Chapter Four: Contrasts

Steve sat hunched over the meager portion of instant oatmeal that was his breakfast, attempting to divert his thoughts from the discomforts of his situation with sardonic comparisons to an old-fashioned prison diet of gruel and water. He was propped awkwardly sideways against the wall, prevented by the fiery throbbing in his back from a normal recline against the rough wooden surface, but, conscious of his half-formulated plan from the night, desirous of presenting an image of someone too weak to even sit unsupported. Unfortunately, he was forced to concede ruefully that that image was reflective more of reality than pretense; in addition to the agony of his gouged and lacerated back, every muscle in his body seemed bruised and aching, and the mere act of spooning his food to his mouth seemed to require more energy than his usual morning jog.

Despite his physical discomforts, Steve was grateful for the momentary respite he was experiencing from Cletus' malevolent attentions. Cletus was outside devising booby traps and alarms to plant along the road and path leading to the cabin to ensure that the Baxters would have advance warning of anyone who might be approaching their hideout. Steve had gathered from their conversation that Cletus was less concerned with the possibility of a rescue attempt than with the possibility of someone straying by. Steve wasn't sure if he was more disturbed by the older Baxter's maliciously smug certainty that this place couldn't be connected to him or by his contemptuous disregard for the damage his traps might do to an innocent wanderer. He could only hope that, wherever they were, there wouldn't be any kids likely to come hiking along to stumble unwittingly into the path of Cletus' brutality.

Grimly recognizing that there was nothing he could do to help anyone else in his current situation, Steve decided that his first priority was to ensure that he managed to survive that brutality himself. Cletus was obviously intent on literally beating him into submission, and Steve was forced to accept that, considering his already weakened condition and the disadvantages of being outnumbered, unarmed, and physically restrained, further attempts at defying his tormentor's commands would only result in him being so incapacitated that any escape would be completely impossible. Reluctantly, therefore, he concluded that his best plan would be to appear to be sufficiently cowed and weakened that his captors would not feel it necessary to inflict any further significant injury, allowing him time to heal enough to take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself to get away.

That it was imperative that he manage to free himself Steve did not doubt. He had had ample opportunity during the long, pain-filled night to consider the alternatives. He knew that his father would be using all his considerable ingenuity and resourcefulness to come up with a way to get him back, but Steve didn't see how he could possibly succeed. Having investigated the case against Tucker, Steve was convinced of the boy's guilt – which pretty much ruled out the possibility of Mark proving him innocent. And Steve was under no illusions that the police or the DA would agree to releasing the teen merely to save a detective's life; Steve himself would not have approved of such an action. Not to mention the fact that Steve didn't believe that Cletus had any intention of freeing his captive even if his demands were met. The Baxters were now guilty of kidnapping and assaulting a police officer, as well as more minor offenses, such as interfering with an investigation, obstruction of justice, extortion, etc. And since there was no doubt either of their identity or culpability, Steve really didn't think they'd leave him alive to serve as principal witness, especially considering the senior Baxter's total disregard for law or life. No, being released did not appear to be a serious option.

That left only the possibilities of rescue or escape. Steve didn't hold out a great deal of hope for a rescue either, however. His father's first priority, having been issued the ultimatum of clearing Tucker or losing his own son, would be to look into the case and see if there was anything that might conceivably support the idea that the boy was innocent. If anyone could find such indications in what otherwise appeared to be an open-and-shut case, Steve knew it would be Mark. However, the process of reviewing all the existing evidence and testimony, and searching, however determinedly (not to mention desperately), for a new solution to the case, would be a time-consuming one. And not only was Steve not sure how long he would last in this captivity – even if he were capable of sustaining the impression of beaten submissiveness well enough and long enough to avoid the potentially fatal injury Cletus' uncontrollable anger was quite capable of inflicting – he seriously doubted that Cletus would patiently endure a protracted investigation. Baxter was quite likely to take out his impatience on Steve, probably resulting in permanent injury or death for his captive – an outcome that Steve found totally unacceptable.

