Chapter Seventeen
"I'll see you in a little while. Do you think you can stay awake a little bit longer? They're going to want to ask you a few questions." Mark struggled for a light tone, his hand resting on the side of the gurney.
Steve shifted his head in response, but didn't open his eyes. "Didn't sleep much last night," he mumbled.
Mark glanced up at the orderly, who was signaling apologetically that they should move it along, and replaced Steve's oxygen mask carefully. "Yes, well, just do the best you can." He patted his arm lightly. "You probably could have done without that last fight. You really didn't need any new bruises." He was rewarded with a faint smile and he tried to return it, even though Steve wasn't actually looking at him. With another pat, he nodded to the orderlies to take the gurney away, his eyes following, brooding over a pair of dark, blue-black bruises, about the size and shape of a pair of quarters, starkly visible on the underside of Steve's chin. It didn't take any imagination to figure out what had caused those, and he found he had a sudden need to sit down.
He dropped into a cushioned bench in a nearby waiting recess off the corridor and cradled his head in his hands. He had so much to think about.
"How's it look?"
The voice startled him out of his reverie and he looked up, blinking the grit from his eyes. Captain Newman was looming over him, grimacing at a limp paper cup of vending machine coffee.
"Oh." He ran his hands over his face. "He's gone for a battery of tests. We'll know more once we see the results of those."
Newman nodded. "I'll hang around for a bit, then. Mind company?"
Mark struggled to rouse himself. "No! Of course not!"
Newman slumped on the bench next to him, staring at the weak, cold coffee. "I didn't know anything about it, you know," he said at last.
Mark nodded. "Yes, I could tell that. Captain McKarren?"
Newman shook his head. "Just Peterson. Worked it out on his own." He shook his head again. "These Vice guys are their own breed, you know? Mavericks. Do some pretty out-there things."
Mark frowned at his tone, an uneasy suspicion sidling into his brain. "But he'll be punished," he insisted.
Newman shrugged, sinking back against the wall. "Oh, he'll get a formal reprimand. A wrist slap. But I won't lie to you - it'll be done with a whole lot of nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Guy Trevalia is a heck of a big plum to have to your credit. The whole Police Department's value will rise with the public for while because of this. A whole lot will be overlooked for that. "
"Steve could've been killed!" Mark couldn't quite suppress his indignation.
Newman sighed. "I'll admit the press on this wouldn't have looked quite so pretty if that had happened." And, hastily, at the look on Mark's face, "I'm not being flip, Dr. Sloan. But no one is going to be concerned with what might have happened - they're going to focus on what did happen - a major mob operator off the streets. We've got enough dirt on him, apparently, to make a case stick, even with the kind of lawyer Trevalia can afford. We've got a number of his cronies, including Vleugels, and we can do real and lasting damage to his empire before the remaining folks have a chance to reorganize. For all that was bad about it, the results have a whole lot of good to offer, too."
Mark turned his head away, his expression tight. "It's just wrong," he managed at last. "Steve had a right to know what was going on."
"I would have liked to have known myself. I don't loan my men out lightly. But I can't argue with the results. And I gotta admit that, even if Peterson only got him on a fluke, Steve was a good choice. He would have been mine."
"You would have taken to precautions to protect him."
"I would have done whatever was necessary to make the collar. You know how it works."
Mark stared at the shiny linoleum between his feet. "I hate it," he blurted at last.
Newman nodded. "Yeah. Me too, sometimes." He sat up straight and clapped Mark on the shoulder. "But look on the bright side - it works in our favor now and then, too." Mark looked at him questioningly and he smiled slyly. "For example, I'm going to have to give Steve the same kind of wrist slap for hitting Peterson. And I have to try to keep from laughing through the whole thing."
Mark smiled reluctantly.
"Dr. Sloan?"
He glanced up at the young nurse who approached briskly. "I'm sorry to interrupt - " she glanced uncertainly at Captain Newman.
Mark gave her a reassuring smile. "Go ahead, Paula."
"Well, we're short staffed - there was a real nasty traffic pileup on PCH - and Dr. Travis was wondering if you'd mind jumping in? He said you'd prefer to be busy while you wait for the test results anyway…"
"Dr. Travis would be correct."
