Chapter 13

Friday 10:51 pm

The roads around Hilton Heights were still impassible to most motor vehicles, and Mark returned to the University in the hopes of taking a flight to City Memorial Hospital. He wasn't disappointed. Sheldon listened to his story and, with an eye to his injuries, bundled him onto one of the medivac helicopters where the paramedics were only too happy to bandage his hands and redose him with painkillers on the way back to LA.

City Memorial was a large, amorphous hospital catering largely to the growing number of people without insurance and those on medicare. Its halls were clogged with red tape, but Mark slashed ruthlessly through all the bureaucracy, using his position and reputation without compunction to achieve his goals. He found Maria asleep next to the bedside of a young teenage amputee victim. Even slumbering, she looked as exhausted as Mark felt, and he was loathe to wake her up. He pulled another chair up beside hers as ingrained consideration for others warring briefly with his impatience for answers, the latter winning without much of a contest. He gently reached over and shook her shoulder. A bleary eye opened, then Maria bolted upright looking frantically towards the patient in the bed.

Mark had seen and experienced that reaction too often to be in any doubt as to its meaning, and he hastened to reassure her that the girl was in a stable condition.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Ms. Fernandez, but Jorge informed me that you knew where I could find my son, Steve Sloan."

At her puzzled look, he pulled the now-worn photograph out of his pocket and presented it to her, his eyes never leaving her face, and followed the rapid succession of emotions crossing her expressive countenance: recognition, surprise, shock, guilt, distress.

"I'm sorry," she began, and Mark tensed fearfully, unsure if she was apologising for ignorance of Steve's whereabouts or something worse. "I wish I had better news for you, but there's no easy way to say this. From the reports I've heard from the men working with him, it seems that your son was lost in the first big aftershock."

"No!" Mark's reaction was immediate, but lacked the force of conviction as an overwhelming matrix of anguish replaced the fragile hopes that he'd nurtured.

"I don't know anything for sure, but he disappeared around that time. Soon after that, the helicopters arrived and evacuated the wounded, and I never got the chance to follow up on his whereabouts. I'm so sorry."

Mark got heavily to his feet. "I need to go back and keep looking." He forced the words out of a numb throat, and turned to go, but Maria caught him by the hand and urged him back to his seat.

"Please wait. It's the middle of the night, and there's nothing you can do in the dark. I'd like to tell you about your son."

Mark reseated himself, a reluctant nod acknowledging the truth of her statement. The electricity was still out in Hilton Heights, and it would be impossible to perform an efficient search under those conditions. Besides, the temptation to hear news about his son was overwhelming.

"Your son..." Maria hesitated, trying to decided in which tense to place her encomium, "...is a very brave man. Although he himself was hurt in the earthquake, he worked tirelessly to help the people around him. He went into very dangerous situations to save people who were trapped." She continued on for a long time, detailing Steve's efforts to help her friends and neighbours, her face glowing with compassion and conviction, but Mark could no longer see her, his eyes blinded with tears that he refused to shed. But he listened intently to her mellifluous voice describing what might have been his son's last hours. Every word fell like acid on his heart, etching images that would remain with him forever.

The information that his son was a hero was not news to him. For a second, he felt a bitterness that Steve would so readily endanger his own life, but the memory of a little boy in a Superman costume dissipated the heat of the emotion. It was in Steve's nature to protect those around him, and Mark was the main beneficiary of that compulsion. It was impossible for him to stand by while others were in trouble. Pride and love swelled in Mark's heart in equal measure with terrible grief, and he leaned forward in an effort to contain the pressure that threatened to burst out of his chest.

As Maria finished talking, Mark was unable to speak past the constriction in his throat but she seemed to understand and gently patted him on the knee, undemanding of a response. Finally, Mark straightened up, lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

"Thank you, Maria. Your words mean a great deal to me. My son has always been a hero to me; that's why I have to go back out to find him. People have told me he's as good as dead before, but he's always pulled through, and I am not going to give up on him now."

Mark's quiet dignity and obvious love for his son strengthened Maria's resolve to do everything she could to help him. "It's easy to see where Steve gets his courage from." She gave his knee a final pat then stood up. "Come with me. Let's see if we can narrow down who saw Steve last and where he disappeared."

City Memorial was as crowded as Community General, and less critical patients were spilling into the corridors as the most seriously injured took the available rooms. Many of Maria's neighbours were found nearby, and she questioned them in a fluent exchange of English and Spanish. It was clear that she was much beloved in her community, and equally obvious that Steve had also won their respect and gratitude, and Mark had to endure many pats on the back and compliments, but no one had any definitive news to offer. The general consensus was that Steve had last been seen climbing to the top of the hill as darkness set. The aftershock had hit, and help had arrived soon after.

Despondent and weary beyond measure, Mark was on the verge of admitting defeat, when, on a small trundle bed, clutched in the hands of a sleeping child, he spotted a familiar object.

