Chapter 13

The clattering of cans thrown into the dumpster woke Mark with a start, and he instinctively pushed himself upright. The resulting "ooof" and strangely yielding nature of the surface against which he braced himself alerted him to his son's whereabouts.

Still blinking blearily, he gazed at Steve. "I didn't know I was using you for a bed," he apologised. A glint of mischief lit in his eyes. "Who knew you could be so comfortable?"

Steve yawned and started a stretch, which was quickly aborted as the movement pulled at his injuries, but he schooled any outward signs of pain. "Well, you make a pretty good blanket, so I guess we're even." He peered more closely at his father's neck. "You're working on some interesting colours there. How're you feeling?"

Mark took a moment to assess his own condition. He was certainly sore from the unusual exertion the night before, and it hurt to swallow, but sleep, brief though it had been, had proven remarkably rejuvenating.

"I feel fi.. great," he stated positively, narrowly missing his son's one-size-fits-all, any-occasion answer, the contrast to his misery of the day before lending credence in his own mind to the assertion.

Steve regarded him with some amusement, recognising his own brand of prevarication. "Would that be, 'I can get up without falling down again' great or merely, 'I'm not actually dead yet' great?"

Mark pretended to give the answer serious consideration. "More like chewed up and spat out but essentially in one piece." He volleyed his son's concern neatly. "You, on the other hand, look as if you were partly digested before being disgorged."

Steve pulled a disgusted face. "That's a mental image I could have done without. Thanks, Dad."

Although Mark joined in Steve's laughter, he was alarmed at his son's gaunt appearance, the younger man's pallor accentuated by both the dark shadows around his eyes and the stubble on his chin.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Mark caught the flicker of confirmation in his son's eyes before Steve looked away, ignoring the question in favor of a quick check outside their shelter for potential threats. Mark's heart constricted and his throat closed up with a sudden surge of love for his exasperatingly protective son, but it was quickly followed by an equally strong feeling of frustration with Steve's complete lack of concern for his own health. It was the latter emotion that caused him to protest gruffly into the vacated space. "You're not indestructible, you know."

Mark assessed his son more carefully as he crawled back into their makeshift lodgings, and closer inspection showed that the lower half of Steve's shirt was stiff with dried blood.

He reached out gently. "You shouldn't have lost that much blood. Let me have a look."

Steve fended off his hand, trying to infuse his rejection with some humour. "I don't think looking is going to do much good, and there's not much else you can do with the dearth of medical supplies around here. Besides, if you try to separate shirt and skin, it'll probably start the bleeding again."

Mark looked unconvinced, but, before he could pursue the matter further, Steve asked him the question that he had realised during the night would be pivotal in deciding their next move.

"How's your foot doing?" Steve tried to sound casual.

Mark flexed his ankle experimentally. "Better than it was last night, but it's not going to take my weight for any length of time," he answered honestly, realising that the issue was too important to sugar-coat.

A slight tensing in Steve's shoulders was the only indication of his disappointment with the answer. "Dad, we can't hide on the streets indefinitely. Although it isn't a bad place to evade the police, organised crime has too many feelers to make it a viable option. All it would take is one junkie in need of a fix."

Mark followed his line of thought effortlessly. "So, we can't both stay but neither can we both go, since hobbling through the streets would make us way too conspicuous."

Steve had rotated the options endlessly through his head, evaluating the pros and cons of each all night. Mark could see the misery on his son's face as he reached the same conclusion Steve had reached during the night. "So, you need to go and arrange an alternate form of transportation for me," he said lightly, trying to dispel the aura of despondency that hung nubilously over them. He had the feeling Steve would be pacing if there had been any room in the cardboard construction.

Steve nodded. "I can see two choices there. I can continue to pursue my criminal career and purloin the first easily available vehicle, or I can go to Pete's grocery for the car Jesse promised. That is less risky but will take more time."

"Don't take any unnecessary risks," Mark immediately responded. "I'll be fine, just sitting here in my cardboard box, resting."

