Part 10 Guilt
Mark caught the guilty tone that had returned to Jesse's voice and stopped his frantic scanning for signs that Steve had been there, realising that Jesse knew exactly why Steve's truck was not there. He focussed on his young friend who had paused, clearly trying to decide how to phrase his explanation.
Jesse met his gaze with difficulty and swallowed. "The killer hasn't changed their MO," he said, forcing an even tone. "I did write about Lieutenant Slade being attacked in the hospital parking lot."
Both Nathan and Mark were momentarily stunned by the confession. Nathan recovered first. "Then why didn't you put it in the notes you gave us about the upcoming chapters?"
"I did," Jesse's eyes dropped to the floor. "It was in the notes I gave to Steve but he . . ."
"He. . . what?" Mark asked, already denying the answer that was forming in his mind.
Jesse looked back up, despite the guilt he needed to explain this. "He took the last sheet, the one on chapter 9 and kept it himself. He knew that if you saw it you'd worry about it." Jesse saw the uncharacteristic anger building in Mark's expression.
"Why didn't you tell us about it?" Mark asked, his facial muscles taught, his tone curt.. "Why didn't you tell me?" He made the repeat of the question painfully personal.
Jesse took another swallow, wishing that he had ignored Steve's request, wishing for all the world that he'd shared with them the danger his friend was in. The danger he'd put him in. "He asked me not to," he replied, mentally cringing at the inadequacy of the explanation.
At the time he had not really considered the implications of what he was agreeing to, it had seemed fairly straightforward, they simply weren't telling Mark, so that he would not worry.
Well he was worried now. What had he been thinking? He should have forced Steve to at least pass the information on to Nathan. Damn, why did Steve always seem so confident, so invincible? Jesse should know better than anyone else that he was just as vulnerable as anyone else. He had helped pull him back from the brink of death on more than one occasion He should have refused to help with the deceit, he should have argued more strongly, but he had been too wrapped up in his own emotions, his own self pity. If only. . . but he hadn't. Steve had kept the information to himself and now he was missing, and if they were going to find him in one piece then Jesse needed to focus.
"He said that he would be careful, that nothing was going to happen to him," he continued quickly, trying to justify his complicity.
"And what might have happened to him?" Mark asked quietly. "What did you write?"
Jesse cringed as he was forced to remember the scene that had played out so clearly in his head when he'd been writing a harmless piece of fiction. Only now the fictional character was replaced by his best friend. "Steve Slade is walking back to his car when the killer attacks him from behind with a knife. He falls to the floor and. . ." Jesse paused as the image became more vivid.
"And. . ." Mark prompted.
"He passes out from the blood loss."
"Does. . ." Mark took a breath and forced out the rest of the question. "Does he die?"
Jesse met Mark's gaze with a mixture of fear and regret. "I don't know," he admitted. "That was as far as I'd written, the chapter ended on a cliffhanger."
Mark closed his eyes and tried to control the maelstrom of emotion that welled up inside him. He didn't have time for this, he had to find Steve, but the gut wrenching fear of what might have, what might be, happening to his son, and the crushing haze of anger, directed partly at Jesse for allowing it, but mostly at Steve for putting himself in additional danger simply because they hadn't wanted him to be worried, were both difficult to repress. So he did the only thing that he could, the only thing that would allow him to continue to function. He took the anger and he channeled it, allowing it to give him strength and feed his actions. He opened his eyes again and the anger blazed there, he saw Jesse shrink back from it, but that couldn't be helped, he would apologise later, for now he had to find Steve.
"All right," he said sharply, "We need to find Steve as quickly as possible and lets just hope the killer is having as much trouble as we are. I'm going to start from the top floor and work my way down."
The comment was directed at Jesse but he did not answer, his mind was recoiling from the look that Mark had given him, the anger in his mentor's eyes further feeding the guilt that was regaining control.
