Part 3

Mark looked over at Steve after he pulled the car to a halt in the garage and cut the engine. Their friends had already gotten out, and were steering their own vehicles down the driveway and out toward the highway. Steve was absently running a hand up and down the arm that was in a sling.

"Is it bothering you?" Mark queried.

"Yeah, a little," Steve admitted, and ceased the motion. "Guess I won't be playing tennis anytime soon."

Mark chuckled and gestured toward the boxes piled on one side of the garage. "That is if you could find the rackets."

"Good point."

"So how are you feeling otherwise?" Mark asked, testing the waters. The atmosphere was much lighter than it had been before the funeral.

Steve touched a hand to his chest. "Still pretty sore, but I'll survive."

Mark shot him a look. It wasn't an answer to the question Mark had asked, and he thought Steve knew it. "Thanks for letting me know that," he told him, "But now if you wouldn't mind answering the real question."

"I'm okay, Dad. Really."

Mark took in the circles beneath his eyes and the general air of exhaustion and thought to say something about it, but then decided against the idea. "Funerals sometimes have a way of providing closure," he suggested instead.

"Yeah, maybe." Steve blew out a breath. "Mostly I wish that I had done something to help him."

"It can be difficult to help someone who is pointing a gun at you. And even after he was shot, and you were wounded yourself, you worked with Lt. Siskar to try and save his life. I don't know what more could you have done."

"No, before that," Steve corrected him. "At the CG family banquet -- I saw him there. He was sitting off to himself, and I could tell that there was something wrong. I'd intended to go over and try to talk him into joining one of the games, but I never did. If I had, maybe none of this would have happened."

Mark sighed inwardly as the final piece of the puzzle regarding Steve's guilt feelings fell into place. "And that makes you responsible," Mark said, following Steve's logic to its obvious conclusion.

"To a degree, yes."

"I seem to recall that you were pretty busy that day between running a BBQ stand and a dunking booth, never mind everything else you did to help out."

"I should have made the time," Steve insisted. "Someone's life depended on it."

"You don't know that. You didn't make Ryan take drugs or pick up a gun in a drug hang out. Those were all his choices, not yours."

"I know, Dad," Steve admitted. "But --."

"No buts," Mark interrupted. "You did the best that you could. You always do your best which is why you're so good at your job. And on top of that you care."

A light flush of embarrassment worked it way into Steve's cheeks. "Dad . . . ."

Mark stifled a chuckle and patted his shoulder. "You need to remember that, son. And remember that just like us doctors, no matter how hard you try, you can't save them all."

"I know. Thanks, Dad." Steve's smile broadened. "Maybe I can skip the department shrink and just talk to you."

Mark made a face. "See the psychologist," he encouraged. "But in the meantime, since you're listening to your old man: why don't you go on downstairs and take a nap while I whip us up something special for dinner?"

Steve raised his good arm in surrender. "No arguments here."

While Steve headed down to his unit for some much needed rest, Mark went to the refrigerator and retrieved the steaks that he'd purchased the night before. He'd intended to broil them, as dragging the grill out onto the deck and lighting it seemed overkill when cooking for just one or two. But he knew that Steve would enjoy it, and so, after sprinkling a bit of Steve's favorite grill seasoning over them, he headed out of the French doors to get the fire going.

The late afternoon sun was lovely and held the promise of a beautiful evening. Perhaps they could eat outside as well. But as he moved toward the door of the small storage room off the deck, he was surprised to find someone huddled there against the wall.

"Miles?" Dinner was forgotten as Mark rushed forward, stooping down beside the other man, worried that he had done something to hurt himself. Drawing closer though, he realized just what it was that Miles had done. In fact the evidence was still wrapped in his arms, empty.

"Mark?" Red-rimmed eyes focused blearily on him. "There you are," Miles slurred, waving the empty bottle haphazardly. "I came here to have a word with you and . . . and . . . him."

"Miles." Mark sighed, saddened at the other man's state. Though dressed in a dark suit and tie, he was clearly in no state to have attended Ryan's funeral. The shirt looked as if he might have spilled a portion of the alcohol on it, and the jacket was ruined by sand and what Mark suspected was ocean water. "Why don't you come inside and get cleaned up? I'll make you something to drink and then we can talk."

"Good idea. You owe me," Mile said, and allowed Mark to help him to his feet and lead him into the den. Mark settled him onto the sofa and, taking the empty bottle with him, headed for the kitchen. There were a couple of Steve's sports drinks in the refrigerator, one of which Mark poured into a glass and carried back to the den with him.

"I never got a chance to offer you my condolences," Mark said as he handed over the beverage. "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Miles looked measuringly across at him, took a sip of the drink and then sputtered, spraying his dark slacks and part of the coffee table. "You could get me a real drink, for one."

"You know I can't do that," Mark told him, settling in a chair across from him. "The alcohol is dehydrating you. That sports drink will help by restoring some of your electrolytes."

Miles sat the glass down on the table, clearly disgusted. "Well, I'm not going to be long anyway. I just wanted to tell you that your son had no right being at the funeral after he killed my son, no right at all."

"So you were there?" Mark sat up straighter. "I never saw you, and I was looking."

