Chapter 7

As Mark rang the bell on the bright blue door, Steve rocked back and forth on his heels behind him, casting nervous glances past the gaudy decorations in the garden to the neighbours' houses visible on either side. He had initially vetoed the plan that Mark had proposed, believing that it contained an unnecessary risk of exposure, but, with his customary eloquence, Mark had convinced him not only of its necessity but also of its relative prudence.

"Marshmallow Sloan," he muttered darkly, as he reflected on his status as a pushover. His only consolation was that Mark alone possessed this unsettling ability to persuade him into a course of action against his better judgment, and he knew that his willingness to defer to his father's wishes stemmed not from spineless diffidence, but from an immense trust in Mark's instincts.

From the amused glance his father cast in his direction, he realised that Mark had heard his sotto voce remark, so, to forestall any response, Steve brightly announced, "Nobody home, we'd better go."

To his annoyance, the rattle of the door handle immediately proved him wrong. Lucas Blanchard's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Mark on his doorstep, but he was opening the door wider in welcome when Steve's additional presence registered. Immediately, distrust with a faint undercurrent of fear replaced his pleasant smile, but, after an awkward hesitation, he stepped aside with the curt invitation, "Come in."

Mark risked a quick glance at his son and wasn't surprised to see the shuttered look that screened all emotions. Although Steve had to deal with suspicion on almost a daily basis, it had always been directed towards his profession, not his character, and Mark knew it must chafe on his nerves to be confronted so forcefully with the evidence of his changed status within the community.

Lucas followed them into the living room and gestured for them to sit down. Mark and Steve chose the sofa in an unconscious gesture of solidarity, and Lucas perched uncomfortably on the edge of a plush armchair.

"You're the last person I expected to see, Mark." His gaze skittered towards Steve then slid uncomfortably away.

Mark was vibrating in sympathy with the tensions emanating from both sides, instinctively understanding his son's frustration and also, abruptly, appreciating the apprehension his friend was suffering. He had promised Steve that Lucas would not turn them in, that, on the contrary, he would be pleased to help them. Lucas credited Mark with saving his wife's life, and the two had forged a friendship based on a mutual fascination with magic tricks. However, while still sure of his own welcome, Mark hadn't thought to look at Steve's arrival from an outside perspective. Having a wanted killer in your living room, while old hat to Mark, would be disconcerting to most. For the first time, he wished his son wasn't so physically intimidating.

"I'm sorry to impose, Lucas," Mark began apologetically. "I know we've put you in a difficult position, but I really need your help. Please understand that we're not guilty of the things of which we've been accused."

Lucas still looked wary. "Then he didn't shoot that cop?" He nodded his head towards Steve, still avoiding eye contact with him.

Mark hesitated, and Steve, seeing his father was unsure how to best answer, and tired of feeling like he was suffering from an embarrassing personal disease, jumped in, stating baldly and rather unhelpfully, "Yes I did."

Mark shot an exasperated look at his irritating offspring. "Yes, he shot him," he admitted. "However, he did it to save my life. The three officers were trying to murder me and would have succeeded if Steve hadn't intervened."

"That's the truth?" Lucas demanded incredulously.

"That's the truth," Mark averred, candor clear and unflinching in his eyes.

Lucas finally relaxed, looking squarely at Steve for the first time. "There's a warrant out for your arrest. You're considered armed and dangerous."

"Well," Steve replied with a glint of humour, "there's some truth to that, but only to those who try and hurt my father."

Lucas wasn't sure if that was intended to be a warning, but it was a response he could respect. "They haven't issued a warrant for him yet, although he's wanted for questioning. The police seem unsure if he is involved in something or if you've kidnapped him and are holding him against his will."

"That's absurd," Mark burst out, realising that such a suspicion would make it more likely that an officer, even an honest one, would use force in apprehending his son.

"I can see that now, though I did wonder. Anyway, what can I do to help you?"

Mark revealed his idea, and a broad grin spread over Lucas' dark face. "Come with me." He led them downstairs, explaining that his wife was visiting her sister and catching Mark up on some family news.

The basement wasn't like any Steve had ever seen before, and he looked around curiously as the bright lighting illuminated racks of odd clothes and outlandish costumes that lined the room. Lucas sat Mark in front of a large mirror and started explaining the lengthy procedure which would ensue.

"I'm going to use a sponge for even coverage and apply a base slightly lighter than your natural skin tone, since aged complexions tend to be on the pale side."

Steve sank gratefully into the one armchair the room possessed. His ribs were aching unmercifully and, despite a good night's sleep, exhaustion was again smothering his mind in a dull blanket of weariness. Leaning back, he watched the two older men with some amusement. His father's boyish enthusiasm was infectious, and Steve loved the enjoyment that Mark could derive from even the simplest activities. It was one of his most endearing qualities. Feeling oddly safe in this house, it wasn't long before Steve's eyes closed and soft snores emanated from his corner.

"He looks a trifle pale," Lucas observed casually. "Is he alright?"

Mark cast a fond but concerned look at his sleeping son. "He was injured, but he'll be fine." He smiled to himself as he echoed Steve's favourite word. "Of course, that didn't stop him from saving my life; he doesn't know his own limitations sometimes. This is so hard for him; he's a good man."