"FINE!" Steve burst out. The word echoed dully in their cardboard surroundings, causing him to lower his volume to a more temperate level. "Based on past experience, I'd say the odds reach almost certainty that, by the time I get back, someone will have a gun stuck to your head. Leaving you alone is like sending an engraved invitation to every criminal and psycho in the city to kidnap you."

Mark smiled at the humour but, behind the exaggeration, he could read his son's very real concern. "There's no reason any one should even know I'm here," he pointed out reasonably. "I'll just sit quietly."

"It's probably trash collection day," Steve muttered morosely. "They'll cart you off to the landfill. Look, will you at least take my gun?"

Mark eyed the weapon apprehensively. "Now that would be dangerous. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot."

"You could try to shoot someone else in the foot," Steve suggested helpfully. "It's not like you have to kill someone. It would just raise an alarm if you were attacked."

Mark had been in the army and knew quite well how to handle a weapon. His concern wasn't even really about taking another life, but he had no intention of leaving his son unarmed. He changed the subject adroitly.

"You know, you really can't wander around with all that gore on your shirt."

Steve peered down at himself dubiously. "I look too much like a murderer?"

"Actually, I was thinking more like a corpse," his father retorted dryly.

Steve pondered the problem. "I could mug someone for their coat," he suggested innocently.

"I think that you should try to find a genuine homeless person and pay them for their coat. Until then, maybe you can find some newspaper and carry it strategically."

Steve nodded, knowing he should leave but unable to bring himself to take the first step. Again, he was faced with the consequences of a decision that every instinct told him was wrong, but he could see no alternative.

For a moment they sat in companionable silence, then Mark jabbed him with his elbow. "Watch yourself. You're the one more likely to face trouble. Remember, anyone could be an informant."

"Yep, I'm off." His voice was tight with unspoken words and emotion as, with a final squeeze to his father's shoulder, he eased his way out of the little den he'd made and walked to the mouth of the alley, half-hoping his father would call him back. He had no trouble finding some newspaper which he deployed effectively, and he soon successfully procured not only a jacket but also a cap, although at a highly inflated price for the filthy, probably infested pieces of clothing they were. He cringed distastefully as he slipped the coat on over his ragged shirt. It had no buttons so he wrapped it round himself, holding it closed with one hand. He'd learnt an important lesson the day before, and hunched his shoulders, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, carefully not making eye-contact with any passerby. He hated the demeaning feeling it gave him and longed to stride out as he usually did, shoulders back, confronting life straight on, but he accepted that his disheveled appearance and subservient demeanor meant few people would give him a second glance, preferring to ignore the existence of those less fortunate than themselves. However, inevitably at some point he would come under the scrutiny of the police, who would not be so quick to dismiss him and he decided it was a safer bet to take the bus across the city to pick up the car.

The driver was thankfully uninterested in his passengers and paid little attention as Steve deposited some coins, making his way to the back of the bus. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, and the newspaper provided an excuse for keeping his features hidden. As a final deterrent to potentially friendly travelers wishing to attempt conversation, the smell emanating from his jacket kept people at a distance. The rhythmic swaying of the bus nearly sent him to sleep, but the fear of detection coupled with worry for Mark were sufficient to counteract the soporific effects of the movement.

As the bus completed its route, Steve decided not to risk a transfer but to complete the journey on foot. He slouched out, resisting the urge to look around to see if anyone was taking an inordinate interest in his movements. His filthy clothes and disreputable appearance seemed to achieve the objective of making him invisible, and he reached Dave's grocery without being accosted. By the time he arrived, he was feeling light-headed and exhausted and realised that only a general feeling of nausea was keeping hunger at bay since he'd only eaten once in the last two days. Lack of sustenance and sleep, coupled with blood-loss, were contributing to his general feeling of malaise.

It wasn't a big parking lot, but he looked around at the cars with some trepidation, knowing that skulking around feeling under mud flaps was a good way to get himself arrested for trespassing, if not for car theft, but Jesse had obviously anticipated his dilemma since he noticed a stethoscope serving as an unlikely ornament hanging from the rear-view mirror of a sturdy, but nondescript, Ford. Resting a casual hand on the hood, he could feel a faint trace of warmth indicating it had been left fairly recently. He walked to the rear and, after a surreptitious look around to ensure privacy, he stooped and found the keys in the promised position. Sliding behind the wheel with a sigh of relief, he wasted no time exploring the intriguing boxes in the back of the car, but set off at once, in a hurry to retrace his steps and retrieve his father.

