Chapter 2
Mark was oblivious to the threat of the cold muzzle pressed against his temple, transfixed by the horror of the scene unfolding before him, the sight tearing the breath from his chest. As a doctor, he knew only too well the damage that could be inflicted on frail bone and flesh. He had even seen the aftermath of a beating on his son before -- the livid bruises and skin split by the cruel force of impact, and it never got easier. He'd cringed with horrified empathy and burned with futile anger at the men who'd implemented such punishment on his son, but he'd never imagined the agony of witnessing such an assault for himself and being unable to prevent it or even shout out in protest at the callous treatment. The cry that forced its way out of his lungs was strangled stillborn against the barrier of the tape across his mouth. The entire situation was light years past unbearable.
He struggled desperately against the people restraining him, his hands twisting compulsively within the metal handcuffs, needing to force the men away from his son or, at the very least, interpose his own body between Steve and his assailants, but with his hands bound he was unable to gain enough leverage to force his way free. He shook with impotent fury and, for a moment, closed his eyes, unable to watch more of the brutal assault on his son's vulnerable body. However, the thuds and soft grunts of effort conjured up as much horror in his imagination as the sight itself, and he suffered through the phantom pain of each blow that landed even though it was obvious Steve had lost consciousness.
Every second dragged by leaden-footed, expanding into limitless limbo, although in truth not many minutes could have passed. Mark abandoned his efforts to free himself, concentrating only on removing the tape adhering to his mouth, scraping his face frantically against his shoulder. Steve's beating was being administered with cold precision; it was an object lesson in obedience directed solely at him. To these men, his son was merely a pawn in a brutal game to ensure his compliance.
Enveloped in the vicarious pain of his son, Mark barely noticed the brief burn as the tape was finally stripped away from his skin, aware only of the freedom to employ at least his voice to halt the merciless punishment.
Pride was irrelevant when weighed in the scales against his son's life, and he would have fallen to his knees and begged without a second thought if he'd believed it would prove effective. The promise of incipient perjury was likewise insignificant under the circumstances and more likely to invoke the desired response. I'll do what you want, say whatever you want, just don't hurt him any more. His voice wavered, as much with fury as with fear, but he hoped desperately it would be convincing either way.
He didn't see the signal from behind to stop, but a boot poised to slam into his son's unprotected ribs was replaced on the ground without completing its mission, and for the first time, Mark dragged in a proper lungful of air, only realising that his breathing had been compromised when the black spots cleared from his vision.
Despite the fact that his legs felt like they had mutated from flesh and bone to rubber, he again tried to rise to move towards his son's inert body, but once more unyielding hands held him down, causing rage to slither through his blood like an amphetamine, lending him new strength.
Please...I need to make sure he's alright. His tone was humble, defeated, not expressing any of the defiance that threatened to explode from inside. It was clear that Steve would pay the penalty for anything other than total capitulation on his part, and he couldn't bear to be responsible for any additional injuries inflicted on his son. His demeanor mustn't deviate from that of the broken old man they expected.
A dark mass interrupted his view, and he forced his gaze up to meet the eyes of their captor, allowing only his very real concern for his son to show and not his remarkably unhippocratic impulses towards the man.
I want to make our expectations clear, Dr. Sloan. Hicks' voice was as cold and tight as a steel wire, ready to slice through any perceived opposition. Tomorrow, Michael Oliver will be found not guilty. I don't care what you have to do to make that happen, but that is the only verdict that will result in the return of your son. A hung jury or a mistrial will be regarded as failure on your part. If you are unable to convince the court, you will not see your son again. His body will not be found, but I can promise you that his death will be painful and prolonged.
Mark forced back the bile that rose in his throat, the image the words provoked all too potently graphic after the recent demonstration of violence. He would think about how to persuade a jury that his initial testimony had been false later, but for now, he had to concentrate on safeguarding his son's future.
I'll do it, he promised, not caring whether his words were true, only that they convinced the man confronting him. he swallowed again, knowing the risk he was taking, before I do, I'll want proof that my son is alive.
A frown settled over Hicks' heavy-jowled face. You do not get to set conditions. He turned and nodded at one of his thugs who, without preliminaries, sank a vicious kick into Steve's exposed stomach.
Mark turned impossibly paler and nausea churned turbulently in his gut, but he schooled his features to firm resolution. If you keep doing that you're going to kill him. Then you might as well kill me too. My original testimony is part of the official record and will stand with the autopsy results and the verdict will be certain.
