Chapter Two: Lemonade & Buck Shot
Cheryl hefted the large box, which contained the Tucker Baxter files, from the passenger seat of her departmental vehicle, bumped the door shut, and started along the shaded walkway that led to the front door of the beach house.
She had always appreciated the peace of the setting. The greenery, which was liberally placed about the property, providing privacy and beauty; the soothing sound of the waves. Combined with the good company of its occupants, she'd thought the Sloan home a perfect retreat.
However, none of those things registered today as she covered the distance in a no-nonsense manner. Today her partner was missing, and she had just been pulled off the team seeking to find him. The reason for the reassignment was the cryptic 'the good doctor wants to start working for the defense'. None of her calmly and logically stated arguments had changed Newman's mind. So she was doing her duty and reporting as ordered with files in hand.
The front door was thrown open before she could ring the bell or school her features. If Mark noticed anything amiss in her expression, it wasn't shown in his sincere, if somewhat harried welcome.
"Oh, Cheryl. I'm glad you're here." He stepped back to allow her entry. Worried blue eyes focused quickly on the box in her arms. "Is that everything you have?" he asked. Though the question seemed innocent enough, there was an anxious quality in his tone that spoke to his level of worry.
"Everything that we could get," Cheryl assured him, her irritation suddenly decreasing. She respected Mark Sloan. Despite his unorthodox methods, she had seen him assist in solving many LAPD cases. More than that, he wasn't some Hollywood dad, or well-to-do father, seeking to manipulate the police department because of his position in society. She knew how close he and his son were. Mark would never do anything to endanger Steve's life. And if he thought looking through the files was going to help Steve, she was willing to give him a little leeway.
"Why don't we put it in here?" Mark reached for the box and gestured toward the dining room table. Cheryl turned the box over into his care, and followed him toward the elegant piece of furniture. A tray containing a pitcher of some cool beverage, a plate of cookies and two glasses sat on one side of the table. Mark deposited the box in the center of the table, blocking the tray, and began to dig out the files, placing one atop the other.
Cheryl settled gingerly in one of the comfortable chairs, and placed her purse on the floor beside her. In spite of the previous mental decision with regard to leeway, the setting raised her hackles again. While other cops were working hard to find Steve, she was doing the equivalent of having tea and cookies at the beach. Hardly what she considered the best use of her time.
Mark paused in his removal of the files and looked up at her. "I know you'd rather be anywhere else but here humoring an old man," he said.
"Dr. Sloan . . . . " Cheryl started, ready to debate the statement, but then held back. There was some truth in what he said, though she would never have put it, or meant it, so harshly.
"No, no, it's all right," Mark assured her, going back to the task of removing the folders from the box. "That's the way Steve is, too. He'd rather be out there doing something. I think there's a little of that in myself as well though it's expressed differently. But when you get down to it, we have the same goal, you and I - to bring him home safely."
"I can't argue with that," Cheryl said. "Getting Steve home is the priority here."
"I was hoping," Mark continued, "that you could work with me. But if you feel that you can't, I'll understand that and ask Newman for someone else. There won't be any hard feelings. You should know though, that Steve highly respects your abilities and so do I. For that reason, I think you're the best person for the job."
Cheryl's brows rose. She hadn't been expecting to be given an out, or such a compliment. Nor was she ignorant of that fact that the good Dr. Sloan was gently manipulating her. But before she responded to the unspoken question, there was something she had to know. "Why even ask for a member of the department? Why not just request the files?"
"It's no mystery, really," Mark smiled. "It gives the appearance of an investigation into Tucker's innocence more credibility. And considering the fact that you and Steve worked the case, you know more about it than anyone."
Cheryl nodded. Those were very valid points. But the desire to take Mark up on his offer to have someone else work with him was still so very tempting. She'd had a lead that she'd intended to follow up that very day if not for Newman's phone call.
Mark's smile faded slowly away, and determination marked his features. "Detective Banks, Cletus Baxter took my son, right in front of my eyes. He insisted that Tucker Baxter did not murder Rico Alonso, and that if I wanted to see Steve home safe and sound, I'd better find some sort of way to prove Tucker's innocence."
"But what if you can't prove Tucker innocent?" Cheryl asked gently. "What if all of the evidence leads you to same conclusion that it led Steve and me to before? Remember you were the one who was going to testify for the prosecution about the violent episode he had at the hospital when we brought him there after we arrested him."
"My testimony was never important to the case," Mark dismissed the point. "I was just one more thing to add to a pile of other facts which were working against Tucker. It really doesn't matter where the evidence leads me. I intend to follow every clue and do everything I can to get familiar with this case. Whatever it takes to show Cletus Baxter that I'm at least trying to do what he's asked. At most, we might find something, at the least, we buy the department a little time to find Steve."
For a moment, Cheryl saw something of her partner in Mark's tense body language. She knew that she had to help him in this quest. She'd have to help him do this his way - Steve would want that. She sighed, then reached across the table and removed one of the file folders. "Hopefully, we won't have to buy too much time," she said as she flipped quickly through the folder and found what she was looking for -- a faded Polaroid of Donald, Cletus and Tucker. The younger Baxter was hardly over five. They were all standing in a clearing in a wooded area, dressed in ragged overalls. The older Baxter held a shotgun across his arm.