Nathan noted his reaction and replied for him, knowing that Mark's anger was borne at least partly from his frustration with the situation, he knew that the best course was to allow him to cool down, besides, taking direct action was what was needed, they would all rest easier once Steve was found. "OK, I'll get someone up there to help you. Jess and I will start at the bottom and work up and I'll pull in as many people as I can to cover the intervening floors." He began to dial on his cell, grabbing Jesse with his other hand as he started moving towards the elevator and stairs.
--
Mark paced back and forward in the elevator, still wrestling with his emotions. The fear building with every passing minute. He checked his watch, it had been more than fifteen minutes since Nathan had received the call about the new chapter, which meant that he still might have time to find Steve, to warn him before something happened. After all Steve had had time to find and help him. Then again, he had known exactly where to look. Damn, it would almost have been better if Jesse hadn't told Steve about the attack at all, at least then he would have parked in his usual place and they would have found him by now, but maybe knowing would make him cautious enough to protect himself, to prevent the attack.
Mark tried to hold on to some measure of hope from that last thought. Steve was very competent and could take care of himself, had done so in many violent situations, he was well trained and expecting trouble, maybe that would be enough.
Even as he tried to reassure himself, his memory pulled up an image to counter his faith. Steve had been moving slowly and stiffly, the lack of sleep and trauma from the explosion written clearly in his slightly pained expression, the dark circles under his eyes. When he had left Mark's office he had been well below his best. Add to that his clear distraction with the lead he thought he may have, and any chance of him fending off an attack by a clever and ruthless killer seemed unlikely.
Mark tried not to let his pessimism overwhelm him, instead he focussed once again on the anger. It was an anger that every parent knew and understood, anger directed at a child who had done something foolish and put themselves in real danger, anger fed by a fear of loss and a feeling of inadequacy, however irrational, that they, as a parent had not been able to do more to protect them, to prevent the action whatever it was, after all that was what parents were supposed to do wasn't it? Protect their children. Mark had felt it before, had controlled it before, now he used it to give him the adrenaline needed to continue.
The doors of the elevator swept open and he moved quickly into the lot, scanning as he went.
--
Jesse followed after Nathan but only because he was dragging on his arm, he was still trying to process this new and entirely different wave of guilt that was sweeping through his thought processes. Even if he accepted what everyone was telling him and did not take responsibility for the deaths and injuries so far, accepted that it was the killer doing this and not his fault, he definitely was responsible for what was happening to Steve now, and that meant that he deserved Mark's anger.
He was barely aware of the elevator doors closing, of Nathan's hurried phone conversations, of the doors reopening, then he was being dragged out again, forced to move again.
"OK, you take that side, I'll check over here," Nathan said, beginning to move off. He had taken several paces before he realised that Jesse had not moved from the position he had pulled him to. He turned back and frowned at the slightly glazed expression. He moved back and tried again. "Dr. Travis," he said, firmly "Jesse, are you all right?"
Jesse pulled himself back, and focussed on the detective. "What?" There was a slight pause whilst his brain processed the question, "Yes, I'm fine, I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about," Nathan stated. "You've had a hell of a time of it these last couple of days. Are you OK to keep helping me look?"
Jesse nodded, if there was one thing the last few hours should have taught him it was that he did not have time for self pity, his own emotions would have to take a back seat for a while, at least until they had found Steve.
Nathan pointed forwards. "You take that side then and I'll check the other, I'll meet you at the ramp to the next level."
Jesse nodded again and turned to focus on his search.
--
Mark had covered the whole level by the time he was joined by the young police officer. "Dr. Sloan," he voiced the greeting as he approached, "I'm officer Campbell, Detective Turner sent me to help you find Lieutenant Sloan"
Mark nodded, under normal circumstances he would have given a longer greeting, but his concern precluded such pleasantries. "I've checked this level, he's not here," he said. "I was just about to move down."
He led the way, beginning to scan the cars as soon as they were in sight, the fact that Steve was in his truck and not in one of the more anonymous department cars that he often drove, made the task much quicker.
