Chapter Four: Wanted. A Sterile Environment
Bang!
The sound of the gunshot was still echoing through his head as Mark sat bolt upright in his bed, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts and his pyjamas were soaked with perspiration. Forcing his breathing into a more even rhythm, Mark reached out and switched on his bedside lamp illuminating his room in a soft, peach coloured glow. Running his hands through his hair, Mark made an effort to calm his brain. It was a long time since he'd had that dream, he thought to himself. Shaking his head, Mark got out of bed and made his way through to the kitchen for a hot milk. He knew from experience that he would not easily get back to sleep. The dream, as always, was exceptionally vivid. In it Steve was running for his life, although Mark could never figure out from what as the whole scene was shrouded in darkness except for Steve who was bathed in light. Mark knew one thing though, his son was running towards him and it was just as Steve was within a few steps of safety that the shot rang out.
The milk was beginning to bubble in the pan so Mark turned off the gas and poured the warm liquid into the waiting mug. Taking a small sip, Mark walked back through to the dining room. Sitting down at the paper- and photo-strewn table he began to leaf through what was there. He, like Jesse and Amanda, was frustrated at not being able to pick out something from everything in front of him. Mark prided himself on his ability to cut through all the extraneous evidence to the heart of the matter and he didn't like the fact that he wasn't able to this time. It hadn't occurred to him that on most other occasions he had Steve by his side helping, whilst this time it was Steve he was looking for.
Picking up a photograph of Tucker Baxter and, gazing into the young man's face, Mark paused for a moment. Over the years he had come across many murderers and there was a look in the eyes that was common to all of them and it was a look that Mark felt was absent in Tucker Baxter. For a while Mark continued to stare into those young eyes and, suddenly, came to a decision. He looked over at the clock, it was four thirty in the morning, far too early to do anything now, he thought, but he would ring Jim Newman later and get him to arrange a visit to Tucker. He wasn't finding anything in the paperwork, maybe he would get a bit further by talking to Tucker.
Sloans' Deck
Bang!
Steve's momentum, slow as it was, had made him unable to stop the wire from breaking. The gentle snap that it made was almost totally covered by the loud retort from the gun which had been hidden in a nearby tree. Under normal circumstances, Steve's lightening quick reflexes would have enabled him to dodge but, unfortunately, recent events had slowed him down immensely. The bullet tore through the flesh of his right shoulder, ricocheted off the bone and out the back before embedding itself in a tree behind him. The force of the shot span Steve on his heels and he dropped to his knees.
Sloans' Deck
Bang!
"I told you it was a good idea to set that trap," Cletus exulted, as he took off in the direction of the shot.
Taking a deep breath, things were getting far too complicated for his liking, Donald followed his father at a slower pace. Up ahead of him he heard his father crashing through the undergrowth and picked up the speed a little bit so that he could catch him up. He knew his father's temper would have been fuelled by Steve's escape and he wanted to make sure that Cletus didn't do anything irrevocable. Donald emerged into the small clearing to find him standing over Steve with his foot pulled back, ready to inflict a hefty kick.
"Pa, don't!" he cried, "Let's just get him back inside."
Throwing his son a look of complete disgust, Cletus dropped his foot back to the floor.
"Serve him right for tryin' to escape," he muttered, reaching down to pull Steve roughly to his feet ignoring the agonised groan which accompanied it.
"Pa!" again Donald attempted to restrain his father.
He stepped forward draped Steve's uninjured arm around his own shoulder and, slowly, the three men made their way back to the shack.
Sloans' Deck
Captain Newman hadn't been very happy at Mark's request, especially as his phone had rung almost before he was awake, but he had eventually gone along with it. So it was, later in the morning, that Mark was ushered into a small, dingy room. A table sat in the centre with a chair either side of it and on one of them sat a young man in a bright orange jump suit. As the door opened he looked up and when he saw it wasn't his lawyer he said, "Who are you?"
"My name is Mark Sloan," Mark replied.
"Sloan," Tucker replied slowly, "Hey, that's the name of the cop."
"That's right," Mark answered, "he is my son."
"I didn't have nothin' to do with what my grandpa done." Tucker immediately responded.
"I didn't say that you had," Mark assured him, sitting down in the vacant chair, "I just wanted to have a chat."
"What about?" Tucker's tone was belligerent and Mark sighed to himself, the interview was going to be harder than he thought.
"I just wanted to talk to you about Rico Alonso," Mark had just begun speaking when Tucker broke in.
"I didn't kill him!"
"I never said that you did, son," Mark attempted to calm the young man down, "I simply wanted to talk to you."
As if regretting his outburst, Tucker sat back draping an arm over the back saying, "Talk away."
"Actually," Mark responded, "I was hoping that you would tell me something of your relationship with Rico and his friends."
"Didn't have no relationship," Tucker said, "They all were just mean to me."
"Mean, how?" Mark asked, although, having read the paperwork, he was well aware of how.
"They wouldn't leave it alone. That I was in the 'program'," Tucker answered.
"Program?" It cost Mark a lot to appear ignorant of the young man's background but he hoped that it would give Tucker a reason to talk, to enlighten him.
"Special needs," he replied with an irritated tone in his voice, "didn't you know, I'm stupid!"
"I have never thought that young people who are in programs like that are stupid," Mark answered.
An arrested look came across Tucker's face for apart from educationalists, he hadn't met many people who hadn't called him stupid, either behind his back or to his face.
"Why are you here?" he asked again.
Mark decided to be honest.
"Your grandfather, when he kidnapped my son, said that the only way I would see him again was if I could prove your innocence. I needed to talk to you."
"Why?"
"Because I am a very good judge of character, by and large, and I wanted to see you to make sure that I wasn't wasting my time."
Tucker stared into the lined face for a long while.
"I didn't kill Rico," he said at last, although this time his tone was calm and Mark had the distinct impression that he was telling the truth.
"Okay," he answered, "tell me all about the day that Rico died."
Sloans' Deck
Bang!
It was the slamming of the door which brought Steve to his senses. Almost immediately though he wished that he was still out because he became aware of a searing pain in his shoulder. He moaned.
Footsteps moved across the room to stand over him.
"Awake huh?" the voice of Cletus Baxter rang unpleasantly to Steve's ears, "That'll learn yah to try and escape. I just hope your daddy manages to do what we told him before you bleed to death."
"Pa," Donald spoke, "we can't leave him to die. That'll make us cop killers and what good would it do Tucker if we go down?"
"You always were a soft thing," Cletus growled at his son, but Steve could hear that Donald's voice of reason had had the desired effect, "you go and get some medicine to patch him up. I'll stay here and keep an eye on him."
Looking down at the police officer at his feet, Donald said, "Okay, just leave him be, Pa. Okay? I'll be back soon."
Again Steve heard the door slam and shortly afterwards an engine started up and the noise of the tyres on the gravel as the truck he arrived in was driven away.
Donald Baxter had to keep rubbing the palms of his hands on his grubby trousers as they were slick with nervous sweat. He hadn't liked the idea of kidnapping anyone, let alone a cop but his Pa had always managed to talk him into anything. Now the cop was shot and if he didn't look after him they would have a dead cop on their hands. He hadn't had much of a life so far, but Donald didn't particularly like the idea of ending it strapped to a gurney waiting for a lethal cocktail of drugs to be injected into his system. Up ahead of him, he saw the lights of a convenience store. Pulling into the compact parking lot, he got out of the truck and walked inside. Making his way straight to the medicines aisle, Donald picked up some bandages and anything else that he thought might be of use. It was as he was moving towards the check out that he saw the police car pull up next to his truck.