Chapter Eight: Out With a Bang

"Is the air too cool for you?" Mark asked the question of his young passenger as he reached toward the air conditioner controls and decreased the blower's intensity. He thought that he'd seen the young man suppress a shudder.

"No. It's fine." Tucker barely glanced in at him before returning his gaze toward passing scenery. Since they had left the lock up, the teen had fallen into silence, only answering Mark's questions with as few words as possible. Mark was at a loss to understand what the trouble was. Back at the facility he had been certain that he'd seen a tentative hope in the young man's eyes; he'd really thought that he had gotten through to him.

"Let me know if it gets too warm, and I'll turn it back up," Mark offered, not wanting to push too hard, but feeling an almost desperate need to keep the line of communication open.

"Okay." Tucker responded, not bothering to turn away from the window this time, utterly oblivious to the effect his lack of cooperation was having.

Mark struggled with the anxiety that ate at him bit by bit. Every moment that passed seemed to increase the urgency that he felt deep within his bones. He needed to be doing something to find Steve. That had been his entire focus since the moment the Baxters had snatched his only son.

And now, he had done as the old man had asked. He had cleared Tucker Baxter, and rightfully so. But the fact of the matter was that he still didn't have Steve back.

He hadn't lied to Tucker -- he hadn't offered to take him in just so that he might help with locating Steve. But that didn't mean that he didn't have hope that he might have some small piece of knowledge that might be the breakthrough that they needed. But Tucker didn't seem willing to cooperate, and Mark found himself in a position that he was unused to. He had no idea what he was supposed to do next.

He continued to steer his car along Pacific Coast Highway, his mind running in circles. The chess board was laid out and the players were all in position, but he didn't know how to make his next move. Somewhere along the line he had lost touch with the rules.

Rules.

The rules . . . .

An inkling of an idea tickled at the back of his mind and he felt the beginnings of renewed hope. Stifling inner excitement, he looked again toward the younger Baxter. "Tucker, how would I get in touch with your father or grandfather?"

"I already told you, I don't know where to find them," was the boy's automatic reply.

"I remember you told me that," Mark replied, expecting that response. He then continued, "But your grandfather said I couldn't have my son back until I proved your innocence. How am I supposed to get the message to him that I've done as he asked?"

Tucker shot him a startled look. Mark thought he also caught an edge of fear before the young man's expression morphed into one of anger. "Look, I said I don't know! Why do you keep asking me? You think I'm lying?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Mark quickly tried to calm him, not wanting to lose ground. "I'm just worried for my son. Your father and grandfather were worried about you and that's why they took him. Now, I need to let them know that I've done as they've asked."

The look Tucker settled on him was completely devoid of emotion or caring; Mark knew when he was being blocked out. He pulled into the driveway of the beach house in silence.

Sloans' Deck

Tucker followed the old doctor up the steps to the big, expensive looking house on the beach. He tried to pretend that he wasn't awed by what he saw him around him, but it was hard to avoid. He only ever really saw the inside of places like this on television.

But Dr. Sloan hardly seemed to notice. He just led him inside, and then down a hallway near the front of the place. "The guest room is this way," he said over his shoulder as he walked ahead of Tucker.

Tucker only half listened as he explained something about towels. He did notice, though, that Dr. Sloan was just as distracted as he was. The edge of guilt that had been flowing at a low ebb since he had been sprung from lock-up drifted higher. The old doctor looked more tired than he had when he'd arrived earlier, almost defeated, like he knew he had a beating coming and that there was nothing he could do but take it.

He knew it was because he was worried about his son. And Tucker really did wish he could help. But he knew what his grandfather was like. If the cop was still anywhere near Cletus Baxter, he was either dead or halfway there. And Tucker just couldn't tell the old doctor that. Better he let him quietly forget about his son.

"There are . . . uh, a couple of things here that you could probably wear." Mark settled a small stack of garments on the edge of the bed. Sweat pants. Jeans. A few shirts. "Although they might be a little long. If it ends up that you're here for a while, we can pick up some things for you."

"You take in a lot of kids?" Tucker's curiosity got the better of him as he looked through the garments. They weren't exactly what he might call Dr. Sloan's style.