He glanced up at Lucas, suddenly needing to convince him of his son's innocence. "He's also a good cop, and I couldn't ask for a better son." Cold determination changed the amiable contours of his face. "I'm going to clear his name if it's the last thing I do."

"Well, try to make sure it isn't the last thing," Lucas cautioned. "I don't think he'd take that too well. Now hold still. I'm going to use brownish red as the shadow colour and add some wrinkles."

Steve was dreaming of numbers buzzing around him like bees despite his best efforts to bat them away, when he was awakened by a bump to his knee. He looked up blearily and recoiled instinctively, blinking rapidly in an effort to bring the apparition confronting him into clearer focus.

"Dad?" he queried, uncertainly, finding nothing recognisable in the brown eyes, lank, straggly, gray hair and hollow cheeks in front of him and vaguely suspecting a practical joke.

"What's that, sonny?" The reedy, quavering tones were unlike Mark's yet, at the same time, there was a familiarity in the timbre that Steve had heard nearly every day of his life and he couldn't mistake it.

"Dad," he said, with relief this time. He inspected his father critically. "Well, that's quite an improvement," he teased mendaciously. "You should come here for a makeover more often."

Lucas gave a shout of laughter, but Mark stayed in character, rapping Steve's leg sharply with the cane he carried. "Young whippersnapper. That's the trouble with young people today, no respect for their elders. Why, when I was a boy..." His voice trailed off querulously for a moment. "Don't interrupt." He again swatted Steve on the shin.

"Ow, I didn't say anything," Steve protested, laughing and rubbing his leg with exaggerated care. Wrapping an arm protectively around his ribs for support, he slipped out of the chair and quickly removed himself from the vicinity of the pursuing stick. He circled his father at a discreet distance, admiring the thoroughness of his transformation and seeking any oversight that might betray his identity. Mark maintained his pose but stood still to facilitate the scrutiny.

"It's remarkable," Steve admitted at last. "I know it's you, but I can't see you. Even your hands look gnarled and somehow misshapen."

Mark turned to Lucas, nearly bouncing with glee. "Hollywood lost a genius when you retired, my friend, but your biggest challenge awaits. What can you do for my son?"

Steve backed away defensively, realising a strategic retreat was imperative as two pairs of eyes fastened on him, one with clinical appraisal, the other with mischievous glee. "No way are you putting any of that gunk on me, so you can both take that Dr Frankenstein urge someplace else."

Mark feigned great disappointment. "Lucas could make you look like a movie star, then no one would recognise you."

"I think that's beyond even his talents," Steve contradicted him dryly.

"Just a wig and some rouge," Mark appealed plaintively.

Steve snorted. "I can see the headlines now." His hands outlined the words in the air. "Cop, killer or clown. No, thank you. I'd like to preserve some dignity."

In the end, he escaped with the small concession of a baseball hat and returned upstairs with more haste than grace to wait for the two older men to put the finishing touches on Mark's disguise. It wasn't long before they joined him, and Mark and Steve took their leave with many thanks and the promise to keep Lucas informed as to the success of their subterfuge.

Steve was unusually quiet in the car, and the brim of his newly acquired cap cast shadows concealing his expression from Mark, but the older man could see the slow grind of his son's dentistry being destroyed. He was unsure whether the tension in his son's jaw should be attributed to physical discomfort or mental reservations over their proposed course of action. Deciding the explanation was probably some combination thereof, but knowing his son's propensity for non-committal answers to enquiries after his health, Mark phrased his concern obliquely. "Dental insurance paid up?"

The apparent non-sequitur interrupted Steve's train of thought and earned his father a curious glance before he picked up on its implications. He consciously eased his clenched teeth before choosing to answer the spoken question rather than the unexpressed worry behind it.

"Of course. I figure I've got medical care wrapped up, but I don't know any dentists to sponge off for an impromptu root canal."

Seeing that Mark wouldn't be so easily diverted, Steve relented. "I don't like this, Dad. There are too many things that can go wrong."

"Such as what?" Mark was quite happy to analyse his plan and plug any holes it might contain.

"Well, what if it rains? Is that stuff on your face waterproof?"

Mark leaned forward in his seat to better admire the purity of the blue sky, unblemished by so much as a single cloud. "I'll take my umbrella," he promised solemnly. "It could also prove useful for repelling any little green aliens who try to abduct me under cover of the torrential downpour."

Steve's mouth twitched unwillingly. "Okay, bad example," he conceded. "But, someone might recognise you, and if something does go wrong, you're out there with no back up."

That was the crux of the matter. Although Mark had placed himself in risky situations before, usually to draw out a suspect, it had always been under the watchful eyes of his son. This time, Steve would be unable to accompany his father or even be close enough to help him if his identity was revealed, and every protective instinct Steve possessed revolted at the notion, raising hackles of alarm that prickled uncomfortably up his spine, leaving him restless and edgy.

Mark started to say something reassuring, but stopped as Steve stiffened noticeably in his seat, his eyes flicking to the rear view mirror.