When he spotted the familiar outline of the top of the truck, already tense muscles contracted even more. He began to move forward at a run, trying not to become too hopeful, he had already had one false alarm on the previous level, it had been the right model but as he had moved forward he had realised that it was the wrong colour. Now as he moved closer something told him that this was not a false alarm, it was Steve's truck. His adrenaline spiked once more. "Over here," he shouted for Campbell's benefit.
Mark rounded the end of the row of cars where he had spotted the truck and came to an abrupt stop, less than thirty feet away he spotted the crumpled form of his son lying face down on the cold concrete. The sight should have caused him to increase his speed but for a moment everything in his mind seized and he was unable to move forward. Ice slipped across his skin from his head down, and his insides began to somersault. The pounding of footsteps behind him, finally shook him from his stupor and he realised that he needed to move. He set off again at a run.
The pool of blood became more obvious as he approached and knelt down, increasing his sense of dread, feeling for a pulse with shaking hands. It took a moment, and the pulse he found was weak and thready, but he was so relieved to find one at all, that he let out a deep sigh. "Thank God," he whispered, they had found him in time. He looked up at officer Campbell, "Help me get this jacket off him," he said, trying as gently as possible to reposition Steve's arm, he needed to get a look at the wound, at the same time he tried to estimate just how much blood had been lost.
"Call Detective Turner, get him to get Dr. Travis up here, then run inside and get the nearest crash team out here now." Mark said, pressing his hand firmly against the ragged tear in his son's back to try to slow down the flow.
Detective Campbell pulled out his radio, he hadn't wanted to say anything earlier but part of his brief had been to stay with the older doctor and protect him, and he didn't like the idea of leaving him and the Lieutenant alone again with the killer clearly close by. "I don't think I should. . ." he began to protest.
"If he doesn't get help soon he's going to bleed to death," Mark interrupted, neither his tone nor the brief look he flashed the young officer left any room for argument.
Campbell did not hesitate any longer, he set off running, speaking into his radio as he went.
Mark dropped his gaze back to Steve as he felt him stir beneath him. He used his free hand to brush the hair back from his son's eyes, then moved it again to gently restrain him as he shifted with a moan, his eyes fluttering as he clawed his way back to consciousness. "Shh Steve, lie still. It's going to be OK but you need to lie still for me."
Somewhere in Steve's mind the familiar sound of his father's voice pulled him from the blackness. Pain clouded his thoughts as he struggled to focus, finding it difficult to remember where he was or what was happening to him. The only things he could latch on to were the pain, and the contrasting soothing tones of his father's voice. He forced his eyes open and looked at the blurred figure next to him. "Dad?" he managed to gasp out through dry lips, trying to shift his position to get a better view. Even the attempt at movement caused a bright pain that overloaded his senses and he gasped again, suddenly registering how hard it was to take a breath. "What. . . Why. . ." he tried to ask, but the words barely had enough air behind them to be whispered.
"It's OK Steve," Mark fought down his own rising panic, if Steve tried to move at the moment he could only make things worse, not that it could be much worse, from the sound of Steve's breathing and the position of the wound, it was a certainty that there was some damage to his right lung and he had lost a lot of blood. "Steve, everything's going to be OK just lie still for me." He kept his tone even, soothing, despite his fears.
"Hurts," Steve whispered.
That one word was almost Mark's undoing, he didn't need Steve to tell him how much pain he was in, he could see it etched on his features, could feel the tenseness in the muscles, had felt and heard the gasp of reaction when he had pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding, and again when Steve had tried to move. The fact that Steve gave voice to that pain was almost more than he could bear, knowing that he was powerless to help him with it until help arrived, for now all he could do was to try to keep him alive.
"I know it does, son," he continued, gently stroking his hand across his forehead. "Just lie still for me and it will be better soon."
Steve gave a very slight nod and settled, his breathing still raspy and shallow. He could still only really register the pain and the difficulty in breathing but he knew that as long as his father was there everything would be all right.
Mark felt the cold steel of the gun barrel on his neck before he acknowledged the presence next to him.
