Chapter 3
A deafening shot rang out through the still, night air, and one of the forms buckled and collapsed onto the cold ground.
Am ominous, tall character gazed upon the scene from a decrepit apartment building, a small smirk forming on his terse face. It was all going according to plan.
Listlessly, the dark man turned and sauntered away from the horrifying scene.
He was extremely grateful that he had used a false name, Peter Clayton. Now that Theresa Rumen and her accomplice, Christina Wellman, were dead, nobody could turn him in or find out that he was the one who set these gullible idiots up to this. Not even that fool detective would be able to find him with the name Peter Clayton. Now he had to finish the plan.
Theresa Rumen lay motionless in the middle of the dark alley; Steve ceased all motion, temporarily paralyzed from the shock of the resounding fire.
He glanced at the fallen body, stunned that the shot did not hit him.
"Hey! Steve!" a concerned feminine voice called to him, "Are you OK?"
"Cheryl," Steve choked.
"Yeah, Steve. I can't believe you forgot your gun!"
"Don't remind me," Steve groaned as he trotted over to feel what he was certain was vainly, for a pulse on Theresa's pasty white neck.
"Cheryl!" Steve cried, "She's alive! Call an ambulance and page Dad!"
"I'm on it," she shouted back as she frantically whipped a small, silver cell phone from her denim jacket's pocket and proceeded to carry out Steve's urgent instructions.
Steve's thoughts centered solely on the injured woman in front of him. Although he couldn't care less about this psychotic lunatic, she was probably the only person who could identify this Peter Clayton and end this incessant case.
Steve tore the crimson jacket off of Theresa and placed it over the nasty wound, applying firm pressure to it to slow some of the bleeding.
After what felt like hours to Steve and Cheryl, but actually only minutes from when Cheryl made the call, both distressed co-workers heard the distant wailing of sirens get increasingly louder as the ambulance neared their location.
"How is she?" Steve almost pleaded at Jesse and Amanda when he arrived at the hospital.
"She was in hemorrhagic shock when she was brought in. It doesn't look good," Jesse answered gravely, purposefully refusing to look the older man in the eye and instead staring down at his white sneakers.
"But how is she?!" Steve asked again, impatiently.
"She lost a lot of blood, Steve. She's in the ICU," Amanda also refused to make eye contact with the distressed lieutenant, "I'm sorry, Steve. Was she a friend of yours?"
Steve's annoyed and flustered look turned to a furious and stone cold one.
"A friend?!!" he roared, "She's the one who hired that nut case to try and kill those kids and who did kill Mr. Valentine! She openly confessed to hiring Christina Wellman and mistook me for another guy involved in the murder! The only reason I'm here is because I need to question her!"
"No way!" Jesse mused excitedly, "You caught the killer?! It's about time, you know"
"Jesse! Have you been listening to a word I was just saying? I said she mistook me for a murderer who had hired her to kill Mr. Valentine and his kids. That means that the biggest fish is still out there and if Theresa dies, our chances of finding him are almost zero!"
"Oh!" Amanda exclaimed, her small hand darting up to cover her petite mouth.
"How did she mistake you for someone else?" Jesse asked, bewildered.
"Some people look somewhat similar, Jess! It was dark; it still is dark... She also said something about me wearing your scrubs was one reason she knew it was him!" Steve ranted.
Jesse snorted in laughter, noticing for the first time that Steve was still wearing his now dirty ocean blue scrubs.
This caused Steve to contemplate his appearance. After taking one look at his apparel, Steve blushed a hot pink and mentally kicked himself.
"I see you really like my scrubs, Steve," Jesse taunted, "You can keep 'em if you want. They're already really dirty. I don't even want to know what that is on your, no my, shirt."
Jesse neatly dodged a vicious head swipe from Steve.
"Believe me, Jess. If I could have taken these horrendous things off, I would have. The captain wouldn't let me because he said I didn't have time. Which brings me to another topic: I got a couple little presents from the guys at the station the minute I walked in the door. Any idea who might have been behind it?" Steve asked bitterly, pinning an accusatory glare on Jesse.
"Well I have to go now, Steve! Bye!" Jesse made a hasty retreat down the corridors of the halls, nearly running into patients and staff alike.
Amanda stood near Steve, slowly shaking her head as she watched the younger doctor's evacuation.
"Well, Amanda. I'm going to find Dad. You'll tell me if anything happens with Theresa?" Steve finally broke the tense silence.
"Of course," Amanda replied pleasantly, "I think Mark is in the doctors' lounge."
"See ya," Steve dismissed himself cheerfully and headed to the lounge at a brisk canter.
"Hi, Son!" Mark merrily greeted as his Steve as the lieutenant strode into the small lounge.
"Hey, Dad," Steve replied brightly.
"Steve, did a friend of yours come in to the ER?"
"What?!!!" Steve wailed, "She is not my friend!"
"I see," Mark voiced his skepticism.
"Dad!" Steve whined, "She's Theresa Rumen, the one who killed Mr. Valentine! She openly confessed it to me when she thought I was some nut called Peter Clayton."
"Wow," Mark considered this, "So you don't like her?"
Steve shot Mark his best piercing glare.
"Dad!!!!" Steve complained.
"Ok, ok! It was just a joke," Mark defended himself.
"A pretty lousy one at that," an animated voice called from the hall, "I mean, considering she tried to shoot Steve."
"Jesse... She tried to shoot Steve!!!" Mark uttered.
For making his Steve's father worry, Jesse received another one of Steve's penetrating gawks.
"Dad, Cheryl got there first. I'm fine," Steve tried to reassure his father.
Jesse sauntered into the doctors' lounge and plopped onto the enormous, olive green couch.
"You don't look fine. Just look at yourself!" Mark howled, "Are those... scrubs?! Why on earth are you wearing scrubs? And what is on them?!"
