Chapter 18
Chief Masters escorted Mark Sloan back to the ground floor of the hotel. The doctor's ankle had given way entirely, so the Chief was, of necessity, supporting him. However, as they emerged into the confusion of pulsing lights reflecting off the walls from emergency vehicles and the flashes from the journalists' cameras, Masters unwound Mark's arm from his shoulders and called over one of his subordinates.
"Kaczinski, place Dr. Sloan under arrest - suspicion of murder, and aiding and abetting a fugitive."
Mark stared at him in stunned confusion. "What?... No!... I didn't..." The blood still smearing his cheek contrasted with the pallor of his face, which stood out starkly in the flashing lights of the cameras as he protested over the familiar drone of his rights being read. He paled further as cuffs were placed on the wrist already bruised by his son's frantic grip.
The flinch didn't escape Masters' attention. "Dr. Sloan needs medical attention. Kaczinski, escort him to Community General. Walters, go with him."
Mark was hustled into a waiting ambulance, and the vehicle moved off slowly, hindered by the thick crowd of people. On the journey to the hospital, he tolerated the ministrations of the paramedics, suppressing what he knew was irrational guilt that his minor injuries were receiving treatment while his son's severe lacerations and gunshot wounds were almost certainly being neglected. His emotions were spinning uncontrollably, like tumbleweed scattering seeds before the wind, perpetually revolving around the desolate landscape of his mind.
He longed for some privacy to regain his composure, but that was impossible in the crowded confines of the ambulance. The two stolid policemen watched him impassively throughout the examination, and even the impersonal concern of the paramedics grated on his nerves.
The situation didn't improve as he arrived at the hospital. The news of his arrest had quickly spread through the journalistic community, and they crowded around, shouting out impertinent and hurtful questions, as he was wheeled into the emergency room. When those questions touched on his son, it took all the restraint of which he was capable to prevent himself from putting the record straight, clearing those misconceptions and his son's name.
There were more hospital staff around than strictly necessary, curiosity obviously leading them to gawk idly. However, the only two faces that Mark really noticed were those of Jesse and Amanda, and the sight of his two loyal friends lightened his aching heart.
The mounting fury in Jesse's usually cheerful face cleared the room of extraneous personnel, and then he turned on the accompanying officers.
"Remove those cuffs, right away!"
Kaczinski ventured a protest. "Dr. Sloan is under arrest.." but Jesse overrode him.
"And is clearly going nowhere. Get them off him now!"
When the restraints were removed, Jesse's physician's eye caught Mark's wince, and he gently caught hold of the older doctor's arm, examining the severe bruising. "Who did this?" He turned on the cops, clearing willing to take them on if Mark's response warranted it.
"It's a long story, Jess," Mark said wearily. "I think my ankle's broken too."
Jesse rounded on the two officers again. "As I said, he's clearly going nowhere. Wait outside while I carry out the examination."
With a confirming glance at each other, the cops acceded. "We'll be outside the room."
As the door closed quietly behind them, Amanda and Jesse both turned expectantly to Mark, concern apparent. "Where's Steve? Is he okay?"
Mark shook his head bitterly. "No, he's not; he's hurt and Canin's men have him."
Fine tremors coursed through him, and he looked so helpless that Amanda pulled him into a hug. For a moment, he allowed himself the comfort of her embrace, but then, with an gentle pat to her arm, he pulled away.
"Jesse, I'm alright. Please, just take me to x-ray. We'll have the chance to talk later."
Jesse shook his head. "Mark, you look like you're on the edge of collapse. If I breathe on you, you'll topple over. I'm going to give you a thorough examination."
Jesse felt the change under his fingers as if Mark had called on unknown reserves to refute the accusation, and the hand that caught Jesse's arm had a strong grip. "Steve doesn't have much time."
Jesse saw the intensity of desperation in his friend and mentor's eyes and compromised as far as he was able. "I'll work as quickly as I can," he said gently but firmly.
Recognising that the young doctor was adamant, Mark submitted with as good a grace as he could muster, summarising the events of that night while Jesse worked.
Jesse kept his promise to be as quick as possible, but found it difficult to concentrate during Mark's narrative. The older doctor spoke in a near monotone, over-compensating in his effort to control his wayward emotions, but, by the end, his composure was buckling under the strain of recalling his son's injuries and the manner in which they had been received. Hair-line cracks in his self-control widened to fissures through which his despair and anguish bled poignantly.