Steve passed several cop cars on the way, but he was confident that there was no reason for them to be interested in his vehicle, and merely kept his face averted. He was driving mostly on auto-pilot, too tired to think, but, in the absence of active occupation, he couldn't repress the tendency of his mind to throw up disturbing images as it cycled through the endless ways his father could have found trouble. Impatience and worry weighed down his foot, but attracting official attention by speeding would not help Mark, and he made a conscious effort to restrain the tendency to accelerate.

He pulled directly into the mouth of the alley, hoping to be gone before the car attracted comment, and thinking it would be less noticeable than Mark's limping progress to a convenient parking space. There was no movement from within the pile of cardboard as he approached.

"Dad?" His voice emanated as a croak as fear sucked the moisture from his throat. There was no response and, for a long moment, Steve just stood rooted in place, unwilling to take the final step of confirming his father was gone. Then, with a violent sweep of his arm, he knocked the roof off the makeshift shelter. It was empty, and the air left his lungs in a great whoosh, partly in despair, but also in relief, as he realised that, subconsciously, he had feared the silence might have had an even more ominous explanation.

Now the thought had crossed his mind, he looked around in panic, visually exploring the recesses of the alley with frantic eyes, not spotting anything that would alleviate his concern or exacerbate it. He even levered himself up to the top of the dumpster to check its contents, but it contained only remnants of food and other garbage.

Defeated, he made his way back to the pile of cardboard and slid down, his head buried in his arms. He had no idea where to look for Mark or what his next move should be. Every particle of initiative and energy had drained away, leaving him as empty and inert as an ancient, hollow log, while guilt drummed a painful tune on his taut shoulders. He should never have left Mark here alone.

Grimly, he clawed his way back from the edge of despair, allowing his professional training to kick in and analyse the situation, assessing the alley as a crime scene. There was no blood, which was one small drop of comfort in an ocean of bleakness. In fact, the area hadn't been disturbed at all; the flashlight was still sitting upright where he'd left it. Surely, at the very least, his cardboard construction would have been destroyed if Mark had been taken by force.

He dropped his head back against the wall with a dull thud, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together to make a coherent picture, but his brain seemed to have decomposed and they just floated lazily in the mush which was all that remained. Maybe Mark had...

"Steve! You're back!"

The familiar voice caused his head to jerk back, this time slamming into the brick with enough force to make him consider the possibility that his father's face floating above him was some kind of concussive hallucination. Other people might get stars or tweeting birds forming a dancing circle around their heads, he got multiple Mark Sloans.

"Dad?"

It took him a minute to realise that his father was in fact standing on top of the three stairs that led up to the back door of the deli where he had obviously been passing the time.

The worry that had simmered underground finally found its way to the surface and erupted in a geyser of adrenaline that would have put Old Faithful to shame. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" The rational part of his mind was shocked that he'd just sworn at his father but, after the depths of fear he had just experienced, he bypassed relief for anger. However, one look at the contrition and concern on his father's face and his fury deflated like a tire with a slow leak, leaving only exhaustion. He shouldn't be surprised; he was well acquainted with his father's capacity for making new friends instantly in the most unusual of circumstances.

"Just get in the car. We need to go," he said dully.

Mark poked his head back inside the door, calling out a farewell, then hopped nimbly down the steps, using the rail as a prop. Steve assisted him into the car and then drove off in silence for a few minutes. Steve was trying to find the words to frame an apology, but his father beat him to it.

"I'm so sorry, Steve. I really didn't think you'd be back so quickly. Juan saw me out there and invited me in for some food. I thought it would look more suspicious if I rejected his offer, but I was trying to keep an eye out for you."

"It's fine, Dad. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have..."