She pointed out the two older men for Mark. "As you can see, Donald and Cletus haven't changed much. We figure that they would want to hide Steve some place they felt in control. Through every difficult part of his life, Cletus always ended up back in the woods where he grew up. Based on family history, we think he has a cabin in Dinuba, out near Bakersfield. Unfortunately, it doesn't look as if the family ever really owned it, and the records are spotty. But we've been in contact with the Dinuba Police Department and the Forest Service. They're going to be starting a search for the cabin."
"That's a lot of area to cover," Mark commented.
"Yeah," Cheryl agreed. "But, the forest service does keep track of cabins able to provide shelter. And, for what it's worth, the kidnapping was hardly an elegant affair. They didn't try to hide who they were, and didn't seem to have much of a back up plan. That speaks of spur of the moment decision-making. That could work in our favor."
"True," Mark agreed. "Their methods were a little clumsy, but they were also effective." He looked off, as if reliving the morning's kidnapping.
Cheryl had tried to develop a mental picture of her own when she'd read his statement. But reading words from a page didn't compare to hearing a person's actual recitation of the events. Tone of voice and body language made for a much more vivid recreation.
"Why don't we start there," she suggested. "Tell me what happened this morning."
"Does this mean you'll be staying to help us?"
"Us?" She raised a brow. Though she really should have known that the sidekicks would be along for the ride.
Mark's smile was unrepentant. "Would you like some lemonade?" he gestured toward the tray.
Cheryl responded by taking a glass and inclining it in his direction in a silent salute.
Mark first took a sip, and then sobered as he began to tell the story. "I was in the kitchen, just finishing up breakfast when I heard the sound. . . . "
"Doctor Sloan!" The cup clattered to the bottom of the stainless steel sink as the words reached his ears. It took a moment for him to realize that the call had come from his own driveway. Steve had only left a couple of minutes earlier.
Worry and curiosity sent him out of the front door and down the steps. The sound of an engine running reached his ears, only increasing his concern. But he couldn't see the vehicle as the storage house effectively blocked his view of the rest of the driveway.
"Steve?" he called, his steps slowing as some instinct alerted him to the fact that something was not quite right. "Steve? Are you out here?"
An engine revved and suddenly an old blue Ford truck backed into view. "Don't move another muscle, doc!" Steve lay in the bed of the truck, half collapsed against the rear of the cab, a gag in his mouth. A grizzled looking man dressed in jeans and a pair of coveralls was sitting on the wheel well, and his rifle was pointed at the side of Steve's head.
Mark couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to, his shock was so great. He could only stare, searching for some sign that his son was okay. Then Steve grunted, and began to stir a bit. A relieved breath flowed through his system, and he focused his attention back on the man with the gun.
"What do you want? Surely we can work this out."
"Funny ya should ask, doc. Ya don't know me, but ya will after today. My name is Cletus Eugene Baxter, and this here," he gestured toward the truck's driver, "is my boy, Donald Baxter. Tucker Baxter is my grandson. Now, Tucker, he didn't kill that there boy at that school and any fool shoulda been able to see that. But that bag o' bones, waste of a human bein' public defender ain't even tryin'. I figure he ain't got much reason to. So, I'm here to make a deal with ya, one pa to another. If ya ever wants to see your boy alive again, you're gonna prove that Tucker didn't commit no murder. Ya get my meanin', doc?"
Before Mark could respond to the outrageous demand, Steve made a move, diving toward the elder Baxter. But Cletus had the advantage of higher seating, and not being slowed down by the blow to the head that Steve had no doubt received. Steve's hands were also cuffed behind his back. Cletus simply swung the butt of the rifle, catching Steve in the side. He fell back against the cab before dropping to the floor with a painful sounding thump.
"Steve!" The word was torn from Mark, and he took a half step forward. But Cletus swung the rifle back around in his direction this time.
"Now ya sit right there on that spare tire and be real quiet, boy," he said to Steve, though his eyes never strayed from Mark's. "Else, I might just put a little hole in your Pa to let him know I mean business."
Steve shared a look with Mark before shuffling his way to the spot that Cletus had indicated. Mark knew that look. Steve wouldn't struggle while a gun was being pointed at his father. Cletus Baxter had stumbled on a very effective deterrent.
"Donnie!" Cletus yelled to the younger Baxter, who immediately sprang into action. He stepped out of the old truck and began to put an ancient looking black balaclava over Steve's head.
"Now, do we have a deal, Doc?" the outlaw drew Mark's attention.
"We have a deal," Mark told him.
"I promise he'll be okay, Doctor Sloan." Donald Baxter spoke for the first time. "As soon as you prove Tucker's innocence, he'll be brought back safe and sound. I'll make sure myself. Just --"
"Get in the truck and drive, Donnie!" Cletus cut the middle Baxter off mid ramble. Donald was apparently used to obeying because the flow of words cut off like a faucet. He turned and got back into the truck. Mark's last view of Steve was as the raggedy old pick up advanced down the driveway at a speed that was too fast for safety.