As Jesse suspected, Mark was suffering mostly from exhaustion and stress. He dressed the cut on the older doctor's face, and then they took him down to X-ray. On their return, they found Masters waiting, and Jesse immediately went on the offensive.
"Chief Masters, is it departmental policy to cuff people with broken wrists, because such conduct is reprehensible, in fact I would say actionable?"
For a second, there was a flicker of emotion in the Chief's impassive face, but then it was gone, and he merely responded sardonically. "If I had known the Doctor's wrist was broken, I would not have ordered handcuffs, but that knowledge was not made available to me."
Deprived of a convenient target, Jesse deflated somewhat then rallied to report, "Well, Dr. Sloan has a broken wrist, a broken ankle and many other contusions besides. He's also suffering from extreme exhaustion."
Masters inclined his head. "Then, he may stay in the hospital until such time as, in your opinion, Dr Travis, he is ready for transfer. But I need to talk to him now."
"He's in no condition..." Jesse started hotly, but Mark interrupted.
"It's okay, Jesse, I don't mind; although there's nothing useful I can tell him."
They made Mark comfortable on the bed then, as Jesse started the cast for Mark's ankle, Masters commenced his interrogation, standing at the foot of the bed, his two men behind him by the door.
"Dr. Sloan. Can you tell us the whereabouts of your son?"
"I don't know where he is." The bleak tones carried conviction and, after a pause, Masters changed tacks.
"I believe you have in your possession a notebook, handed to you by Elise Latiere, that was the property of her husband, Robert Latiere. I would like you to hand that notebook to me now." It was politely phrased, but held an implacable edge.
Mark blinked up at him obstinately. "I don't know what you're talking about. Elise gave me photos, nothing more."
"Dr. Sloan, your cooperation in this matter could go a long way to reducing the charges currently held against you and your son."
"I don't have a notebook. Search me if you like." Mark closed his eyes, signaling the discussion was at an end.
"Dr. Sloan..." This time, Masters' voice held a decided tone of impatience.
Jesse got to his feet, his hands still dripping from the plaster of Paris. "Okay, that's enough. Dr Sloan is not a young man and has been through a terrible ordeal. I said questions were allowed, not browbeating. Besides, if you have any more 'questions' I think his lawyer should be present, don't you?"
Masters eyed Jesse inimically for several seconds, but then gave a curt nod and led his men out of the room, pausing to give them directions. "No one is to go in or out of this room except for essential medical personnel, understood? I'll make sure you're relieved at 0600."
As the friends were left alone, Mark looked across at Jesse with a wounded expression. "Not a young man?" he queried mournfully, with a ghost of a smile.
"Believe me, only someone who didn't know you very well would fall for that line," Jesse said fervently. He completed the cast on Mark's ankle and gently took hold of his arm. "You have a Stage Two lunate fracture in your wrist, so I need to immobilise that too."
As he finished, Jesse looked down at his friend, concern easy to read in his expression. "You need to get some rest."
Mark nodded. "Thank you both." He squeezed Amanda's hand gratefully. Her dark eyes were luminous with worry.
"Are you sure I can't stay?"
"I'll be alright, honey." He smiled encouragingly.
As they left, he relaxed into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as he allowed himself a moment of unguarded reaction in the first solitude he'd experienced since Steve had disappeared.
It didn't take long before it dawned on him, however, that privacy was overrated and came at the price of a deficit of distractions. His entire body ached with exhaustion and worry, but sleep was out of the question. He lay helplessly while the fate of his badly injured son was unknown, and it was the worst torture he could have envisaged. The doctor in him informed the frantic father of the innumerable unpleasant consequences of gunshot wounds going untreated.
He was even denied the outlet of pacing, forcing his mind to compensate for the unnatural stillness of his body. Fear shaped him as he lay there, sculpting his heart, wearing him down like wind and acid rain on limestone, leaving only the pure, elemental core of a father's love.
He knew he held his son's life in his hands as surely as Steve had earlier held his, and, just as his son's grasp had never faltered, neither could he now. He had to remain vigilant, refining his plan and staying flexible in the face of developments.
A new day dawned, and soon the sun threaded through a gap in the blinds, searing a hole in the centre of his forehead as he shifted restlessly. He feigned sleep as a nurse came in to check his vital signs, then after her departure, picked at the breakfast that had been brought, knowing he needed the energy food would provide, but unable to summon any appetite.