"Look, Steve," Mark interrupted him gently. "When you were about four years old, we went to a festival in some park -- I don't remember where now, but it was crowded with people. Your mother was carrying Carol and she stepped off to the side to buy an icecream from a vendor. Someone asked me a question and, I swear, it took only a few seconds to answer but, when I looked back, you were gone. Apparently, you'd decided to find your Mom, thinking she'd gone back to the car. Anyway, I was frantic, searching everywhere, calling your name, but I couldn't find you. Suddenly, there you were, skipping towards me, leading a policeman by the hand. You'd done everything right. You'd realised you were lost, found a policeman and given him enough information to find us again. I was so proud of you, yet, I remember kneeling down in front of you and shaking you, yelling something like 'what were you thinking?'"

"So," Steve summarized wryly. "You're saying that it was a perfectly natural reaction."

"Yep," Mark returned, then, after a pause, "For a parent, anyway."

Steve laughed, realising that somehow that said something profound about their relationship if he just had the mental energy to figure it out.

Mark gave his knee a last squeeze and turned his attention to the boxes in the back of the car, pulling one onto his lap. He dove into it with the enthusiasm of a child opening a Christmas present.

Near the top he found a letter addressed to them both. "This is perfect," he said approvingly. "Listen. Jesse says that Dr. Katherine Hart started her two-week vacation today in the Bahamas. Susan is supposed to be house sitting, so she has the key and the combination to the burglar alarm, and what neighbours there are won't be surprised if they see lights, but it's fairly isolated."

Steve didn't want to admit that he hadn't even thought of a destination but was driving aimlessly. This would solve one of their major problems and provide a quiet and safe haven to recuperate and plan their next move.

"Thank God for Jesse," he commented fervently.

As Mark continued his explorations, Steve had another small bone to pick. "So, you've had some breakfast?" he asked casually, but pointedly.

Mark looked abashed. "Well, just a little. There was a cup of coffee and a sandwich and..." his voice trailed off guiltily, and he mumbled. "...a plateofbaconandeggs."

A rumble from Steve's stomach punctuated the silence that followed, and sent Mark diving back in the box from which he emerged triumphantly wielding a granola bar. He unwrapped it and waved it in front of his son's face in the form of a white flag.

Steve regarded it judiciously, allowing them both a moment of unfavorable comparison between his breakfast and his father's before gulping it down in two bites, by which time another had made its way to his hand.

It was a scanty meal, but it went a considerable way to buoying his spirits, as did the prospect of a shower, a bed and a place of safety --- not necessarily in that order.

While he kept a sharp eye out for trouble, Mark kept him amused by inventorying the contents of the boxes. Jesse and his helpers had been busy. He'd thought of everything, from spare clothes to medical supplies, a laptop computer and two cell phones with a text messaging system. He'd also included copies of recent newspapers, complete with journalistic hyperbole and speculation about their case. Mark read a few articles aloud, editing out the more personal attacks and comments.

Dr. Hart's house was as isolated as Jesse had promised. A long driveway led away from the road, and the curvature of the hillside coupled with strategically planted trees hid it from neighbouring eyes. Inside, it was neatly, yet luxuriously, furnished, although at this point a seedy motel would have seemed like the Hilton.

"I need a shower." Steve had his priorities established, throwing his recently acquired jacket and cap in the trash with satisfaction.

"Far be it from me to argue with an undeniable truth," Mark teased, "but you really shouldn't get that laceration wet."

"No, Dad, you don't understand. I need a shower." Steve resorted to wheedling in desperation. "I feel like I'm crawling. This shirt needs soaking off anyway, and I'm sure the blood poisoning I'd get from all this crud would be far worse than any damage I could do."

At the pleading look he found reminiscent of a six-year-old wanting a few more minutes in the bath, Mark relented. "Don't use all the hot water. I'd like one too."

The shower helped relax muscles that had been locked in almost permanent tension for the last two days. For long minutes he simply stood, arms crossed, leaning against the cool tile wall, his head pillowed in his arms as he allowed the pulsing jet of water to massage his lower back. His groans of appreciation were masked not only by the sound of the water, but by Mark crooning an old ballad while he shaved at the sink.