There was no reaction from Hicks, but also no further retribution, so Mark continued with more assurance. I've said I'll do what you want. But I need some guarantee that you're not going to take him out of here and kill him.
Finally, Hicks nodded grudgingly. What's your cell phone number? Take the phone with you in the morning. We'll call. He leaned closer, his sour breath ghosting in a malodorous cloud around Mark's face. Don't try anything. If you contact the police, we'll know and your son will pay the price of your transgression.
Mark nodded his head obediently, feeling that he had at least won a stay of execution for his son. However, as Hicks signaled to his men to carry Steve out of the room, Mark panicked, suddenly terrified he'd never see his son again and mentally flailing for some way to at least postpone his departure. Wait, please!
Hicks turned from supervising the operation, clearly enjoying the exercise of his power, so Mark elaborated on his plea.
Please, he's hurt. Just let me check him over before you take him.
The Mob boss gave the request due deliberation, though Mark sensed that he was merely considering the relative impact of imagining Steve's injuries versus witnessing them on the father's future compliance.
Eventually he nodded. You have two minutes.
The handcuffs were removed from Mark's wrists, and he was finally allowed to move across the room to drop to his knees beside his son. His hands fluttered briefly over Steve's body, uncertain where to begin then, needing reassurance, he felt for a pulse, breathing a slight sigh of relief when he found it still strong. He started to run his hands gently over Steve's torso, checking for fractures and signs of internal injury. He could feel the heat of deep, palpable bruises and multiple small, oozing lacerations interspersed with larger pronounced gashes. There was too much swelling to be sure, but Mark suspected that several ribs were cracked. However, there were no obvious breaks. It had been a clinical beating by professionals, intended to maximise pain without causing lethal damage.
There was only limited relief in that realisation. Once Steve was taken away, his captors would have little compunction hurting him or killing him when his purpose had been served. Mark had to stop them taking his son, yet for all his vaunted intelligence, he couldn't think of a way to prevent it. He took a desperate stab at a reprieve.
He needs to be in a hospital. There's a broken rib here that could puncture a lung at any time.
Hicks was unimpressed. That's something for you to think about while you're testifying, isn't it?
He nodded at his men to move back in, but Mark blocked their way, shielding his son protectively. Let me take him to a hospital and I swear that I'll still say whatever you want.I need more of a guarantee of your best effort. Now step out of the way, or do you need another demonstration of the penalties for disobedience? Mark's voice was thick with the effort it took to force out the response. If the threat of reprisals had been hanging solely over his own head, he would have tried something, however useless, but, as it was, resistance was worse than futile. He couldn't bring himself to actually withdraw, but stayed on the floor as Steve's body was dragged out from under his hands. He knelt, frozen in misery, watching them leave while his heart tried to hammer its way right out of his chest and follow. He rose blindly to his feet as they disappeared from view, attempting automatically to keep them in sight, but Hicks stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
Stay in this room 'til we're gone and remember what I've told you -- no police and Oliver better be found not guilty.
With a last remonstrative shake, he left the room, and Mark tracked his progress aurally through the house. The minute the front door slammed, he ran for his bedroom, hoping to catch sight of something that would provide a lead to Steve's whereabouts later. A light SUV with lettering on the side was just exiting the drive, but it was too dark to read the license plate.
Numb with dismay, he slowly retraced his steps back to his study, ending up staring down at the small patch of blood marking the place where Steve's head had been lying. It was concrete proof, if he needed it, that the events of the last few hours hadn't been merely the product of a fevered mind. Yet it all felt too horrific to be real, and the deathly silence that surrounded him belied the recent violence that had occurred.
He needed to think, to plan both his testimony and a way to rescue Steve, but his mind had never seemed more unfocused, turbulent emotions leaving him feeling like a breaker-battered shore after a hurricane. The normally comforting ambience of his study was shattered, so he moved into the kitchen in the hopes of composing himself. Mechanically, he prepared a cup of coffee, needing the jolt caffeine could provide. Suddenly, the smell of something scorched impinged on his nostrils, and he recalled the stew that he'd been cooking. He turned off the oven and retrieved the scorched mess from inside, an indescribable loneliness settling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered the plans he'd had for the evening that had turned into a waking nightmare when he'd opened the front door in guileless confidence to be confronted by armed men. They'd forced their way in, tied him up with no explanation, then settle in to wait, and Mark's initial consternation had solidified into dread as he'd realised that Steve was their real quarry.