"Dr. Sloan, please remain perfectly still," a female voice hissed at him.
He stopped his movement and waited, he hadn't thought that he could be any more afraid, but he had been wrong. Fear now enveloped him like a living presence, wrapping it's tendrils around him and squeezing.
"This isn't right," the voice continued, he could feel the hot breath on his ear as the woman almost draped herself over him. "You're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be in a coma, where are the burns from the explosion?"
Mark swallowed, painfully aware of Steve's presence in front of him, he prayed that the woman's attention would stay on him and that she hadn't come back to finish the job on Steve. "I just got a concussion," Mark answered. "No burns."
"I know, your precious son interfered," the tone now sounded bitter, but changed to an almost purring sound as she continued. "But don't worry, I can still put things right. I just need you to come with me."
Mark couldn't help himself the protest left his lips before he had time to consider it. "But Steve. . ."
"You just don't get it do you," The woman's voice interrupted. "You weren't supposed to find him. It's not right it doesn't fit."
"I won't leave him," Mark stated firmly, his mind refusing to even contemplate the action. "If I do he could die."
"And if you don't I'll make sure that he does." The cold metal was removed from his neck and Mark got his first view of the person that threatened him as she stepped away. A slim, dark figure, dressed entirely in black, wearing a hooded mask that revealed only cold dark eyes stared down at him. The gun that had been aiming at him, dropped to point at Steve, and Mark swallowed.
"You have the choice Doc, come with me, or I shoot him now. What's it to be?"
Mark looked down at his son and then up at the gun barrel which was leveled at his chest. It was an impossible choice, leaving Steve in this condition should not be an option, he might bleed to death before anyone else got to him, and yet Mark had no doubt that if he did not comply then this woman would pull the trigger. So it was no choice at all. Certain death over a slim chance at survival. He looked up with an emotion that he rarely expressed, hatred, for what he was being forced to do, burned in his eyes. "I'm sorry Steve," he whispered, bending closer to Steve's ear so that he could hear him. "I'm going to have to leave you for a while, but don't worry, everything's going to be fine, just lie still."
Steve hadn't been able to focus on what was happening, he had heard his father talking and some other strange voice but he hadn't registered what they were saying, pain still dominated his world. He forced himself to concentrate as his father said his name, managed to register that he was leaving. 'No,' his mind protested. All he had at the moment to temper the pain and the fear, to anchor him through the disorientation of confused senses and jumbled memories, was his father's soothing tones and gentle touch, he didn't want him to leave. "Don't. . . .don't. . . go" he gasped out.
Mark could have sworn he felt his heart tear at the plea.
"Come on," the woman, said glancing round, clearly agitated. "The help you sent for will be here soon and if we're not out of here I guarantee he dies."
Mark nodded, quickly pressing his handkerchief against the wound and attempting to secure it underneath the shirt to at least put some pressure on it. At Steve's gasp he spoke again. "It'll be all right son." He forced the words from vocal chords that really did not want to cooperate as he felt himself being grabbed from behind.
"Come on Dr. Sloan, time to go." The woman pushed the gun barrel into his side as she pulled him backwards, he did his best to cooperate, not wanting to give her any reason to point the gun at Steve again.
Mark wasn't sure how he even made it to his feet much less how he managed to force his legs to move, as he was pulled backwards across the lot, all the time he kept his eyes locked on the still pale form of his only son, still not quite able to accept that he was being forced to leave him bleeding onto the concrete. He said a prayer, that help would arrive soon, his mind becoming numb as the distance increased. He barely felt the needle go into his arm. As he slipped into unconsciousness, still his only thoughts were for Steve.
Steve lay still, riding out the latest waves of pain. As they ebbed he sought the comforting presence of his father. A different sort of pain registered when he realised that he was not there. He opened his eyes and though his vision was still blurred he knew that he was alone, knew that he still lay on the cold concrete and there was no one to help him. Why had his dad left him when he needed him? "Why?" he whispered into the emptiness around him.
