Chapter 3

Gillespie dropped Mark off at the Beach House, unaware of the depth of turmoil in his passenger. The officer was unfailingly polite and kind, but he was too young and convinced of his own immortality to be comfortable in the presence of grief.

Mark let himself in at the front door, a cold draught of air entering with him. He noted abstractedly that IA had not bothered to lock up when they left. As he entered the front hall, Steve's absence from their shared home abruptly reasserted itself, and he froze, suddenly unsure what to do next. The large house seemed to shrink in on him, leaving him choking on claustrophobia, and the privacy that he had craved earlier manifested its true nature as crushing, unremitting loneliness that infiltrated every fibre of his being.

Slowly, his whole body aching at the movement, he removed his jacket, hanging it up on a hook by the door. IA had simply dropped all the other coats in a heap on the floor subsequent to searching them and, after staring at them blankly for a moment, Mark clumsily started replacing them. The last one he picked up was Steve's leather jacket and, instead of rehanging it, he carried it through to the kitchen where he sank stiffly into a chair. He held the jacket limply in his hands, not focusing on it, or on anything in particular, but needing a tangible link to his son.

Ingrained habit of a lifetime dammed the tears that might have contained some kind of release, instead creating a pool of anguish whose only escape was to wash back into a system already overloaded with grief. Besides, he wasn't sure he had the right any longer to shed tears that ultimately would have been for himself, for the emptiness inside and the loneliness ahead. Guilt had shattered his already fractured soul and continued to file raspingly on nerves that were exposed and raw from loss.

He wasn't sure how to live with the feeling of accountability. His strong sense of personal responsibility had always been balanced by a limitless fund of common sense that kept undue guilt in abeyance. When the Sweeneys had blown up Community General, more than one unkind comment had suggested that Mark was to blame -- his obsessive and indiscreet obsession with the Sunnyview bomber making the hospital the natural target. Although the thought had occurred to Mark more than once, and he could see the merits of the argument, he never had any problem understanding that countless more people would have died if the Sweeneys hadn't been stopped and that he was in the best position to do it.

This was different, and Mark didn't even try to marshal excuses for his actions. Steve had died while Mark concealed the information that could have saved him. In Mark's distraught mind, A led to B and, without a friend to provide a voice of reason to show him otherwise, he had almost convinced himself that Simmons' assessment was right - he was his son's murderer.

Without Steve, he felt set adrift without an anchor and with the North Star vanished from the sky. He didn't know how long he sat there, turning the leather jacket mindlessly in his hands, grief and guilt fueling a downward spiral of despair, but a noise from outside finally broke through his torpor. He stood up shakily, looking for something to do as an antidote to feeling. IA had taken little care in their execution of the search warrant and his belongings lay haphazardly around. Cleaning would keep him busy, but silence echoed as resoundingly in the house as it did in his heart, and he recoiled at the idea of sorting through items that were poignant reminders of the life he had shared with his son.

Suddenly, Mark heard the front door open, a heavy tread ascending the stairs, and his heart spun crazily with a hope that was almost immediately dashed as three large men entered the kitchen. He didn't know them, but his mind automatically identified them as cops, and his first assumption was that they had unfinished business connected to the search warrant. Resenting the repeated intrusions into his house at such a traumatic time, Mark started to rise in protest, but, to his astonishment, one of the men slammed him back into the chair while another snatched the jacket from his hands and started to go through the pockets. As the room darkened somewhat, Mark realised that the third had drawn down the blinds over the French windows.

Mark had almost always been treated with respect by members of the force. He had earned the right with his deductive abilities and, if they engendered any resentment along the way, Steve's stalwart presence by his side prevented overt demonstrations of that hostility. He was totally unaccustomed to the bullying tactics being displayed, and his mouth gaped slightly ajar in shock. Before he could gather his wits, the largest of the men loomed menacingly over him, one hirsute hand resting on the back of Mark's chair.

"You have something we want, Dr. Sloan. Give it to us and you won't get hurt."

Mark wasn't easily frightened, and he rose to his feet ready to reciprocate with threats of his own, though his were more legal than physical in nature. However, before he could speak, a meaty fist impacted with his stomach, knocking the words out of his mouth along with the air from his lungs and sending him back, doubled-over, into his chair.

The blow wasn't too hard; it was intended more to intimidate than debilitate, but it came as a profound shock. For some reason, unfathomable to his son and friends, Mark's gray hair or innate dignity seemed to leave him largely immune to the frequent violence that surrounded the apprehension of criminals. The only injury he'd recently sustained was a panicked punch from a fleeing felon, and that was a very different matter to the deliberate infliction of pain, and it forced Mark to reconsider his assumption that the intruders were cops.

"Who are you?" he gasped as soon as he could pull enough oxygen into his lungs to frame the words.

"Well, that's not really important, is it?" his assailant answered. "Last night, you got a package from Mrs. Latiere. Now you're going to give it to us."