Before Steve could so much as open his mouth to speak, Jesse jumped in and filled Mark in on the whole story, "Oh. Steve spilled coffee on himself and then got water all over him. He had to go to work and asked me if he could borrow my scrubs. I guess he forgot to change at the station."
Steve's demeanor rapidly became menacing as he retorted sharply, "Jesse! That is not what happened, and you know it! Dad, Jesse ran into me with coffee because he says he didn't know I was in front of him, speaking to him! Then Alex ran over and dumped ice water on my head. Jesse insisted that I wear his scrubs. When I got to the station, I was met by my co-workers, some presents, and immense teasing- compliments of Jesse's phone call! Before I had time to change, the captain ordered me out to find Theresa! So, here I am!"
Mark and Jesse burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter at the retelling of Steve's pathetic story; soon, however, it was Steve's turn to chuckle when Jesse lapsed off of the couch and landed on the hard floor with a thud.
"So, do you have any new info on Theresa's condition?" Steve directed his question at the now hysterical Jesse, who lay curled in a tight ball on the floor, convulsing with laughter.
"Uh," Jesse paused and continued his chortling, before maintaining his composure, "Yeah... She's still in ICU. But, there's a good chance she'll make it. And, no, she won't be able to answer to your interrogations right now."
"Are you going to stop acting like an insane maniac and get up off the floor or do I have to pour some water on you to bring you back to planet sanity?!" Steve finally asked agitatedly.
Still slightly chuckling, Jesse slowly climbed to his feet and faced Steve, "You have to admit, Buddy, it is pretty funny. I bet all the nurses will be talking about this for quite some time."
This time, Jesse wasn't fortunate enough to elude Steve's attack and was rewarded with one of Steve's famous head swipes.
"Owww!" Jesse cried, "What was that for?"
"You're the one who forced me to wear these! That's the last time I listen to you!" Steve fumed at the youthful, blond haired doctor.
"Like you do anyway!" Jesse countered.
"I'm older! I don't have to listen to you!"
"So? I know tons more about medical stuff than you do!"
"Jesse, you're a doctor! Of course you know about more medical stuff than I do! And I don't care! But you know nothing about solving crimes, yet you still insist that you help me solve them!"
"Hey! I do know about solving crimes!"
"Uh, guys? Is this a private argument or can I join too?" Amanda asked with a broad grin an her face as she ambled into the room.
She exchanged an amused glance with Mark who was sitting in a small green chair near the table, watching the banter between his son and colleague.
Both Steve and Jesse turned a dull pink at having been caught in such a childish argument.
"I have some good news," Amanda declared buoyantly.
The three men's ears came to attention in anticipation of what Amanda might say.
"Your friend," and at Steve's icy glare, "Err... Theresa's awake."
Steve's eyes sparkled with radiant hopefulness before he made a mad dash for the door and exited the room, nearly tripping over his own two feet.
The three doctors watched his hasty exit with matching, knowing grins on their faces.
Within a few seconds, Steve's face peered back into the doctors' lounge as he sheepishly asked, "Uh... What's the room number?"
"203," Amanda answered smugly.
"Uh... Thanks," he spoke softly and darted towards the elevators.
Fifteen minutes later and Steve ran out or room 203 feeling thankful to escape with his life. He found himself thinking it might have been better off if Theresa had been killed from the gunshot wound, as little help as she was. And to make things worse, Steve had to work a shift at BBQ Bob's that evening.
"Hey, Steve," Jesse addressed his friend as Steve entered BBQ Bob's at closing time, "Did you get anything out of Theresa?"
"She practically tried to kill me when she found out I wasn't Peter. I think the only thing that held her back was the handcuff. She didn't spill a word," Steve answered sadly.
"Hmm. Do you have anything on this Peter guy?"
"Background check didn't turn up anything suspicious on any one of the maybe 20 Peter Clayton's in LA."
"Twenty!?"
"About."
"Steve, we really ought to think about changing our menu," Jesse blissfully changed the subject.
"What's wrong with our menu?" Steve questioned skeptically, not liking where this conversation was heading.
"Come on! We should have Caesar salads and maybe spaghetti or hamburgers or something," Jesse suggested gleefully.
"Jess! This is a barbecue restaurant, not an Italian eatery or fast food place! Our menu is fine!"
"Change can be good. Nobody has to eat the new stuff," Jesse reasoned.
"So are you suggesting that we carry expensive food items that no one will buy?! We don't need to change our menu! What are you going to suggest next, pink walls and polka music?!"
"Pink walls and polka music... Cool!"
Steve opened his mouth to counter Jesse's ridiculous statement, but the shrill ringing of his cell phone cut him off.
"Sloan here," Steve spoke dully into his phone.
"Who is this?!" he demanded after a pause.
Not long after, Steve clicked his phone off and sighed deeply.
"Steve, what's wrong?" Jesse sounded truly concerned.
"I presume the infamous 'Peter Clayton' is the one who just threatened me."
Jesse's expression became serious as he asked, "What did he say?"
"He just told me to stay away from the investigation, and, if I do, I might not get hurt."
A bullet crashed through the front window of the restaurant, nearly missing Steve's head.
"Get down!" Steve cried as several more shots rang out, bullets flying in every direction. Glass flew every which-way, causing a terrible racket and terrifying the two men as they cowered on the floor. Only a few seconds passed before the glass settled, there was a screech of tires, and all was quiet.
"You know, Steve," Jesse commented after the firing had ceased, "We really ought to invest in bullet-proof windows. I mean, how many times does this place have to get shot up before you agree to it?"
"Tell me about it," Steve groaned as still another round of shots whizzed through the air.
Still lying on the cold floor, the pair tightly shielded their faces with their arms, praying that this would soon be over.