Chapter 9
Friday 12:37 am
Mark's hand hovered shakily, seeming to operate independently of his control, then gently, almost reverently, lifted a small section of the sheet, revealing only an inert hand tucked against a thigh. His reaction was instantaneous. "It's not him," he said, in a low, surprisingly toneless voice.
There was silence behind him for a while, then Holly moved into his peripheral vision again. "Dr Sloan, we need you to be sure. I know this is difficult, but please look carefully."
Mark looked at her uncertainly, unable to explain the instinctive recognition of a parent for his child. He knew the long, strong lines of his son's limbs, the unexpectedly graceful length of his hands better than he knew his own. Even the brutality of a violent death could not disguise his son from him. However, he obligingly continued with his examination of the body, eager to confirm beyond a shadow of possible doubt that a stranger lay before him.
He moved to the foot of the table, folding back the sheet to the knees. The shapes and colors displayed were foreign to him, and he allowed himself the luxury of belief. Finally, he indicated the right knee. "My son was involved in a serious car accident about six months ago and needed surgery. There was a small scar here," he pointed at unblemished skin. "This is not my son." The words rolled compellingly off his tongue, the verbal repetition finally convincing not just his audience but also his own heart.
There was a rush of congratulations and apologies which Mark brushed off as graciously as he could before he excused himself and hurried into a bathroom he'd noticed in the corridor on the way in. He braced his hands on either side of the sink, afraid his stomach was going to lose the battle it had been waging with his mind. As the emotional reaction finally hit him, relief threatened the stability of his legs. The urge to sink to the floor and give way to the multitude of feelings roiling inside was almost irresistible, but on the heels of this impulse was scalding anger, directed entirely at himself for indulging in foolish emotions. His son might not be lying in the morgue, but neither was he back safe where he belonged. There was no time for pandering to futile distractions. Mark splashed some water on his face and took a couple of deep breaths, releasing fear and tension with each exhalation and inhaling hope and determination.
Newman found it hard to reconcile the composed, purposeful man who emerged from the restroom with the distraught, defeated individual he had escorted to the morgue. The shadow in Mark's eyes remained, but he had recovered his equilibrium and, at his request, the Captain drove him straight back to Community General, reflecting wryly on his changed status to a chauffeur. He even offered to have Jesse's car driven over later.
After stopping the car, Newman wrote down the information that he felt would be most helpful and handed it to the waiting Mark. "Here you go. I recommend you contact Captain Latham first. He's in charge of the University police department, and knows Steve by sight."
Mark briefly scanned the notes, then raised his eyes to meet Newman's. "I appreciate everything you've done for me and my son. Steve has always held you in the highest esteem and I can understand why. Thank you."
Newman cleared his throat, pleased but also uncomfortable with such stark gratitude. "Well," he said gruffly. "It's too much trouble to break in another officer. Just bring him home."
Mark merely nodded, but the resolve to do just that was clear in every line of his body. His son needed him and he wasn't about to let him down.
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Pain rode the tide of Steve's returning consciousness, lapping tantalisingly at the fringes of his mind, surging higher then receding, encroaching in small increments until a sudden wave flooded his awareness. The pain was overwhelming, and Steve couldn't help recoiling, instinctively trying to escape the assault. This involuntary movement proved to be a mistake, exacerbating the white-hot agony that inundated his body, exploding in an exclusive pyrotechnic display behind his eyelids and sending him back along the descending spiral of unconsciousness.
Experience bred caution, and the next time he was capable of rational thought, he fought the urge to tense up again. OK, I've got the message, no moving. How hard can that be? Just relax, deep breaths. OW! OK, ribs hurt, shallow breaths. An attempt to figure out exactly how much trouble he was in by use of his senses proved to be an effective, temporary distraction from the discomfort he was suffering.
Any detective work is going to have to be done without the benefit of sight, because it's so dark, I can't see an inch in front of my face, which is, however, irrelevant since that's how far I estimate it is to the nearest object, so the view probably wouldn't do much for me anyway. In fact, I'm bored with it already.