"That's Steve's jacket!" he cried out. It was his son's favourite leather jacket; he'd seen him in it often enough to be fairly sure. He knelt beside the boy and tried to extract it without waking him, instinctively needing the connection to his son. He noted with wrenching empathy the myriad of rents and tears, most surrounded by a tell-tale darkened stain, and did his best to block out the images of the damage that must have been caused to its wearer that his mind automatically supplied. Despite his best efforts at finesse, the boy woke up and scuttled back in his bed, alarmed by the looming faces of the adults.

Maria crouched down beside Mark to reassure the boy and to explain quietly the child's association to Steve. "He was with your son when the quake hit. He's been through a rough time. His mother was critically injured, although his twin brothers escaped by a miracle. They're being cared for by a neighbour. Carlos is in shock, he hasn't spoken since he came here."

His mind working on an intuitive level, Mark sensed that the boy held the answers he needed locked up inside him, and he projected his best harmless and friendly demeanour. He held the boy's gaze, creating a bubble of intimacy and security between them, then held out his photograph again. "He's my son," he whispered. "He means everything in the world to me. If you know anything that would help me find him, I would be very grateful." Not wanting to frighten the boy, he tried to keep the depth of desperation out of his voice, but the strength of his love resonated in every quiet word.

Tears welled in Carlos' eyes, and his face crumpled. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "It was my fault." Mark gathered him into his arms as the boy's fragile body shook with the force of his emotion, and soothed him mechanically as he absorbed the implications of the child's grief and it merged with his own. Finally, as the tremors eased, a torrent of Spanish burst out, too fast for Mark's meagre knowledge of the language to follow. He turned to Maria for a translation, catching the significance of the story in the finality and defeated acceptance on her face.

He shut his eyes and steeled himself against the wave of despair that threatened to drown him in his own heartache and the agony of failure. He'd been down this road too many times in the last thirty-six hours, and now he refused to believe the worst until he held his son's lifeless body in his arms. Some might call it denial, but he couldn't, wouldn't give up on his son. Opening his eyes again, his face set and hard, he indicated that he was ready to hear the news. He attempted, without much success, to concentrate on the facts and to filter out the emotional import of the words. He could no longer look at Maria, afraid the compassion in her eyes would unlock the door of stoicism he was hiding behind.

"It was Steve who rescued the two babies," Maria started tentatively. Mark nodded, having already grasped the fact that Steve was the 'miracle' of which she had earlier spoken. "He was pulling out the second child when the aftershock hit. I'm so sorry. Carlos saw him buried under the building. He blames himself for asking Steve to help."

That was a burden no child should have to carry, and Mark knew he had to make things right before he left. He searched for words that would comfort Carlos without shattering his own fragile composure in the process. Gently, he turned the boy's tearstained face towards his. "Thank you for letting me know what happened to my son," he said softly. He placed the jacket back in the boy's hands. "I think Steve would have wanted you to keep this. I want you to know that this was not your fault. Steve knew the risks and wanted to help, it was just bad luck that the aftershock hit at the wrong time. No one blames you, and I'm glad your family is safe." He sensed an easing in the tension of the muscles beneath his hands and, with a final hug, he left the room.

Maria followed, and handed him the address of Carlos' home. "459 Hamilton St. The building was mostly abandoned, but their family lived in the basement. Please let me know what happens. I will pray for you."

Mark made his way slowly to the roof, and was intensely frustrated, though not surprised, to find that no helicopter would be available until morning. He knew he'd been incredibly lucky thus far in using it as a personal taxi service. With the bridge lying on the canyon floor, the car journey, supposing he could borrow one, would take far too long on roads that still suffered from the effects of the quake, so he was stuck where he was for now. Luckily, the telephone service had improved, and he could at least start organising the rescue effort for the next day.

He knew he should call Jesse and Amanda, but they would want details that he felt unable to articulate. At times, he felt as if he was close to crumbling into dust, and their sympathy would be all that was needed to scatter him to the four winds. Instead, he opted for Captain Newman, giving him the bare facts and asking him to coordinate with Jesse, Amanda and Marcus Sheldon. He appreciated Newman's efficiency and practicality, and the Captain only asked one hard question before he disconnected. "Mark, what are our chances of finding him alive?"

Mark's reply had been immediate. "I'll take whatever odds I can get." But now, as he leaned on the railing watching the quiet city below, he had to ask if he was deluding himself. Throughout the whole ordeal, a core of hope had remained strong inside, at times waning in the face of devastating revelations, but never disappearing. Even now, it provided a small buffer of warmth against the cold emptiness inside and the painful aching of his heart. Was it blind faith in his son or merely an inability to comprehend the magnitude of such a loss? If Steve died, it would be so devastating that a large part of Mark would die too. It might just be a comforting fantasy, but he couldn't believe that that could have happened without him feeling it. No, Steve was out there and he would find him in the morning. He refused to believe differently.

The whisper floated across the city on the prevailing winds. "Hang on son, I'm coming."