"Police car just pulled out, two vehicles back." Steve's voice was colourless, yet the bitter frustration of eluding his former colleagues like a common criminal bled through the walls of his stony facade.

Tension rippled through Mark's body, but he didn't look back, striving for at least the appearance of nonchalance. The last thing they needed was to attract attention by behaving suspiciously, and rubber-necking at the police car would fall into that category. Although there probably wasn't a cop in the city who couldn't recognise Steve on sight, a lot now depended on how alert the officers in the car were feeling and if the truck had been reported as stolen.

The car behind them signaled a left turn and, as smoothly as possible, Steve also merged into the turn lane, preventing anyone in the police car from getting a clear look at his vehicle. However, from the momentary grimace on his son's face, Mark knew that the cruiser was, by coincidence or design, still following them. The suspense grew, swelling into an almost tangible fellow passenger in the quiet truck and, in the absence of visual input, Mark found himself straining to filter through the miscellaneous external sounds of traffic in the hopes of overhearing some kind of clue as to whether the officers were calling for backup or were oblivious as to their identity.

Quickly tiring of the uncertainty, Steve slowed down marginally before the next traffic light, catching it nicely as it turned. Sliding smoothly through on the orange, he left the following cars stranded on red. He waited anxiously, dividing his attention between the rear view mirror and the road ahead, until he was satisfied that the police car had no intention of giving chase.

"False alarm," he announced laconically, but he took a couple of little-used roads to shake any possible pursuit. Mark sat silently, deciding that there was no consolation he could offer his son for becoming the hunted instead of the hunter. The incident sobered him, reminding him how dangerous and unpredictable a situation they were in. Since Steve had returned, almost miraculously, from the dead, his relief and joy at their reunion had prevented him from treating their predicament with the seriousness it deserved. It was not a game, especially for his son, whose career and reputation were at stake.

Mark had decided that it would be safer if Steve didn't approach the vicinity of Community General, and that, furthermore, it would add verisimilitude to his performance if Mark arrived by bus, so Steve pulled into a small parking lot several blocks from the hospital. He parked the car and turned to his father. Mark gave him a bright smile, momentarily forgetting his makeup, and Steve shuddered in disgust.

"What have you done to your teeth?" he exclaimed. "They look disgusting."

"All the better to eat you with," Mark parodied.

"Or not," Steve observed, staring in fascination at the rotten stumps. "Look, Dad. I know it's a great disguise, but these people know you, work with you everyday."

"Would you recognise me?" Mark challenged.

"Not visually," Steve was forced to admit. "But you've got to watch your voice."

"It'll work," Mark stated confidently. "Trust me."

"The two scariest words in the English language and completely irrelevant," Steve returned easily. "I trust you implicitly; it's the bad guys I don't trust."

"It's going to take a while," Mark continued, carefully ignoring that comment. "Emergency rooms don't work fast for non-critical patients. So don't come running to my rescue if I'm not back in a couple of hours, okay? Get some rest."

Steve gave a snort that indicated his skepticism as to the likelihood of rest in the immediate future. "Don't be too long," he requested, "or my hair will also have turned gray by the time you return." Although phrased lightly, the words conveyed the depth of his apprehension, and Mark didn't try to dismiss his anxiety with their customary banter. He reached over and squeezed his son's shoulder in oblique apology before opening his door.

Steve had to suppress his automatic urge to assist the elderly as Mark creakily descended from the cab, already in character. "Be careful," he urged, hating the passive role he was forced to play. A reluctant smile of admiration lightened the brooding expression on his face as he watched Mark's shuffling progress to the bus stop. It was impossible to see his spry father in the laboured movements and arthritic gestures, at least from a distance.

As Mark disappeared from sight, Steve flopped back disconsolately in his seat, resigning himself to several hours of boredom, their misery compounded by his ignorance of Mark's fate. Too restless to contemplate the relaxation his father had recommended, he cast around for some distraction to prevent his imagination from conjuring up disturbing visions. He remembered seeing Mark push something into the pocket of his door as he exited and, with the curiosity of desperation, he scooted over the seat to investigate. The instant his hand closed on the object he knew what it was.

"Damn it," he whispered softly, holding Latiere's notebook as if were a hand grenade primed to explode. Its presence told him that Mark was not as blithely confident as he had asserted, yet he'd still thrown himself with verve into the lion's den. Steve was suddenly seized by the conviction that this course of action was a terrible mistake, and he fought the temptation to go after his father. If he left now, he should be able to catch him before he entered the hospital even though he would inevitably reveal himself to any potential watchers outside. But even as he contemplated such action, he knew he wouldn't do it. Mark believed this was their best chance to contact Jesse and Amanda and arrange for some much-needed assistance and he would, as always, trust his father's instincts.

Frustration at his own impotence coiled inside him, and he slammed a fist into the dashboard. It was a moderately satisfying release of tension, and only the knowledge that beating up on the car wasn't the best way to remain inconspicuous prevented him from doing it again. He swore that the next time Mark embarked on a crazy scheme, he'd accompany him even if it meant dressing up as an orangutan. With a sigh, he opened the notebook and tried to bury his impatience in the challenge of deciphering its secrets.

He really hated waiting.