Mark caught the guilty tone that had returned to Jesse's voice and stopped his frantic scanning for signs that Steve had been there, realising that Jesse knew exactly why Steve's truck was not there. He focussed on his young friend who had paused, clearly trying to decide how to phrase his explanation.
Jesse met his gaze with difficulty and swallowed. "The killer hasn't changed their MO," he said, forcing an even tone. "I did write about Lieutenant Slade being attacked in the hospital parking lot."
Both Nathan and Mark were momentarily stunned by the confession. Nathan recovered first. "Then why didn't you put it in the notes you gave us about the upcoming chapters?"
"I did," Jesse's eyes dropped to the floor. "It was in the notes I gave to Steve but he . . ."
"He. . . what?" Mark asked, already denying the answer that was forming in his mind.
Jesse looked back up, despite the guilt he needed to explain this. "He took the last sheet, the one on chapter 9 and kept it himself. He knew that if you saw it you'd worry about it." Jesse saw the uncharacteristic anger building in Mark's expression.
"Why didn't you tell us about it?" Mark asked, his facial muscles taught, his tone curt.. "Why didn't you tell me?" He made the repeat of the question painfully personal.
Jesse took another swallow, wishing that he had ignored Steve's request, wishing for all the world that he'd shared with them the danger his friend was in. The danger he'd put him in. "He asked me not to," he replied, mentally cringing at the inadequacy of the explanation.
At the time he had not really considered the implications of what he was agreeing to, it had seemed fairly straightforward, they simply weren't telling Mark, so that he would not worry.
Well he was worried now. What had he been thinking? He should have forced Steve to at least pass the information on to Nathan. Damn, why did Steve always seem so confident, so invincible? Jesse should know better than anyone else that he was just as vulnerable as anyone else. He had helped pull him back from the brink of death on more than one occasion He should have refused to help with the deceit, he should have argued more strongly, but he had been too wrapped up in his own emotions, his own self pity. If only. . . but he hadn't. Steve had kept the information to himself and now he was missing, and if they were going to find him in one piece then Jesse needed to focus.
"He said that he would be careful, that nothing was going to happen to him," he continued quickly, trying to justify his complicity.
"And what might have happened to him?" Mark asked quietly. "What did you write?"
Jesse cringed as he was forced to remember the scene that had played out so clearly in his head when he'd been writing a harmless piece of fiction. Only now the fictional character was replaced by his best friend. "Steve Slade is walking back to his car when the killer attacks him from behind with a knife. He falls to the floor and. . ." Jesse paused as the image became more vivid.
"And. . ." Mark prompted.
"He passes out from the blood loss."
"Does. . ." Mark took a breath and forced out the rest of the question. "Does he die?"
Jesse met Mark's gaze with a mixture of fear and regret. "I don't know," he admitted. "That was as far as I'd written, the chapter ended on a cliffhanger."
Mark closed his eyes and tried to control the maelstrom of emotion that welled up inside him. He didn't have time for this, he had to find Steve, but the gut wrenching fear of what might have, what might be, happening to his son, and the crushing haze of anger, directed partly at Jesse for allowing it, but mostly at Steve for putting himself in additional danger simply because they hadn't wanted him to be worried, were both difficult to repress. So he did the only thing that he could, the only thing that would allow him to continue to function. He took the anger and he channeled it, allowing it to give him strength and feed his actions. He opened his eyes again and the anger blazed there, he saw Jesse shrink back from it, but that couldn't be helped, he would apologise later, for now he had to find Steve.
"All right," he said sharply, "We need to find Steve as quickly as possible and lets just hope the killer is having as much trouble as we are. I'm going to start from the top floor and work my way down."
The comment was directed at Jesse but he did not answer, his mind was recoiling from the look that Mark had given him, the anger in his mentor's eyes further feeding the guilt that was regaining control.