Mark had more than a few words of censure and reproof when Steve emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped round his hips, revealing the most recent additions to his injuries, but he cleaned, disinfected and stitched the wounds with grim deliberation. Then, he wrapped his son's torso using a large proportion of Jesse's generous supply of bandages.

"Dad, I look more like a mummy than a person," Steve protested as he looked down at his chest.

"Well, I'm finished, so now you can go to bed," Mark returned patiently, tucking in the end of the last dressing.

"There's too much to do, Dad," Steve objected.

"Do you know how they removed the brains from mummies?" Mark remarked conversationally. "I could try it, assuming there are any brains to be found."

Steve held his hands up in surrender, although he made no move in the direction of the bedrooms.

"You are listing," Mark explained with exaggerated forbearance. "The Tower of Pisa has nothing on you. Bed, now!"

The corners of Steve's mouth twitched. There's nothing like the strict repetition of that word to reduce a grown man to the emotional level of a child. Besides his father had a point.

"Please, I can't carry you there or even help you. You have to make it there under your own steam and if you wait any longer it's not going to happen."

"You're right, as usual. Just promise me you'll get some rest yourself."

Steve limped towards the bedroom, but soon swung back. "And don't answer the door or the telephone, and don't wander off anywhere. That neon target on your forehead that flashes 'take me, take me' is working overtime."

Securing his father's tolerant promise, Steve resumed his slow progress to what he assumed was the guest bedroom, which contained two double beds. He barely had time to pull up a sheet before falling fast asleep.

When he awoke, he remembered where he was, but he couldn't figure out when it was, and he lay lazily for a few minutes pondering the mystery. Sunlight was pouring through the blinds, which indicated to a great detective such as himself that it was daytime. He had the thick-headed, muzzy feeling that suggested prolonged slumber, his mouth was dry and his stomach empty. All the accumulated evidence pointed to the fact that he had slept through the entire day and night. Satisfied with his solution to the conundrum, he took stock of his surroundings.

The rumpled sheets in the other bed indicated that his father had followed his own advice and slept, but was now up and about. Curiosity as to his whereabouts drove Steve to swing his legs around, the tight wrappings on his torso an unnecessary reminder to proceed judiciously.

As he emerged into the living area, the clicking of keys directed Steve's attention to his father typing at the computer, one foot supported in front of him on a chair. Steve called out a drowsy greeting but changed his trajectory into the bathroom where a wash helped clear his head.

Mark was still intent on the computer when he'd finished his ablutions, giving Steve the opportunity to study his father, unobserved. A good night's sleep had done wonders, and he marveled at Mark's recuperative powers. The frail look that had worried him the night before had gone, replaced by a characteristic determination as he sat absorbed by the screen in front of him.

Deciding not to interrupt him, Steve went foraging for food, an additional 24 hours without eating fueling a tremendous appetite. He was pleasantly surprised to find a well-stocked refrigerator and he guessed, from the nature of the contents, that he had Jesse to thank for his foresight. Twenty minutes later, he regarded two plates of cholesterol-laden offerings with satisfaction. It might not be the healthiest breakfast he could imagine, but after several days of near starvation, he felt entitled.

He carried Mark's plate over to his still-preoccupied father and allowed the delicious aroma of fried food to waft more densely in his direction. He could see Mark's nose twitching in response, but it took a few minutes before the olfactory message could struggle through overcrowded synapses to arrive at his brain. Suddenly, Mark's head started to turn, seeming to almost involuntarily follow his nose till his eyes fastened eagerly on the plate, then traveled up to his son's smiling face.

"You slept well," he commented approvingly.

"Rip Van Winkle's got nothing on me. You hungry or do you want to keep working?" Steve meant the remark humourously, but he caught the slight waver as Mark flicked a longing glance at the computer screen. "You've found something useful." It was more a statement than a question, and he got his confirmation in the familiar twinkle in his father's eyes that dragged an answering grin to his lips. He knew that unique blend of glee in matching wits with a criminal mind, satisfaction in a puzzle deciphered, and mischief in a plan in formation, so he wasn't surprised at his father's next words.

"I know who's behind it!"