Mark's warm assertion seemed to reassure her. "Oh, good. This one has only minor injuries anyway - I don't think it will take you more than a few minutes. He's waiting for you in Examination Room 2."
Mark pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, then remembered Captain Newman and gestured apologetically. "I'm sorry. I really have to - "
Newman waved him away. "Go. Do what you have to do. I'll just sit here with my drink and try to figure out how they got the nerve to call this stuff coffee. Sheesh. And I thought the stuff at the station house was bad."
Mark laughed and almost even meant it, turned himself in the direction of Examination Room 2. His conversation with Captain Newman had lightened his mood the slightest bit, and he thought that getting lost in a little first aid work would only serve to help as well. He still had something resembling a smile on his face as he entered the exam room, grabbing the chart from the slot by the door as he went in. "So, what seems to be the problem, Mr. - " The smile froze on his face, then disappeared all together.
"Hey, Doc!" The occupant's voice was a little muffled by the ice bag he was holding against his mouth. "How's Stevie doin'?"
Mark felt the chart drop to his side, his feet rooted to the floor for a second. No. He really couldn't do this. It would be completely inappropriate. "Steve - is undergoing some tests. " He rested intentional emphasis on the name. 'Stevie' had been Katherine's childhood nickname for Steve and it galled him to hear it now tossed recklessly about on this man's lips. "We won't really know anything for sure until we have the results back."
"Well, I can tell you one thing for sure, without any tests - he's still got a good solid right!" Peterson dropped the ice pack to reveal a swollen, bloody lip. His left eye was also starting to pinch closed, and twin rivulets of blood ran sluggishly from each nostril. "Guess I should have stood out of reach, huh?"
Peterson's chatter was accompanied by a welling of blood from the busted lip, pouring over his chin and dripping onto his tattered shirt.
Mark had been turning to get a nurse to find another doctor for him, but in spite of himself he paused. "You shouldn't be talking - it'll only make your lip worse." Almost on autopilot, he took Peterson's bloody chin in his hand and turned his head this way and that to get a better look. "You need a couple of stitches in that. Hold the icepack against it - it will slow down the bleeding."
Peterson grinned instead, spurting blood everywhere. "Imagine what he could've done to me if he'd been whole, huh? Gritty guy."
Mark pushed the ice pack firmly against the lip, setting his teeth hard against his welling rage at the casual way he dismissed Steve's suffering. "Keep that there." He moved over to the drawers and pulled out a suture kit. What on earth was he doing? He couldn't do this. His impartiality was completely compromised. He cleared his throat. "I'm going to find someone - "
Peterson had pulled the ice pack away from his mouth and blood was dribbling down his chin again.
Mark sighed. Who did that remind him of…? Oh. He winced. Steve. Why couldn't they ever follow simple medical instructions? What was it that made these police officers so completely indifferent to their physical welfare? Did they think they were invincible, or were they just too used to gambling with their safety?
He pushed the ice pack back against Peterson's lip. "I said keep that there. Let the bleeding slow so I can stitch. Where else are you hurt?" Without waiting for an answer, he tilted Peterson's head to get a better look at his eye. "Hm. It'll be colorful, but doesn't look too bad. See if you can follow my finger."
Peterson watched the finger. "I thought for sure you'd be using the middle one," he cracked through the ice pack.
Mark jotted a note on the chart, his mouth grim. "I should warn you that I don't find this situation nearly as funny as you seem to."
"Oh, c'mon, Doc - " Peterson dropped the ice pack. "We've got us a real bona fide happy ending here. Smile."
Mark picked up a disposable syringe and tore off the wrapping, dabbing at the top of a small bottle of local anesthetic with an alcohol doused bit of cotton. "This will hurt a bit, but the area will numb in a little while. If you've left the ice there, it will already be a little numb."
Peterson was silent while Mark injected the needle first in the area outside the lip, then on the soft inner tissue. Mark figured it must have hurt, but Peterson didn't even flinch. "Let that take effect for a few minutes. What about your chest? Stomach? Take any hits there?"
Peterson eyed him. "No," he said finally. "What's got your drawers in a twist?"
Mark felt his tenuous grip on a professional demeanor slip. He focused his eyes intently on the needle he was preparing. "You involved my son in a dangerous operation without his knowledge or consent and he was very nearly killed. How is it you think I should feel?"