Nathan noted his reaction and replied for him, knowing that Mark's anger was borne at least partly from his frustration with the situation, he knew that the best course was to allow him to cool down, besides, taking direct action was what was needed, they would all rest easier once Steve was found. "OK, I'll get someone up there to help you. Jess and I will start at the bottom and work up and I'll pull in as many people as I can to cover the intervening floors." He began to dial on his cell, grabbing Jesse with his other hand as he started moving towards the elevator and stairs.
--
Mark paced back and forward in the elevator, still wrestling with his emotions. The fear building with every passing minute. He checked his watch, it had been more than fifteen minutes since Nathan had received the call about the new chapter, which meant that he still might have time to find Steve, to warn him before something happened. After all Steve had had time to find and help him. Then again, he had known exactly where to look. Damn, it would almost have been better if Jesse hadn't told Steve about the attack at all, at least then he would have parked in his usual place and they would have found him by now, but maybe knowing would make him cautious enough to protect himself, to prevent the attack.
Mark tried to hold on to some measure of hope from that last thought. Steve was very competent and could take care of himself, had done so in many violent situations, he was well trained and expecting trouble, maybe that would be enough.
Even as he tried to reassure himself, his memory pulled up an image to counter his faith. Steve had been moving slowly and stiffly, the lack of sleep and trauma from the explosion written clearly in his slightly pained expression, the dark circles under his eyes. When he had left Mark's office he had been well below his best. Add to that his clear distraction with the lead he thought he may have, and any chance of him fending off an attack by a clever and ruthless killer seemed unlikely.
Mark tried not to let his pessimism overwhelm him, instead he focussed once again on the anger. It was an anger that every parent knew and understood, anger directed at a child who had done something foolish and put themselves in real danger, anger fed by a fear of loss and a feeling of inadequacy, however irrational, that they, as a parent had not been able to do more to protect them, to prevent the action whatever it was, after all that was what parents were supposed to do wasn't it? Protect their children. Mark had felt it before, had controlled it before, now he used it to give him the adrenaline needed to continue.
The doors of the elevator swept open and he moved quickly into the lot, scanning as he went.
--
Jesse followed after Nathan but only because he was dragging on his arm, he was still trying to process this new and entirely different wave of guilt that was sweeping through his thought processes. Even if he accepted what everyone was telling him and did not take responsibility for the deaths and injuries so far, accepted that it was the killer doing this and not his fault, he definitely was responsible for what was happening to Steve now, and that meant that he deserved Mark's anger.
He was barely aware of the elevator doors closing, of Nathan's hurried phone conversations, of the doors reopening, then he was being dragged out again, forced to move again.
"OK, you take that side, I'll check over here," Nathan said, beginning to move off. He had taken several paces before he realised that Jesse had not moved from the position he had pulled him to. He turned back and frowned at the slightly glazed expression. He moved back and tried again. "Dr. Travis," he said, firmly "Jesse, are you all right?"
Jesse pulled himself back, and focussed on the detective. "What?" There was a slight pause whilst his brain processed the question, "Yes, I'm fine, I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about," Nathan stated. "You've had a hell of a time of it these last couple of days. Are you OK to keep helping me look?"
Jesse nodded, if there was one thing the last few hours should have taught him it was that he did not have time for self pity, his own emotions would have to take a back seat for a while, at least until they had found Steve.
Nathan pointed forwards. "You take that side then and I'll check the other, I'll meet you at the ramp to the next level."
Jesse nodded again and turned to focus on his search.
--
Mark had covered the whole level by the time he was joined by the young police officer. "Dr. Sloan," he voiced the greeting as he approached, "I'm officer Campbell, Detective Turner sent me to help you find Lieutenant Sloan"
Mark nodded, under normal circumstances he would have given a longer greeting, but his concern precluded such pleasantries. "I've checked this level, he's not here," he said. "I was just about to move down."
He led the way, beginning to scan the cars as soon as they were in sight, the fact that Steve was in his truck and not in one of the more anonymous department cars that he often drove, made the task much quicker.