The Oliver case had seemed so simple at the time; it hadn't even involved any detective work on his part -- a husband not willing to wait for his wife's life insurance and assisting her to a premature end. Lilian Oliver had been a long-time patient of Mark's whose poor eyesight had recently deteriorated to blindness. She was suffering from congestive heart failure and, among other drugs, was taking hydrochlorothiazide, a diuretic and antihypertensive, and spironolactone to help her retain potassium. Like most people taking diuretics she kept a supply of potassium supplements in the house. One day, before leaving for work, Michael Oliver switched her medication, giving her potassium instead of hydrochlorothiazide. The drugs had felt different in her fingers and she had queried the prescription, but he had reassured her and she had trusted him.
He'd callously left her to die, anticipating placing the blame for the mistake' on her blindness. However, even as she collapsed from acidosis, Lilian called 911. They had ultimately been unable to save her, her heart already too damaged to prevail, but before she died in the hospital, she had related to Mark the morning's dosage incident.
It wouldn't be too hard to muddy his own testimony, to claim that in retrospect he believed that he'd misunderstood Lilian's statement or that she was too confused in her last moments for her words to hold credibility. However, he knew that whatever ensued in the courtroom, it wouldn't begin to solve his real problem. Having kidnapped a police officer to corrupt the course of justice, it made no sense that the Mob would just let him go, to bring charges of kidnapping and assault and to investigate the connection between Oliver and organised crime.
After several intense, draining, but ultimately unproductive, hours spent alternatively pacing and sitting, Mark realised that he needed someone to bounce his thoughts off as his best inspirations tended to materialize that way. Steve always provided an excellent sounding board, but it was a role played almost as often by Jesse and Amanda. Considering family circumstances, his choice was obvious and he punched in the well-known number and was soon rewarded by Jesse's sleepy tones.
Dr. Travis here.Jesse, it's Mark. There was a pause, then Jesse's voice rose an octave. Do you know what time it is? It's after 2:00!
Despite the rhetorical nature of the question, Mark could have answered in the negative. Time had seemed irrelevant. Jess, I'm at home. Can you come over?
Something of his agitation must have communicated itself, because the next time Jesse spoke, there was no trace of his earlier somnolence. I'll be right there, he answered crisply. There were no superfluous questions or hesitation, and Mark spared a thought for how lucky he was to have such a dependable friend.
Jesse was as good as his word, making the journey in record time. He may have been restrained with questions on the phone, but they started spilling out of him the moment Mark opened the front door.
Are you alright? What's wrong? What's happened?
Mark was unable to reassure him. Please, come in and take a seat and I'll explain.
He led Jesse into the kitchen and urged him to sit down, turning away from the table to get them both some coffee and to give himself a moment to fight for greater composure and to marshal his thoughts.
Steve's been... he began abruptly, but then stopped, trying to find the right word. Nothing he could think of could adequately describe the horror of watching helplessly while his injured son was torn away from him. They took him, was all he could manage, but the look of devastation in his eyes compensated for the deficiency of vocabulary and shocked Jesse to the point of panic.
Who? Who took him? Mark, what are you talking about?
Mark handed him the mug of coffee then slowly, almost in a monotone, began to narrate the evening's confrontation. The precise control in his voice was somehow more poignant than unrestrained grief, but his agitation was betrayed by his movements as he paced restlessly, tension and distress evident in every motion. As he tried to describe the punishment meted out to Steve, all the words he meant to say dried up and stuck together in a huge lump somewhere between his heart and his mouth.
The lost look in his eyes wrenched at Jesse, and he found himself unable to sit quietly any longer. It was obvious that Mark was still operating on the adrenalin and emotions generated by his ordeal and, as a doctor, Jesse knew that sort of immense stress took more of a toll on the body than running a marathon. He guided Mark to a chair and urged him to relax, gently distracting him from the memories that were clearly consuming him, the sounds and sights of his son's suffering more real and present to him than the soft glow of the kitchen surrounding him now.
Mark sat across the table, slumped in his seat, slightly shaking hands grasping the coffee Jesse thrust into them, lashes sweeping the dark circles under his red-rimmed downcast eyes.
Jesse tried to bring him back to the practicalities of the situation. What are you going to do? he asked softly.
I don't know, Mark replied helplessly. I've thought and thought and I can't come up with anything that will help.Are you worried about lying on the stand? Jesse asked carefully, unsure exactly where the crux of Mark's dilemma lay.