He was lying crumpled up on his left side, his face squashed against an unyielding coarse surface, it's gritty surface biting uncomfortably into his cheekbone. The throbbing matched the headache located elsewhere in his skull, and he could already self-diagnose a concussion, the symptoms lamentably familiar. Let me see, nausea - check, headache - double check. Blurred vision - well, I'm sure it would be if I could actually see anything. What else? Inability to maintain a coherent line of thought - some people would say I can't do that at the best of times. Amnesia - actually a little of that would go down rather well at the moment.
There hardly seemed an inch of his body that didn't ache, but all his bruises faded in comparison to the agony that radiated from his right arm. That limb had been outflung in the fall and was lying, almost certainly broken, under an unidentified, but undeniably heavy, object. The slightest movement jarred it unbearably, and Steve continued his game of exploring his surroundings without stirring as a diversion from the pain.
His hearing offered little by way of constructive information. His own breathing seemed loud, and his unanswered shouts for help succeeded only as improvised attempts at echolocation, convincing him that he was in a small space. The only other sound was the faint dripping of water which increased the thirst that was tormenting him as the settling dust dried out his mouth. His throat and lungs felt as if they'd been scrubbed with sandpaper, and the dust and a pervading smell of damp filled his nostrils, which only left taste, and Steve decided to forgo any experiments with that sense.
Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into.... Steve could hear his father's voice mimicking the famous Laurel and Hardy lines. Actually, Dad, I think I got myself into this one. Still, I'm alive and planning on staying that way until you find me. Things could be worse, you know, at least I'm not claustrophobic. Heights are a different matter, and I could be stuck in a small space at the top of a very tall building instead of buried in the basement. Actually, never mind. As soon as that thought occurred to him, Steve mentally crushing it into oblivion. He didn't want to examine the details of his predicament too closely; survival was the imperative here.
The image of his father's face in the midst of a comedic routine helped to ward off the incipient panic that was building inside him. Although he had no fear of enclosed spaces per se, his inability to stretch out and move freely was unnerving, and his muscles were cramping in response to the enforced inactivity. The thought of lying, trapped in this one restricted position, while waiting for rescue was unendurable. He couldn't do it. With the utmost care not to jar his arm, he painstakingly shifted his weight onto his knees, his torso and bruised ribs twisted at a painful angle. He rested for a minute, panting, dismayed by the effort even such limited movement had required, then, balancing his weight cautiously, he extended his right leg probingly behind him, encountering solid resistance almost immediately. There would be no relief for his cramped legs in that direction.
His muscles were trembling with the strain of holding such an unnatural position, and sweat beaded his forehead. A tendril of thought concerning the declining availability of air insinuated itself inside his mind, but before it could blossom into alarm, Steve stamped on it ruthlessly. He stretched his left arm upward as far as he could, which wasn't any great distance since his shoulder joint was at the wrong angle for full extension. He was surprised when his questing fingers met the cold smoothness of metal. Now for a game of twenty questions. We used to play that in the car on the way to visit Grandma, but it's been a while. Definitely mineral, horizontal, large. Ahah - pipes. He had fallen underneath an old sink, which had almost certainly saved his life by providing a sturdy shelter. However, a wall lay to his left which meant the only direction he couldn't feel any barrier within his limited reach was in front of him and that was his only hope of egress.
With all possible exploration completed, Steve knew he could delay no longer. He had to make an effort to free himself, and he doubted he would have the strength to try twice. It was impossible to achieve a position from which his right hand could assist in lifting the block, but he wedged a foot underneath in the forlorn hope that it might provide leverage. He cleared his mind of all reservations and indecision, directing the discipline of both mind and body into one single focus, then lifted and pulled simultaneously. The cry that was wrenched from his lips contained as much frustration as it did agony, as the knowledge of failure followed him into the darkness that claimed his mind.
He didn't know how long he lay there, but his awakening was abrupt as he spluttered through a mouthful of water to full consciousness. The water was less than an inch deep, but, with a shudder of horror, he remembered the water he had landed in earlier and realised that the level was slowly rising, the tilt of the building having kept him out of it so far. The idea of feeling death inexorably inching its way up his body while he lay incapable of flight was truly terrifying. Death by drowning, death by asphyxiation, by blood loss, hypothermia. I don't think I'll last long enough for starvation to be a problem. Well, isn't it nice to have so many choices. You know, Dad, this would be a really good time to find me.