"It was just photographs." Mark decided he might as well be consistent in his lies, although he didn't think this group would prove as easy to hoodwink as IA had been. He was right, though this time he had the chance to brace himself before another blow landed, harder and slightly higher. The pain radiated through his midriff, but it was almost a welcome distraction from the mental agony that had consumed him earlier, and he still had the strange feeling that they were trying to minimise the damage and not leave too much evidence of the attack.

As the wheezing emanating from his lungs eased, Mark was jerked upright to face his attacker. "It's not nice to lie to the police," the big man chided him. "Didn't your son tell you that? We know it wasn't photographs. Where's the notebook?"

"It's at the hospital." Mark tried to look defeated, although inside a seething anger was starting to roil and smoke as he realised that these men were almost certainly involved in Steve's death. Their faces were burnt into his memory, and he swore with a violence that would have surprised his friends that he would make them pay for the part they played. The fury inside him was a fire so powerful that it incinerated everything except the desire for revenge, and he fed it with the pain of loss until it seemed to consume all the oxygen in his limbs, leaving him weak and trembling. He didn't try to hide this reaction, counting on it to bolster the image of the harmless old man he was trying to project.

He struggled to keep the blaze out of his eyes as the large man grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, forcing Mark's face up to meet his. "I don't believe you," he said softly, but with an unmistakable threat. "We've had you under surveillance since you left the restaurant. You've not been anywhere near the hospital."

"I gave it to Steve." Again the lie was instantaneous, preceding conscious thought, and it occurred to Mark that he could make a new career out of mendacity. He allowed no trace of doubt to show, and he was rewarded by a flicker of uncertainty in his interrogator's eyes before the man withdrew for a conference with his colleagues.

Mark watched them huddle in a quiet, but clearly heated, argument, and a skitter of unease played over his nerves as again his internal conviction insisted that these men were cops. Mark knew cops; his father and his son had both carried a badge, and he was constantly working around police in one capacity or another. He could effortlessly recognise the unspoken deportment of self-confident vigilance as well as the distinctive jargon that distinguished a member of the force to those who know what to look for.

Mark had always been slow to anger and quick to forgive, so to sustain a fury as consuming and all-pervading as the one he felt now was beyond his experience. However, if these men were cops, they had betrayed their badges, their oaths and, most importantly, his son, and the bitterness of that treachery choked him with a hatred that he had not known he was capable of possessing.

As the group seemed to resolve their disagreement, Mark's interrogator, whom he had mentally dubbed 'Curly', returned to his side. "Get up," he ordered shortly.

Feeling decidedly uncooperative, Mark stayed where he was. "No," he responded simply.

Curly had obviously not expected rebellion, but rallied by pulling his gun, a regulation 9mm Beretta, Mark noted, brandishing it meaningfully.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" Mark asked dryly. "Even you're not stupid enough to shoot me with your own gun right here."

The man was clearly stung by the contempt in Mark's voice, and he half-raised his weapon. For a moment, Mark thought he'd pushed him too far, but met his furious gaze with defiance. It was one of the other men, 'Moe', who restrained Curly.

"Al," he growled warningly. Mark felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction in forcing the revelation of a name, but the man's lack of concern over the slip led him to consider its implications. With a jolt of adrenaline, he realised that the most obvious explanation was that they knew he wouldn't live long enough for it to matter, but that didn't seem to be consistent with the care they had taken to not unduly injure him.

Al grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head and jerked him to his feet. "You can walk or we'll drag you, your choice."

In the mood Mark was in, further resistance had its attractions but, in the end, he decided there was nothing to gain by further defiance at this point. He shook off the hand restraining him. "How could I refuse such a gracious invitation."

The sarcasm in his tone did little to conceal the depth of his hostility, but that response was minor compared to the incandescent fury that consumed him as he realised their destination - Steve's apartment. The presence of these men in his son's home was a profanity, their corruption desecrating his memory. However, as he entered the room, a hard shove pushing him to sit on the couch, it became hard to think about them, as he was hit by a sudden tidal wave of sensory information, every drop of which seemed to contain the essence of his son. It seeped into the cracks of his mind, washing out precious memories. The scent of his aftershave, the sight of his blue shirt, discarded yesterday and left on the floor, even the feel of the old sofa under his fingers conjured vivid images of Steve - vital and strong, smiling and affectionate.

To Mark's horror, his vision blurred as tears forced themselves past all existing barriers, one acid, burning drop at a time, each forced out by the sheer pressure of the multitudes behind it. He fought to prevent them from spilling over, knowing he couldn't afford a show of personal weakness at this time, then, sensing that failure was imminent, he surrendered to the memories cascading through his mind. He knew he would pay for the indulgence later, but, for now, he allowed the comfort and familiarity of his son's possessions to soak into his consciousness until he could all but feel his son, solid and supportive beside him. Drawing strength from that spectral presence, he took a deep breath, his composure slowly returning and his mind clearing for the first time since Masters had appeared on his doorstep.

Ignoring the ache in his midriff, Mark twisted round to follow the movements of his assailants, imbued with a new determination to sabotage their agenda. His eye fell on the gun Al was now carrying and, with a start of recognition, some pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He now knew who these men were and what they intended for him. The gun was Steve's service revolver. He hadn't even seen it since Steve had surrendered his official weapon while suspended during the Eddie Gault case. At least one of these men must have been on the IA team that searched the house to have known where to find it.

