Chapter 16

Saturday 9:07 pm

Fear dragged relentlessly at Steve's mind, inexorably pulling him awake like a cork bobbing to the surface of a pond. He lay still for a minute, absorbing the distinctive sounds and smells of the hospital to drown out the little voice that whispered that, when he opened his eyes, they would be met with the Stygian darkness of his prison.

As memory filtered back, the reason for his unease hit him, and his eyes snapped open, searching hopefully for his father. To his surprise, the room was empty, a circumstance unusual enough to do nothing to relieve his anxiety, merely whittling it to a sharper point as it prodded insistently at his gut. His right arm was immobilised in thick bandages and a splint, but he levered himself up shakily on his left arm then jabbed savagely at the nurse's call button.

He knew the nurse who entered, a motherly type named Janice Ebberly, but he had no time for pleasantries. "Where's my father?" he demanded without preamble, his customary courtesy taking a back seat to urgency.

"He's just fine, bless his heart, just taking a nap in his office, though goodness knows it's hard enough to pry him away from your side. He was so exhausted, poor soul. We've all been working so hard, after that terrible earthquake. Dr. Travis was right here, but he got called away on another emergency." All this was uttered in one breath as she bustled around, taking his temperature and blood pressure.

Steve relaxed slightly into the pillows, tolerating her ministrations with the ease of practice. He largely tuned out the nurse's continual prattle as he tried to sort through his confused impressions of his recent experiences. However, suddenly something in the jumble of words caught his attention, and he seized her arm.

"What did you just say?"

She looked down at him indulgently. "I said we were that worried about your Dad, thinking you were gone for good."

"No," Steve interrupted her impatiently. "You said something about accidents."

"Oh, that. Yes, Dr. Sloan had two near misses in as many days. First, something fell off the roof, nearly took his head off but smashed his car instead. Then there was that accident on the stairs and ...what? Wait! What do you think you're doing?"

The internal alarm which had been tolling steadily in Steve's head since he'd awoken, exploded to Def Con One in a cacophony of bells and whistles. With the news of his father's 'accidents', his concern that Mark was in danger became a certainty, and his need to find him the only thought in his mind. His first attempt to get off the bed was thwarted by a Gordian knot of attachments which he started ripping out with ruthless abandon to a chorus of ineffectual remonstrances from the nurse.

As she threatened to call security, Steve employed all the authority of his lieutenant's rank, which was a challenge while standing in a draughty hospital gown, and instructed her to call Mark's office and to tell him to lock the door and not let anyone in.

It was scarcely a dignified exit, since he listed significantly to port, and only by dint of a last minute grab of the doorjamb did he avoid falling flat on his nose. Luckily, visiting hours were over, and the nurse on the ward was busy so there was no one to impede his progress to the elevator.

He didn't know if it was an effect of his confinement underground, blood loss, the drugs they had administered or some combination thereof, but he was horribly weak and unsteady on his feet. The floor seemed to be undulating much as it had during the earthquake, and only judicious bracing along the wall kept him upright. By the time he reached the elevator, his legs were shaking and the blood was pounding dizzily in his head. It was like living through the epitome of his worse nightmare in which Mark was in danger but he couldn't reach him, and every step was weighed down as if he were running in a caricature of slow motion. In the most disturbing of his dreams, he arrived too late to save his father, and that fear haunted him now, chilling the sweat that trickled down his back.

Even the elevator seemed slower than normal, and he slammed his fist against the wall in an agony of frustration as the floor numbers trickled slowly past, although the delay did at least give him a chance to catch his breath. The door finally yawned open and spat him out, a modern day beserker with the hint of red in his hair, bare legs flashing and grim determination on his face. All he needed was woad and a battle axe to complete the picture. The nurse at the reception desk on that floor let out a bleat of surprised protest as he charged past, and he was peripherally aware of her picking up the phone. For the first time, he became aware of his weaponless state and hoped she was calling security. As he rounded the corner, his breath harsh in his ears, he could faintly hear the ringing of a telephone, then it ended abruptly.

He redoubled his efforts and wrenched open the door, taking in the awful scene in a split second. With the gun already leveled at his father, he knew instantly it was impossible to reach MacKay before he fired, but he had to do something, anything, to distract the gunman from Mark. With a yell of -"Stop, or I'll fire," he flung the first thing that came to hand - a trophy from a nearby bookcase - with murderous intent towards MacKay. Off balance from the splint on his right arm, his aim lacked its usual accuracy, but, to his grim satisfaction, oblivious to his own danger, he noticed that the violence of his entry had achieved what his throw had not, and MacKay was already swinging round to face him, firing in a panic as he moved. The first bullet bisected the angle between father and son, but he heard the second strike the door behind him.

Mark had been equally surprised, though immensely relieved for more reasons than one, by his son's abrupt arrival. His joy at seeing Steve unharmed, swiftly turned back to furious fear as MacKay turned the gun on his son. With no hesitation, he picked up the bowling ball from his desk and in one smooth, practiced, underarm move, launched it at the gunman's head. The heavy, black ball impacted MacKay's skull with a sickening crack, and his body collapsed bonelessly to the floor.

There was a moment of silence as the two Sloans watched for any signs of movement, then Steve raised his gaze to meet his father's. "Strike!" he called out, weakly but appreciatively, before his legs no longer seemed able to hold him and he slid limply down against the door until he sat on the ground.

"Steve!" Mark let out a concerned exclamation and moved towards his son, but Steve waved him off and gestured towards the gun. It was an elementary precaution, and Mark swiftly but cautiously picked up the weapon, quickly checking MacKay's pulse as he did so. He placed the gun in his son's outstretched hand as he knelt next to him.

"Let me see how bad this is." He started to gently pull aside the flap of Steve's gown.

Steve looked at him, puzzled. "It's okay, Dad. He missed. I'm fine."

Mark brought his bloodstained hand out and waved it in front of Steve's face. "Interesting diagnosis, Dr. Sloan, but inaccurate. Luckily, it's not much more than another graze to add to your already considerable collection."

Steve shook his head in astonishment. "What drugs do you have me on, Dad? I didn't feel a thing."

Mark chuckled. "I imagine it's as much adrenaline as drugs. But, believe me, both will be wearing off soon, and you'll be wishing they hadn't."

A large security guard stuck his head through the door, his jaw dropping slightly at the collection of bodies in the room. "Uh, do you need some help, Dr. Sloan?"

"Please call the nurse and get a gurney. Oh, and have someone find Dr. Travis."

The guard disappeared, and Mark returned his attention to Steve. Luckily, the bullet had only grazed him, cutting a bloody furrow that was messy and painful, but not dangerous. He held a hastily contrived bandage against the wound to reduce the blood loss. As reaction set in, he was aware of a mild irritation at his son's recklessness, but it was easily outweighed by relief that this threat, of which he had only been aware for a few minutes, had been so summarily dismissed. Characteristically, curiosity soon surfaced as his dominant emotion. "How did you know I was in danger?"

Steve reached out unsteadily and plucked his letter from Mark's pocket by a corner that protruded slightly. "You should read your mail on time," he remonstrated teasingly.

Mark looked slightly abashed. "I haven't read it yet," he confessed. "I thought it was...well..."

"It was...it is." Steve informed him tersely, not pretending to misunderstand, but the emotions associated with the writing of the note were too raw to revisit. Exhaustion was catching up with him, and he shut his eyes. Mark understood his reluctance to discuss his ordeal, and, suddenly overwhelmed by relief that the letter he tucked back into his pocket did not contain the final words between them, he lowered his head a few inches and rested his forehead on his son's for a short moment in tacit acknowledgement and support.