"I was there long enough."

"And then you left, to go get drunk?" Mark questioned.

"That's none of your business."

"It is when you end up on my property." Mark pointed out.

Miles rose unsteadily to his feet. "I can fix that!"

"No, Miles. I'm sorry," Mark stood and headed the man off. Mild guilt flooded his system. "I'm not trying to make things more difficult for you. But look at yourself. Surely you know that this is no way to honor Ryan's memory. I know its hard, but you just have to keep trying and get through it. Do it for him."

The fire went out of Miles' stance and he stood there, looking dejected. "How can you?" he asked softly.

Mark frowned in confusion. "How can I what?"

"How can you know what I'm feeling? How can you know what its like to lose a child unless it happens to you?"

"Because I've been close, so close that I can still taste the fear of it. I know what it's like, Miles."

"No you don't." Miles disagreed softly, and then settled back into the chair. "But it doesn't matter does it? None of it matters." He looked up at Mark and his eyes were filled with tears. "Did you know that after his mother and I divorced, I started teaching him about guns? I thought it would protect him, maybe even help us to bond. Did you know he made Marksman?"

"No, I didn't know that," Mark said gently. "But it's obvious that you're very proud of him."

Miles gave a small dismissive shake of his head. "I failed him in the most important way. Something has been bothering him the past 5 or 6 months and I was never able to figure out what it was. Truth is, I was probably too busy to try."

Mark didn't miss the irony that both Steve and Miles felt as if they'd failed Ryan, and that he was the one who was trying to convince them both otherwise. "You didn't fail him," Mark said. "You did the best you could – that's all any parent can do for their children. It was his decisions that got him into trouble. You would never have told him to do those things."

"No." Miles rubbed absently at his temple. "I wouldn't have. But none of that matters, either."

"Headache?" Mark gestured toward the action.

"Yeah." Miles sighed the answer out and closed his eyes.

Mark glanced toward the kitchen. He hesitated to give the man aspirin after having consumed so much alcohol, instead he made another offer. "Why don't I offer you a sandwich to go along with that drink?"

"I really should go," Miles said, not looking upward, but continuing to rub at his temples.

"No, you're in no condition to drive. Why don't I fix that sandwich and then give you a ride home. Tomorrow Jesse and I will find you car and bring it to you."

Miles nodded reluctant agreement and sank back into the chair.

Miles opened his eyes and found himself in strange surroundings. His brain felt oddly fuzzy, and his body felt clumsy and not entirely his own. But then his gaze settled on the sandwich sitting beside a glass of clear liquid on the table and rushes of memory returned. The sadness settled over him like a suffocating blanket, and he was suddenly very certain that he was going to be sick.

He glanced frantically about, trying to remember where the bathroom was from a long ago visit to the beach house. He caught sight of Mark out on the deck, busily doing something with a grill and thought better of heading in that direction. Going with his best guess, he set off down a corridor. He made it barely in time. As he was there, collapsed on his knees, losing what little he'd managed to eat the past few days, he wondered how he was ever going to survive this.

When he was able to bring himself shakily to his feet, he cleaned up and made his way back out toward the den. But as he passed a section of steps leading downward, an odd curiosity drove him to follow them. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he reached the bottom, or why he had a desire to visit Steve Sloan's living quarters, he only knew he had to go. Perhaps in some strange way seeing the place where he slept and relaxed would help him to see the cop as a man and not as the monster that he'd grown to be in his mind.

The living area was very reminiscent of the upper level of the house, only much smaller. The rooms were neat and well kept; Steve Sloan obviously took care of his things. Continuing out of a small kitchen and across a living room and along a corridor, he saw the foot of a bed through the open door.

He took the few steps that brought him to the door of the bedroom, peered inside and got the second most intense shock of his life. It was nearly too much for him to see the man that he had come to hate over the past few days sleeping soundly in his bed. Mark had made no mention of Steve being home, and Miles was completely unprepared for that reality. He stood at the foot of the bed, feeling like his mind was removed from his body, as if he was watching events through someone else's eyes.

The bedside drawer was partially opened, and his body was pulled unerringly forward toward the bit of metal that was just visible in the shadows. You'll never know what it's like . . . . You'll never know what it's like to lose a child unless you experience it. The words dogged his steps and thoughts.In a dreamlike way, even as he quietly opened the drawer and took the cool heaviness of the gun into his palm, he noted every nuance of the man curved in a near fetal position atop the covers.

Vaguely, from a distance, he heard someone calling to him. Steve began to stir, straightening first one long leg and then the other before turning his head in the direction of the sound. Miles slowly backed away, the gun leveled on the man in the bed.

Steve's eyes flew wide with shock and he jerked upward into a sitting position. Miles wasn't sure what happened in that moment. He only knew that something loud sounded in the room and that his arm jerked several times.

Steve was thrown back against the headboard as splotches of red splattered across the lampshade and the comforter. Unbalanced, his body did a slow slide sideways and he dropped off the bed and to the floor, taking the contents of the night stand with him. A trail of crimson followed.

Miles would never recall what followed as light seemed to fade from the room and his mind simply shut down.