'Moe' approached again, holding his gun negligently in the air, a more subtle threat than Al's belligerence. "We'll give you one more chance, Doc. Where is the notebook?"

"Or what?" Mark inquired pleasantly.

"Then we would have to, regretfully, I'm sure, terminate.....our association." It was said with equal geniality, but the eyes, so dark as to be almost black, held a coldness that carried total conviction.

"We both know you're planning to kill me anyway, so there's little incentive to cooperate here," Mark informed him.

'Moe' didn't respond immediately; he sucked on his teeth while regarding Mark thoughtfully, obviously contemplating how much Mark had figured out.

"You're not going to get away with it, you know," Mark continued conversationally. "No one who knows me will believe that I committed suicide."

"Oh, I think that they will," 'Moe' returned confidently. "Everyone knows how tight you and the Lieutenant were. You get the bad news, you're upset and depressed, you go down to his apartment and blow your brains out with his back-up gun. It's simple. We get rid of a nuisance who knows too much, and no one will question a thing."

Mark stared at him, repulsed by his casual narration of cold-blooded murder, and knowing in his heart that he was probably right. Jesse and Amanda might never really believe that he would take his own life, but, in the face of the evidence and under the circumstances, the doubt would be there. And, if the truth were to be told, as he had sat in the empty house earlier, contemplating a hollow, empty future without his son and blaming himself for the betrayal of trust in allowing it to happen, the temptation of ending a life that contained only loneliness and bitter regret had beckoned enticingly.

Mark could not summon up any fear of death; it was too familiar. He'd always dreaded the inevitable effect it would have on his son, but that was no longer a factor. However, that didn't mean he wanted to die. Deep inside, despite his boundless amiability, Mark was a fighter, scrappy in the short term and steadfast in the long run; it was not in his nature to take the easy way out. Steve would have wanted him to keep going, and he wasn't about to let him down again. He would fight with every ounce of ingenuity he possessed and, even if he could not make much impact physically on three large, trained opponents, he could ensure that signs of a struggle ruled out the verdict of suicide.

"If I'm found dead, copies of that notebook will be mailed to the Chief of Police and the media by tomorrow morning." Mark maintained eye contact, his only sign of emotion a slight smile that hinted at a greater knowledge of the proceedings than he really possessed.

'Moe' sucked on his teeth again, a hint of doubt piercing his assurance momentarily then dissipating. "I think you're bluffing, Doc."

Mark arched an eyebrow invitingly, "Try me."

'Moe' dropped all pretense at civility. "Make this easy on yourself, Doc. Close your eyes and don't move."

"I've got a better idea," Mark needled him. "Let's make it really look authentic. Give me the gun."

'Moe' snorted. "I don't think so. Besides, there's only one bullet in it."

Mark bared his teeth in a grim smile. "I can put that to good use, my friend."

Mark sensed rather than saw Al moving into position behind him and, at the split second that 'Moe's' attention shifted, Mark bolted off the sofa and, swinging his fist in an impressive roundhouse left learned from his son, successfully targeted the other man's nose. 'Moe' took an involuntary step backwards, shouting with the unexpected pain, his hands flying to cradle his injured proboscis. Blood leaked from between his fingers to drip onto the floor, soaking indelibly into the carpet. Mark knew he couldn't escape the three men and didn't even try; his objective was more limited. He was determined to leave as much DNA evidence to identify his killers as possible. They could decided to shoot him at any time, but that would destroy any possibility of his death being ruled a suicide -- another victory, however Pyrrhic, for Mark.

Three steps took Mark to Steve's cane, left leaning against a book case after recovery from the car accident which had damaged his knee. He grabbed the stick and swung it round with a wild swipe that deterred a close approach. Then he advanced, cane extended, wielding it rapier style, exultation in his heart at the opportunity to unleash his enmity and strike at the men whom, he was sure, had collaborated in the death of his son.

His Zorro-inspired attack didn't succeed for long, despite his best efforts. One last swipe impacted on 'Larry's' forearm, but the back-hand strike was captured and his own arm seized in an expert hold. Undaunted, and still with an eye to posthumous vindication, Mark raked his nails down the man's face, knowing that skin under the fingernails was one of the best sources of a murderer's DNA. With a furious roar, Larry reflexively lashed out, catching Mark high on the cheekbone and knocking him to the floor. Although dazed, Mark struggled violently, and it took all three of the men, cursing obscenely, to drag him back to the couch. Mark took a savage satisfaction in the bruises acquired in the effort to restrain him. It was going to be hard to rule this a suicide. Al approached him again, gun in hand, and Mark almost laughed when he realised that they had either forgotten or never knew that he was left-handed and were intending to shoot him from the right. It would be the clincher for any competent coroner - he spared a moment to hope it wouldn't be Amanda.

Although exhausted, he continued to struggle, drawing strength from a last-minute panic ignited by an atavistic sense of self-preservation, but he was helpless in the grip of the younger men. Praying that he would be reunited with his son after death, Mark braced himself for the end.