When he spotted the familiar outline of the top of the truck, already tense muscles contracted even more. He began to move forward at a run, trying not to become too hopeful, he had already had one false alarm on the previous level, it had been the right model but as he had moved forward he had realised that it was the wrong colour. Now as he moved closer something told him that this was not a false alarm, it was Steve's truck. His adrenaline spiked once more. "Over here," he shouted for Campbell's benefit.
Mark rounded the end of the row of cars where he had spotted the truck and came to an abrupt stop, less than thirty feet away he spotted the crumpled form of his son lying face down on the cold concrete. The sight should have caused him to increase his speed but for a moment everything in his mind seized and he was unable to move forward. Ice slipped across his skin from his head down, and his insides began to somersault. The pounding of footsteps behind him, finally shook him from his stupor and he realised that he needed to move. He set off again at a run.
The pool of blood became more obvious as he approached and knelt down, increasing his sense of dread, feeling for a pulse with shaking hands. It took a moment, and the pulse he found was weak and thready, but he was so relieved to find one at all, that he let out a deep sigh. "Thank God," he whispered, they had found him in time. He looked up at officer Campbell, "Help me get this jacket off him," he said, trying as gently as possible to reposition Steve's arm, he needed to get a look at the wound, at the same time he tried to estimate just how much blood had been lost.
"Call Detective Turner, get him to get Dr. Travis up here, then run inside and get the nearest crash team out here now." Mark said, pressing his hand firmly against the ragged tear in his son's back to try to slow down the flow.
Detective Campbell pulled out his radio, he hadn't wanted to say anything earlier but part of his brief had been to stay with the older doctor and protect him, and he didn't like the idea of leaving him and the Lieutenant alone again with the killer clearly close by. "I don't think I should. . ." he began to protest.
"If he doesn't get help soon he's going to bleed to death," Mark interrupted, neither his tone nor the brief look he flashed the young officer left any room for argument.
Campbell did not hesitate any longer, he set off running, speaking into his radio as he went.
Mark dropped his gaze back to Steve as he felt him stir beneath him. He used his free hand to brush the hair back from his son's eyes, then moved it again to gently restrain him as he shifted with a moan, his eyes fluttering as he clawed his way back to consciousness. "Shh Steve, lie still. It's going to be OK but you need to lie still for me."
Somewhere in Steve's mind the familiar sound of his father's voice pulled him from the blackness. Pain clouded his thoughts as he struggled to focus, finding it difficult to remember where he was or what was happening to him. The only things he could latch on to were the pain, and the contrasting soothing tones of his father's voice. He forced his eyes open and looked at the blurred figure next to him. "Dad?" he managed to gasp out through dry lips, trying to shift his position to get a better view. Even the attempt at movement caused a bright pain that overloaded his senses and he gasped again, suddenly registering how hard it was to take a breath. "What. . . Why. . ." he tried to ask, but the words barely had enough air behind them to be whispered.
"It's OK Steve," Mark fought down his own rising panic, if Steve tried to move at the moment he could only make things worse, not that it could be much worse, from the sound of Steve's breathing and the position of the wound, it was a certainty that there was some damage to his right lung and he had lost a lot of blood. "Steve, everything's going to be OK just lie still for me." He kept his tone even, soothing, despite his fears.
"Hurts," Steve whispered.
That one word was almost Mark's undoing, he didn't need Steve to tell him how much pain he was in, he could see it etched on his features, could feel the tenseness in the muscles, had felt and heard the gasp of reaction when he had pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding, and again when Steve had tried to move. The fact that Steve gave voice to that pain was almost more than he could bear, knowing that he was powerless to help him with it until help arrived, for now all he could do was to try to keep him alive.
"I know it does, son," he continued, gently stroking his hand across his forehead. "Just lie still for me and it will be better soon."
Steve gave a very slight nod and settled, his breathing still raspy and shallow. He could still only really register the pain and the difficulty in breathing but he knew that as long as his father was there everything would be all right.
Mark felt the cold steel of the gun barrel on his neck before he acknowledged the presence next to him.