God, no! I'd perjure myself a thousand times over if I thought it would help Steve. However, once I've given my testimony, they'll have no more use for him.You think they're going to kill him? Jesse looked horrified. But he's a cop! Surely they know that if they kill him, they'll bring the whole force of the LAPD down on themselves.
Mark shook his head grimly. Assault and kidnapping an officer would have much the same effect. If they release him, not only are they laying themselves open to those charges, but they're also exposing the link between themselves and Oliver, leaving it open to scrutiny. What's the point of having him found not guilty if he's useless to them?But what about you? Jesse protested. The same reasoning would apply to you, and they have to know that if Steve isn't returned, you'll reveal the whole scheme.I have no doubts that after I've testified, I'm supposed to disappear too -- experience some fatal accident. The words were spoken dispassionately.
Jesse was now about as ashen as Mark. You've got to go to the police. They can protect you and...and look for Steve.
Mark's fist clenched and unclenched spasmodically, but his voice remained controlled. That would sign his death warrant even faster. The police would have no choice but to inform the judge who would declare a mistrial. They couldn't allow the trial to continue knowing that I was under duress to lie, since double jeopardy means they only get one shot at prosecution. If that happens, they'd kill Steve immediately.Wh...what are you going to do? Jesse asked again, not realising that he'd returned to the same question, but that now new understanding layered the query with entirely different connotations. It was no longer a request for information, but an exclamation of appalled helplessness.
Mark took a sip of coffee then replaced his mug on the table, staring at it as if it might hold some answers. I need to play for time. I can't involve the police, but I need access to their records to try to figure out the link between Oliver and the men who have Steve. Maybe I can get some leverage that way. Most of all, I just need more time.When do you have to be in court? Jesse questioned him hoarsely.
9:30. All the other witnesses for the prosecution have testified. The DA was keeping me for last. Jesse looked down at his wrist, but he'd left home so hastily, he'd forgotten to put on his watch. The clock over the doorway supplied the information. That's less than six hours.
Six hours -- three hundred and sixty minutes. His son's life measured in minutes; mute, inexorable increments of time, each relentless but fragile, dragging hope with it as it fell away inevitably into oblivion.
We're not going to give up, Mark said with bleak resolution, allowing anger to shore up determination. I'm not going to let him die. Let's go through it once more.
Jesse obediently starting recounting the facts as he knew them. Oliver is a banker, so he was probably laundering money for the mob.
Mark nodded slowly. That was my original assumption, but now I wonder. If he earns a decent salary through his own job and presumably is benefiting from his association with the Mob, why was he desperate enough to kill his wife for the insurance?Maybe it's the other way round, Jesse suggested. Maybe he owes them money and they want to ensure that he's around to pay it back.That's good thinking, Jess, but for the risks they're taking, there has to be more to this than the debt one man could rack up.Then, as you said, why bother killing her? Frustration rode high in Jesse's voice. From your description, she was likely to keel over from a heart attack at any time.Perhaps once his business with the Mob was completed, he intended to bolt, and he was greedy enough to want the insurance...money...or... Mark's words trailed off slowly, and from the look of rapt concentration on his face, Jesse could tell that inspiration had struck.
Profound relief and a trust, based on proven experience, in the gears in that inventive brain, relaxed the worst of Jesse's tension. As he watched silently, allowing Mark time to fully develop his plan, he wondered idly if it was a particular pattern of neurons that made that intuitive leap so easy for his friend.
he prodded at last, as Mark eased back in his chair, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table.
You're a genius, Jess.Well, of course, the young doctor admitted modestly, frantically casting his mind back to discover something that might have earned him that title, but his contributions to the conversation seemed to lack brilliance.
You always seem to say the right thing at the right time, Mark continued unhelpfully. He leaned forward again, transfixing Jesse with a gimlet glare of blue eyes, and suddenly the young doctor felt uneasy. Instead of the usual good-humoured enthusiasm for a plan in formation, he could only see a bleak desperation that didn't auger well. Jesse's renewed apprehension wasn't mitigated by Mark's next words.
Jesse, we don't have much time here. I need you to listen and to do what I say without any arguments.
This was one injunction that proved impossible to follow, but the arguments Jesse mustered were bluntly dismissed, and an hour later he left despondently on the first of his errands.
Mark tried to sleep, knowing how taxing the day would prove, but his mind wouldn't be silenced, replaying the evening's events in horrifying detail and the ache in his chest only expanded. The darkness seemed to close in around him, trying to smother him, and the house echoed hollowly without his son's vibrant presence. Sitting down at the computer to do more research on Oliver, he wondered how he would manage to stay sane until the morning.