He watched the clock on the wall, every second grating in its passing, an abrasive grain of sand trickling through the hour-glass as hope tipped inexorably to despair. Eventually, he turned on the TV, tuning into a Spanish channel, wanting the sound of human voices but not feeling up to the effort of following conversation.
It wasn't until after lunch had arrived and departed entirely untouched that Mark felt a vibration from the phone he had planted against his thigh. Fumbling in his haste to answer, he finally got it to his ear.
"Steve?" The desperate hope spilled unbidden from his lips even though he knew the chances were vanishingly small that his son could have retained his phone and initiated contact.
"Your son is unable to come to the phone right now, Dr Sloan." The voice at the other end was low and hoarse. It didn't sound like the man was deliberately disguising his identity, but it was an unusual timbre, not one Mark recognised.
"Is he alright?" Mark's own voice was high with anxiety.
"He seems to be feeling distinctly unwell, which may be of grave concern to you but is a matter of complete indifference to me. Now, I have something you want, and I believe you have something of mine. I suggest a trade."
Faint hope flared inside Mark and he strove to keep his voice steady and not betray his eagerness. "I just want my son back; I don't care about the notebook. What do you want me to do?"
"I'll set up an exchange, and you will do exactly what I say." The tone was uncompromising and icily menacing.
"Look, I'll do whatever you want," Mark reassured him hastily. "But I'm under arrest with two cops at my door and I've also got a broken ankle." He tried to sound more helpless than he was, wanted to build up the enemy's overconfidence.
"I'll take care of the details. Sit tight for now; you'll know when the time comes to make your move. But don't even think of involving the cops, or I'll mail your son back to you in little pieces." The last words were spat out with venom, carrying total conviction, and Mark's stomach lurched nauseatingly at the threat and the mental image it evoked. His subsequent protest was weak.
"Wait! How do I know you aren't going to take the notebook and kill us both anyway?"
His interlocutor sounded coldly amused. "You have no choice. But I'll give you all the time you want to think about it...oh wait! I don't think your son has the luxury of time."
Mark really hated the smug cruelty in the voice and didn't trust him an inch. He tried to sound firm in his counter-demand. "I want to talk to my son. I need to know he's still alive."
"That can be arranged, but don't try anything funny, or your son will pay."
There was silence for a few moments then he heard a voice, perilously weak, but still recognisably Steve's. "Dad?" It picked up strength for one desperate command, "Don't!"
The solid thud of a fist hitting flesh reached Mark clearly down the phone, meant as a reprimand and a warning, causing Mark to cry out in anguished impotence. "No, don't hurt him!"
The roiling awareness of his son's suffering encompassed his whole focus, driving away the consideration of his own precarious position. He'd forgotten the guards outside his door, but his loud outburst alerted them. Mark barely had time to tuck the phone under the covers, concealing the abrupt movement by lurching into a sitting position before a burly man he didn't recognise poked his head in, asking with admirable concern, "You okay, Doc?"
"Just a nightmare." Mark offered him a weak smile.
"You want me to call someone?"
Mark waved off the kind offer. "I'm fine, thank you."
As the door closed, Mark hurriedly pulled the phone back to his ear but the connection had been cut, and only a dead silence greeted him. He leaned back weakly into the pillows. 'Nightmare' was correct as, for a moment, he surrendered to the horrific image of his sorely injured son receiving more abuse. He felt like a fish impaled and gutted by a spear and savagely yanked out of his environment, left to flop uselessly on the alien ground, gasping futilely for breath.
This contact was what he'd hoped for and planned for, but the casual brutality meted out to his son reminded him that he wasn't in control of the situation, and that the enemy weren't puppets dancing to his tune. He had set a roller-coaster into motion, but they knew the track better than he did and could change the points, adding extra loops and curves or merely derailing the cars altogether, and his son, traveling without a seat belt, would be the first casualty.
Mark fought desperately to think clearly enough to generate improvements to his plan that would enhance Steve's chances of survival, but his mind still floundered at the acute awareness of the fragility of his son's life, leaving him reeling with helpless anger and fear. But now he also had hope, and it enveloped him like his own skin, the only thing holding him together; without it, everything would spill out and shatter into tiny pieces.
In the loneliness of his room, he waited.