"Dr. Sloan, please remain perfectly still," a female voice hissed at him.
He stopped his movement and waited, he hadn't thought that he could be any more afraid, but he had been wrong. Fear now enveloped him like a living presence, wrapping it's tendrils around him and squeezing.
"This isn't right," the voice continued, he could feel the hot breath on his ear as the woman almost draped herself over him. "You're not supposed to be here. You're supposed to be in a coma, where are the burns from the explosion?"
Mark swallowed, painfully aware of Steve's presence in front of him, he prayed that the woman's attention would stay on him and that she hadn't come back to finish the job on Steve. "I just got a concussion," Mark answered. "No burns."
"I know, your precious son interfered," the tone now sounded bitter, but changed to an almost purring sound as she continued. "But don't worry, I can still put things right. I just need you to come with me."
Mark couldn't help himself the protest left his lips before he had time to consider it. "But Steve. . ."
"You just don't get it do you," The woman's voice interrupted. "You weren't supposed to find him. It's not right it doesn't fit."
"I won't leave him," Mark stated firmly, his mind refusing to even contemplate the action. "If I do he could die."
"And if you don't I'll make sure that he does." The cold metal was removed from his neck and Mark got his first view of the person that threatened him as she stepped away. A slim, dark figure, dressed entirely in black, wearing a hooded mask that revealed only cold dark eyes stared down at him. The gun that had been aiming at him, dropped to point at Steve, and Mark swallowed.
"You have the choice Doc, come with me, or I shoot him now. What's it to be?"
Mark looked down at his son and then up at the gun barrel which was leveled at his chest. It was an impossible choice, leaving Steve in this condition should not be an option, he might bleed to death before anyone else got to him, and yet Mark had no doubt that if he did not comply then this woman would pull the trigger. So it was no choice at all. Certain death over a slim chance at survival. He looked up with an emotion that he rarely expressed, hatred, for what he was being forced to do, burned in his eyes. "I'm sorry Steve," he whispered, bending closer to Steve's ear so that he could hear him. "I'm going to have to leave you for a while, but don't worry, everything's going to be fine, just lie still."
Steve hadn't been able to focus on what was happening, he had heard his father talking and some other strange voice but he hadn't registered what they were saying, pain still dominated his world. He forced himself to concentrate as his father said his name, managed to register that he was leaving. 'No,' his mind protested. All he had at the moment to temper the pain and the fear, to anchor him through the disorientation of confused senses and jumbled memories, was his father's soothing tones and gentle touch, he didn't want him to leave. "Don't. . . .don't. . . go" he gasped out.
Mark could have sworn he felt his heart tear at the plea.
"Come on," the woman, said glancing round, clearly agitated. "The help you sent for will be here soon and if we're not out of here I guarantee he dies."
Mark nodded, quickly pressing his handkerchief against the wound and attempting to secure it underneath the shirt to at least put some pressure on it. At Steve's gasp he spoke again. "It'll be all right son." He forced the words from vocal chords that really did not want to cooperate as he felt himself being grabbed from behind.
"Come on Dr. Sloan, time to go." The woman pushed the gun barrel into his side as she pulled him backwards, he did his best to cooperate, not wanting to give her any reason to point the gun at Steve again.
Mark wasn't sure how he even made it to his feet much less how he managed to force his legs to move, as he was pulled backwards across the lot, all the time he kept his eyes locked on the still pale form of his only son, still not quite able to accept that he was being forced to leave him bleeding onto the concrete. He said a prayer, that help would arrive soon, his mind becoming numb as the distance increased. He barely felt the needle go into his arm. As he slipped into unconsciousness, still his only thoughts were for Steve.
Steve lay still, riding out the latest waves of pain. As they ebbed he sought the comforting presence of his father. A different sort of pain registered when he realised that he was not there. He opened his eyes and though his vision was still blurred he knew that he was alone, knew that he still lay on the cold concrete and there was no one to help him. Why had his dad left him when he needed him? "Why?" he whispered into the emptiness around him.