Sloans' Deck
While Steve had fought to make the flimsy old broom remove dirt that seemed to have no intention of being separated from its buddy the floorboards, Cletus Baxter spouted a laundry list of items he wanted taken care of around the old cabin. Steve had listened through it all, silently fuming. When the old coot had fallen silent, Steve looked up mutinously into the man's expectant gaze.
"Didn't your pa teach ya any respect, boy?" Cletus demanded.
Steve bristled, and the words were out before he could call them back. "My father taught me how to earn respect." He was expecting the blow that would follow the outburst, but to his surprise, it didn't come.
Instead, Cletus gave him a measuring look. Then he nodded. "I can admire that in a man. A father should teach a boy the way he should go in life. It ain't always so easy to do the showin' as it is to do the talkin'."
Steve hadn't been sure how to respond to that, so he'd acknowledged the old man with a slight inclination of his head and went back to the sweeping.
"In the future," Cletus got his attention again. "So's you'll know. I'll expect some sort of acknowledgment when I tell you to do something. Ya hear?"
"Got it," Steve bit out, and went on with his task. Shortly thereafter, the Baxters had disappeared outside, while Cletus mumbled something about vittles. The only sound that remained in the cabin was the scrapes of the straw broom as he pulled it across the floor and the inevitable coughing that followed as dust was kicked up around the place. He was pleased to discover that if he used the broom handle, he could reach far enough to open the window shutters and allow a little air and light into the room.
That success gave him an idea. He began testing the boundaries of the chain. The door was out of the question, but with the aid of the broom's handle, he could reach an area beneath some shelving where piles of rusted out pieces of mostly junk were kept. Attacking the remainder of the room's trash left his mind as he searched around looking for something, anything, that he could use as a tool or a weapon.
As he riffled through the items, his mind wandered over the case and how it had led to his present situation. The evidence against Tucker was piled high and wide, but that didn't seem to make much difference to old Cletus Baxter. And the fact that the young man had done little to help himself -- more often than not lapsing into stony silences -- didn't seem to figure into the older man's reasoning either. He just wanted what he wanted.
Steve often tried to look beneath the surface when dealing with criminals, especially the younger ones. In addition, he had been curious as to whether there was anything else to the story of Tucker Baxter than was obvious. His family history hadn't made it easy to prove, neither had any of the evidence. It seemed that Tucker was just what he appeared to be -- guilty of using violence to solve his problems.
Considering the fact that he'd been found with the murder weapon in hand as he stood over the dead, still cooling, body of his enemy, it was going to be pretty hard for anyone to prove his innocence, even Mark Sloan. However, Steve trusted that his father would work out some sort of scheme to try to get him back home again. In addition, in the meantime, he would work on his own plan to break away from his captors.
Unexpectedly, as he looked upward at the shelves, the room tilted. His eyes squeezed shut as he stumbled sideways, catching himself roughly against the log wall. Every muscle in his body seemed to protest the jarring contact. The pounding in his head reached a crescendo and his painfully dry throat protested as a grunt escaped him.
Terrific. As if he'd needed a reminder of Cletus Baxter's love taps. Or of the fact that he'd had nothing to eat or drink since the half cup of coffee he'd managed before running out of the house that morning. Sweating under that hot balaclava probably hadn't helped his hydration level much, either.
But, the spell had been brief, and the world had returned to what was currently passing for normal. He needed to get back to his search.
Suddenly, a loud echoing gunshot pierced the air. He stiffened in shock, waiting in the silence that followed. One part of him hoped to hear the crash of footsteps, the cry of federal marshals, police, or any symbol of organized authority. Another part was willing to accept even evidence that Donald Baxter had come to his senses, and taken matters into his own hands. He was certainly the weak link, after all. But there was nothing. Even the soft background noises of life in the woods had gone.
Slowly the bird song seemed to start up again. He could hear the whisper of a breeze outside the window that he'd opened. But the adrenaline that had flooded his system remained in excess, reminding him that he was at the mercy of a crazy man. He pushed himself away from the wall and moved tiredly toward the spot where the broom had fallen.
It was slightly out of reach. So with a grunt, he went down on hands and knees and stretched an arm out toward it. As he did so, he caught the sounds of booted feet stomping up onto the porch. Before he could convince his protesting body to get itself into a standing position, the door flew open. The shadowed form of the two Baxters stood there, the sun at their backs.
Steve lifted a hand and squinted against the glare just as Cletus' arm swung. Something detached from his hand and flew through the air. It hit the floor with a hollow, slightly squishy, thump before rolling into the side of Steve's shoe. For several moments his mind struggled to identify the object.
"Ain't ya ever seen a muskrat, boy?" Cletus Baxter's voice rang through the dusty air. "We shot and skinned 'em for ya. All's ya gotta do is clean 'em and roast 'em up."
Steve's stomach roiled as the reality behind the scrawny animal became painfully clear. He could do little more than blink numbly up at the two men as they entered the room and closed the door behind them.