Peterson cocked his head at him. "But he wasn't."
"Aren't you lucky."
"I knew he was up for it."
"Oh. You knew that." Mark's voice was dangerously polite. "As far as he knew, he wasn't even working - he was off duty."
Peterson snorted, a little awkwardly. Local must be starting to go into effect. "Cops are never off duty. We're on duty in our sleep."
"You didn't even warn him. You let him walk into an ambush."
"We had a leak somewhere - maybe departmental." Peterson dropped the ice pack and poked curiously at his numbing lip. "So I didn't tell anybody. Even one whisper - one half-thought about what I was doing - back to Bambi Sue, and Stevie would be a dead man. She'd cut his throat and not think twice about it. Not to mention the whole sting going down the dumper. If I could have kept the plan from myself, I would have."
Mark studied the lip without comment. "You have to stop talking now," he finally offered icily. "You need to be still while I stitch."
Peterson watched him through narrowed eyes while Mark carefully stitched the ragged tear.
Mark finished off with a layer of disinfectant ointment and directed the ice pack to Peterson's eye. "I'll get you something for the pain." He went to a small cabinet of sample pharmaceuticals and selected one. He held it out to Peterson, and, before he could stop himself added, "I hope it was worth it."
Peterson's brows crunched together. "Worth it? Damn straight it was worth it. I'd do it again in a second."
"Certainly. You weren't the one who got hurt."
Peterson snorted again, made a face at the peculiar pull on his numb lip. "Could have just as easily be me. In case you haven't noticed, Doc, being a cop means painting on a bullseye - you're just a moving target. If you never figured that out, maybe it's time you started getting used to it."
It was Mark's turn to wince. He did know that - on some level, anyway - somewhere so down deep that he never dared take it out and look at it. He was afraid that if he did, he'd panic and barricade Steve in the house forever. He smiled a little. Not that he'd succeed. Steve would never stand for it, and he was bigger and stronger. "I guess I just didn't expect his fellow officers to be doing the painting."
Peterson threw up his hands, his face red. "What do you want me to say - that I'm sorry? Well, I'm not."
The stitches and anesthetic were curiously garbling his speech and Mark opened his mouth to instruct him not to talk.
Peterson barreled right over him. "I'm not one damn bit sorry. Do you have any idea what we're talking about here? I mean, in terms of drugs and guns off the streets? Prostitution? And, oh - my all time favorite - kiddie porn? I could show you stuff that would turn you off your feed for life.
"You think you see what it's all about here, but you get things all nice and scrubbed and sterilized - you don't see what we see. Nobody sees what we see. Ask Stevie - he'll tell you. Or maybe he won't, but I will. Sure, he got a little banged up, but that's what we do. We go in harm's way to protect somebody else - a lot of somebodies sometimes. If this sting means we just kept even one little kid from ending up like some of the ones that I've seen then, hell, yes, it was worth it. Stevie's a tough guy, he can take care of himself - some of these folks can't. They don't stand a chance." He took a deep breath, dabbed at the spittle on his numb chin with his sleeve.
"Today was one of the good ones - something happened - something got stopped. I'm proud of what I did today. In fact, I'm gonna go buy myself a drink and raise a toast to Bambi Sue and Guy Trevalia and forty to life with no chance of parole. Tomorrow I'll probably be back to the same old grind of wondering how it is that the bad guys always win and take so many of the innocents down with them, but for today I'm gonna pat myself on the back. Today we scored one for the good guys. I'm sorry if you've got a problem with it, but it was DAMNED worth it to me, and I'm damned sure Stevie will say it was worth it to him, too." For a split second, a crooked smile hovered around his damaged mouth. "Once he cools down, that is." He snatched his jacket from the end of the examination table and jumped down. "See ya around, Doc. I'll raise one for you, too. Tell Stevie I'll be by."
Mark stared at him, stunned, then noticed the medication he was still holding. "Wait - you need your - "
Peterson grabbed it from his hand without ceremony as he passed and flung himself out the door.
Mark stared after him, then called, "Don't take those with alcohol!" He stood, stationary as a wooden Indian, as the footsteps on the linoleum pounded away.
