini that he used to know, even though he wasn't precisely sure when things had changed.

"Well, have a seat, then." He gestured toward one of the deck chairs, a genuine smile lighting his face.  "My Dad was cooking up something for lunch. I'm sure he'll be bringing some out for you, too. You hungry?"

Fred patted his gut. "Trying to cut back."

Steve scoffed. "Trust me, my dad only knows how to make the healthy stuff. I've tried to corrupt him, but he just won't be turned."

Mancini laughed a little. Then, casting a glance over Steve's arm, still crooked across his abdomen, though he wasn't wearing the sling, and down toward the foot that was propped a little on a cushion, "So, how you healing?"

"I'm good." Steve nodded.

"Well, I hate to tell you this, Pal. But going over a cliff after a perp isn't exactly mentioned in the LAPD bad-guy apprehension book of etiquette."

"I didn't have much of a choice about the cliff," Steve admitted. "I might have thought twice about it if I did."

"I hear that. But you got your man and lived to tell about it. So, it's all good. You even got another write-up in the paper. They called you a hero and everything."

"You're kidding." Steve hadn't known about that. No one had told him. In their worry about him, he wondered if his dad, Jesse and Amanda had even noticed.

Fred shook his head and laughed. "Figures. They must be right about you after all. The unsung protector of the innocent and not-so-innocent, yadda, yadda, yadda."

Steve was starting to feel a bit embarrassed. "Come on, Fred. Let it rest. I'm no hero, I'm just a cop, just like you, trying to do my job."

Fred sobered. "Hey, in case I didn't tell you. I'm sorry about . . . everything. I was having some trouble at home, and, I got the mistaken idea that you had added to it. There was a lot of other stress too, what with that kidnapping case, and all. And then you got that award. . . ." Fred shrugged. "What else can I say? I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for. Those were hard times. I'm glad things are better for you, now."

"Yeah. They are." Fred looked out to the ocean for a moment, then back. "You know, you didn't crack under all that strain. And you deserved that award they gave you. You did all the hard stuff, and you didn't have to."

Steve blew out a breath, the memory of the dream descending upon him. He'd stowed the plaque, the certificate and the check away in a drawer. He hoped to someday store the memories away, too. "I was just doing my job," he insisted, ready for the conversation to be dropped.

"So, what are you doing to do with the money?" Fred teased. "Buy a boat or something?"

Steve really didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Can we just drop this conversation? Maybe enjoy the scenery?"

"Hey. What's this?" Fred scooted closer. "I hit a nerve, huh?"

Steve shook his head. "No nerve, Mancini. I just don't want to talk about that case anymore."

"Come on, I spilled my guts to you. I even apologized, for Pete's sake. To you. A kid I trained. So, are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to mop up your father's deck with your sorry behind?"

Steve half-chuckled. Typical Fred. He shook his head and started talking. "It's that whole award thing. But what about the two girls that died? They were hardly mentioned during that entire ceremony. That isn't right. I was doing my job. I shouldn't profit from their deaths."

"You weren't profiting from their deaths, Sloan. You were being rewarded for a job well done. You set an example for other officers coming through the ranks."

Steve shook his head. "Whatever. It still feels like blood money to me."

Fred made an exasperated sound. "So what's the problem? Donate the money to a missing children's charity in their names. Heck, start you own. Nobody says how you have to spend it on yourself!"

Steve looked at Fred and blinked. Why had that idea never occurred to him? Suddenly he felt lighter. He smiled at his friend. "Thanks, Fred. That's actually a pretty good idea."

Fred chuckled. "I know. I'm smart like that. I trained you, didn't I?"

~*~

Night had long since fallen, and Mark was returning to the den after having seen Jesse and Amanda out. Aside from Steve's slow, careful movements, the evening had felt as if things were back to normal. A bit of the stress that had settled over Steve, seemed to have been lifted by Fred Mancini's visit.

Despite the other detective's humble attitude when he'd asked to speak to Steve, Mark had been reluctant to allow the contact. But the decision to allow or not to allow the visit wasn't his to make. He had hung back a little after he'd led the man out to the deck, deciding to take his cues from Steve. His intention had been to back off when he saw that things were going okay, but it hadn't quite turned out that way. He was glad though that the two men had come to an agreement.

Steve was dozing off in the chair when Mark entered the room. He smiled, remembering decades past when Steve was just a little boy and such occurrences would prompt him to lift him into his arms and carry him off to bed. The days of lifting his son and carrying him anywhere were long gone, but the memory of it gave Mark pleasure.

Still enjoying the thought, he touched Steve's shoulder and shook him slightly. It wouldn't do to leave him sitting that way for much longer. He was already going to be achy in the morning from his injuries, no sense in adding to it by allowing him to stay in such a cramped position for too long.

Steve jerked awake, his lids lifting groggily. A smile appeared and he stretched into a careful yawn. "Must had nodded off," he mumbled, blinking his eyes open.

"Yeah, you did," Mark agreed with a chuckle. "Maybe it's time for you to turn in. It's been rather a long day."

"Mmmm," Steve agreed, but seemed reluctant to get up from the chair. His eyes closed and his head rolled a bit to the side.

"Come on, let's go." Mark took a hold of his arm, and gently guided him upward.

Steve's eyes popped back open and he looked up at him and smiled. "Sorry. Feels like a school morning or something for some reason."

"I'm sure it does," Mark laughed, helping Steve to steady himself into a standing position before he handed him the cane that had been prescribed to help him move around for the next few days.

"Oh, Dad," Steve looked up at him as if a thought had suddenly occurred. "Can you help me find a good children's charity?"

Mike smiled, opening the door to the guest bedroom ahead of him. Steve wasn't quite up to navigating those stairs at the moment. "Of course. Mind if we wait until tomorrow to do it?"

"I supposed that's best," Steve agreed, stifling another yawn.

Mark helped him to get settled and propped the cane near the beside. He then smiled down at him while Steve began to undress himself. He knew that he would want to handle that on his own. "Pleasant dreams, Son."

Steve paused thoughtfully before he looked up at him and smiled. "I think they will be. Night, Dad."

Mark closed the door softly behind him and headed back along the hall toward the master bedroom. He walked directly to his closet, stepped inside and pulled something down from the shelf. He then carried it with him to the bed where he sat, looking at it in the lamp light.

It was an album, one that he had been maintaining for many years. He allowed his hand to smooth over the plain leather cover before opening it and flipping through until he found the page he was seeking. It was one near the back.

As he read again the words that had printed in the newspaper just a couple of days before, he remembered the words that Steve had said to Fred. "I'm no hero, I'm just a cop, just like you, trying to do my job."

Completing the article and closing the book, Mark smiled. "You'll always be a hero to me."

 The End.

Author's End Note:

Of course, this story didn't follow the real story of Hero and Leander, but I thought it was an interesting little aside since it was part of the dictionary definition of Hero. If anyone is interested in learning more about the actual story of Hero and Leander (of the Greek Mythology variety) this is an excellent link, and not very long. Think of it as Cliffs Notes. J I personally found Lord Byron's actions - nearer the bottom of the page - very interesting.