A ghost of a smile lit Mark's face. "No, not really. My son is more involved with helping at risk teens. Those belonged to one of the boys he mentored."

Tucker couldn't hide his surprise. He hadn't expected to hear that about the cop that he'd thought was like all the rest. Between what he heard around and the things that his grandfather said, it was hard to have a good opinion of the police. "What kinds of things does he do with them?" the question crept out.

"Dirt bike riding, sometimes working out at the gym, surfing." Mark shrugged.

It all sounded good to Tucker. He'd never had the opportunity to do a single one of the things Mark had mentioned. "He sounds like he was a good guy," Tucker said quietly.

"He is," Mark told him, emphasizing the present tense. "The best."

"Do you have any other children?" Tucker asked.

Mark shook his head and was quiet for a few moments. "I used to have a daughter. Steve and I lost her not very long ago." A frown settled on the old doctor's face. "I wasn't able to find her in time."

"Find her?" Tucker asked hesitantly. That had seemed a strange thing to say.

"She was murdered," Mark told him. "By another --" The doorbell interrupted the rest of what he might have said. He glanced toward the sound and then looked back at Tucker. "Why don't you get settled in and then come out when you're ready?"

Tucker nodded, but remained in the same spot for a long while. It hardly seemed right for a guy like the doc to lose both of his children so close together. His dad was right; no Baxter ever managed to do anything good, no matter how hard he tried.

Sloans' Deck

Heat, stickiness and a bone deep aching seemed to encompass every part of Steve's body. Even breathing had become an effort. It felt as if the overheated air that he labored to draw in and push out had somehow thickened making the action all the more exhausting. But along with the pain and the fever, determination to stay alive burned within him. So his chest continued to rise and fall and he struggled to organize the frazzled edges of his thoughts.

He became aware of a motion and then a buzzing near his ear. Monumental effort went into creaking hot eyelids open to investigate. Rancid breath and bulging eyes in a face far too close to his own startled his overtaxed body into a reactive jerk before he realized that it was Donnie Baxter and that the emotion in his eyes was part fear.

The brief rush of adrenaline sharpened his perceptions and he realized that the buzzing was really Donnie's low whispering. Something about getting to the truck while they still could.

Steve's eyes widened as the words registered. Ignoring the draining weakness, he turned his head and tried to get a look around the dim room. Cletus Baxter was laid out on the floor, the leg iron and chains that had originally been used on Steve, were now wrapped around Cletus' legs.

"He went too far this time. I couldn't let him do this," Donnie's voice reached him, explaining the situation. "I mean to do something right for a change. I snuck up and hit him when nature called from all that shine. He ain't gonna be out for long so we need to go. Now!"

Steve didn't hesitate, lest Donnie change his mind about betraying his father. "Help me up," he said, disgusted at the hoarse nothingness of his voice. He clamped down on the cry of agony when Donnie helped him to a sitting position. He gave the room the briefest moment to settle down before he started on the mountain-like journey to his feet.

The room tilted alarmingly. Steve grimaced as he struggled against the darkness that threatened to take him under, remaining on his feet only by sheer force of will and Donnie's supporting arm. He would not give in to the weakness. He couldn't. Not now.

Sloans' Deck

The smell of food registered and the sound of voices drew Tucker out of the guestroom and into the other parts of the beach house. He heard Dr. Sloan talking to a woman and another man before he rounded the corner into the kitchen and found a small crowd of people. Two men and two women.

The lady cop he remembered, even though he didn't remember her name. One of the men he knew was a doctor, but the other man, dressed in a suit, didn't look familiar at all, even though he had the look of law enforcement about him. The other woman looked at him and smiled.

"You must be Tucker Baxter," she said.

Tucker nodded, suddenly feeling shy with all of the adults looking at him. No one looked like they were suspicious of him, which was the biggest surprise, considering where he was.

"Well, I'm Amanda Bentley," the woman said, then gestured toward the other man that she didn't know. "And this is Ron Wagner. I think you know everyone else. We're all friends of Steve and Mark."

"It's . . . nice to meet you," Tucker said, feeling rusty at being polite. It wasn't often that the necessity came up in his life. Ron Wagner nodded a silent greeting, and the lady cop and the other doctor spoke as well. Tucker was really starting to feel bad about tearing up the hospital and causing so much trouble. He especially hated what was going to happen when they discovered that his grandfather had killed Steve Sloan. They would all be hurt, and none of them would want to have anything to do with him then. Why couldn't he think of something that might help? Why was he so stupid?

"We've brought some food," Amanda continued, interrupting his thoughts. "Why don't you help me clear off the table so we can have a place to put it?"

"Okay," Tucker agreed. It was the least he could do. He heard the background buzz of the others talking, sharing worries and updates while he followed Amanda into another room. It had big glass doors which opened out on a balcony that overlooked the ocean. The sun was beginning its descent.

"We should put all of these things into that box," Amanda said and gestured toward the cardboard container on the floor in the corner.

He turned back to the dining room table. It was covered with papers and folders and pictures. He began to stack them up and put them in the box as Amanda was doing. One item caught his eye. It was a photograph sitting in the center of the table. It was of him, his father and grandfather up in the woods near the cabin. He remembered the day that the picture had been taken vividly. It was one of the very few good days that he'd shared with his grandfather.

Amanda came around the table and looked at the picture with him.

"I shot a deer that day," he told her, remembering how proud Cletus Baxter had been.

Amanda grimaced slightly. "Did you go there with your father and grandfather a lot?"

"No," Tucker shook his head. "Not too much. It's pretty far away from everything. Most people can't even find it."

"Do you think your dad and granddad would take Steve there?" Amanda asked.

"Well, yeah, it's--" Tucker broke off, his eyes widened. "I can show you how to get there . . . " The words were barely out of his mouth before Amanda grabbed his hand and brought him back to the kitchen. She quickly explained that he knew where the cabin was.

Suddenly everyone was moving at once. The food was completely forgotten as the lady cop and the guy whose name was Ron both brought out cell phones. Mark began giving orders of things that should be gathered; Amanda and Dr. Travis hurried off to get them. Tucker himself was charged with gathering bottles of water from the cupboard.

Within minutes they were all bundled into an SUV and Tucker became the center of attention as Ron, who he discovered was an FBI agent, began to coordinate a helicopter, the forest service and the Dinuba county sheriff's office. As he looked at the map that was shoved into his hands and recognized the familiar landforms, all he could think was that maybe, for once, a Baxter could do something right.

Sloans' Deck

They were almost to the door when Donnie heard the sounds that he'd feared. His father was coming around. They quickened their pace and made it another few steps before that hated, rage-filled voice filled the room. "Where do you think you're goin', boy!"

Donnie halted in his tracks - he couldn't help it. He'd been obeying the old man all of his life. It was second nature to him. But then, after a quick glance at his wavering co-conspirator, he reached for the handle and opened the door. Sloan didn't have much left in him and he meant to get him back to his pa. All they had to do was step on outside. He'd work out what to do about his own father later. The old man wasn't going to take kindly to being hit over the head and chained.

"I said, stop right there!" The chain rustled as Cletus moved around on the floor. "Or I'll drop ya where ya stand!"

He stopped. The sound of a rifle being cocked sent a cold shiver of fear down Donnie's spine as the unwelcome memory of setting the rifle on the floor when he'd went to wake up Sloan washed through his mind. He'd left it there when he'd helped the other man to his feet. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He should have moved it farther away. But at least he could still feel the reassuring weight of Sloan's gun and holster strapped onto his jeans.

"Now, turn 'round and take yer punishment like a man!" Cletus' biting words sounded in the tense silence of the room.

He shot another look toward Sloan, who looked more alert than he had in a long time. With slight acknowledgement in clear blue eyes, they turned slowly as one to face the old man. Half way around, several things happened at once.

He felt as Sloan grabbed the gun from the holster at his side. He saw the intent in his father's eyes as he made the small movement and directed the gun toward Steve, ready to pull the trigger. Instinctively, he shoved his body's weight into the cop's side, seeking to push him out of harm's way.

Two loud, reverberating bangs sounded in the room. He saw the shock that lit his father's face as a bullet slammed into him. He figured that it mirrored his own as the pain began to blossom in his side. Suddenly, his legs went weak. He barely had time to register his father's final collapse, or the faint, vaguely familiar beating whir before the world faded to black.