Of course, the other factor that rendered waiting for rescue unacceptable was the knowledge of what this situation had to be doing to Mark. Steve knew that the emotional anguish his father was experiencing had to rival his own physical agonies. Mark could not actually know the degree of abuse his son was suffering, but he was neither stupid nor naïve. The Baxter family history was littered with episodes of violent rages; despite Donald's assurances to the contrary, Mark would know that his son was likely to become the victim of one or more of them before this chapter ended. And added to the concern and anguish over Steve's physical pain, which parental affection would more likely exaggerate than minimize in imagination, would be the inevitable guilt that the Baxters had dumped on him by predicating Steve's survival and condition on Mark's success at an impossible task. Steve knew what it would do to his father if he failed to survive this mess; he refused to let that happen.

The squeaking of the cabin door opening interrupted Steve's musings, and he tensed automatically in anticipation of whatever blow or punishment Cletus would undoubtedly inflict for the crime of 'dawdling' over his breakfast. However, Donald entered alone, automatically swinging his rifle in Steve's direction as the captive struggled to rise to his feet. Steve froze, spreading his hands placatingly, holding the bowl slightly in front of him to indicate that he was merely planning on bringing it to the rudimentary sink. Donald relaxed a little and waved the gun in a gesture indicating that Steve should proceed. Steve painfully straightened, grimacing as his muscles and back protested the movement, and stiffly maneuvered himself over to the sink, washing out his bowl and putting it away without comment.

"You'd best get to cleaning those windows," Donald ordered, casting a nervous eye towards the door. "Pa's going to expect to find 'em all done by the time he gets back."

Steve resolutely tried to keep his voice uninflected as he looked around for any cleaning supplies and asked, "What am I supposed to clean them with?"

"You grab a bunch of those old newspapers," Donald instructed, pointing to box of ancient, yellowing paper sitting to the side of the fireplace. "I'll get the ammonia." As Steve gathered a supply of the papers, Donald went outside and returned in a moment with a small pail of water into which he splashed a generous dollop of ammonia. Steve was mildly amused to note that his captor kept a wary eye on him as he poured the ammonia, careful to maintain a safe distance. The precaution struck him as distinctly unnecessary, since even if he were capable of moving swiftly enough at the moment to grab the ammonia with the intent of disabling his opponent by splashing it in his eyes, he wouldn't be able to go anywhere – he was still chained to the wall. And he had learned yesterday that succumbing to the urge to lash out at his captors before he had a real chance to escape would only cause him further agony and would hinder his chances to actually get away. So Steve accepted the cleaning solution with apparent docility and turned to begin the task of cleaning away years of crusted-on grime and filth.

As he dipped the newspaper in the ammonia solution and rubbed it across the window, smearing newsprint all over his hands in the process, Steve had a sudden flash of memory of himself as a very small boy watching his mother clean windows in the same way. There were no convenient spray bottles of already-formulated window cleaner back then, and his mother had claimed that cloths left too much lint behind. He still remembered trying to help, only to discover that for each bit of window he cleaned, he left ink-smudged handprints covering the surrounding surfaces. Crestfallen by discovering that his attempts to help were only resulting in more work, he had been bordering on tears, only to be distracted by his father, who had solemnly told him that Mommy had been specially trained in this particular procedure, but that they had a special job that they could really use his help with. He had then been diverted to helping his father measure and cut shelving paper with which to line the kitchen cabinets, and he had been very proud of the resulting, somewhat uneven, slightly jagged-edged results. His parents had actually left that paper lining the cabinets for several years before replacing it, too, he thought, remembering with affectionate gratitude their sensitivity to his feelings and their gentle encouragement of whatever he tried to do.

The contrast between the love and support he had always known from his parents and the harshness and abuse that characterized the relationships between the generations of Baxters was as stark and vivid as between the warm brightness of a tropical afternoon and the frigid darkness of an arctic night. The idea of his father deliberately harming him in any way was completely inconceivable. Even at his most rebellious and defiant stages of adolescence, when the temptation to smack him must have felt almost irresistible, he thought, his father had never laid a finger on him. Mark was quite capable of finding alternative means of discipline, Steve reflected with a brief flash of rueful humor, recalling some of his dad's more creative punishments. But never had Mark failed to make clear that it was the behavior, not Steve himself, that was unacceptable. His hold on his son was not one of fear or even of obligation, but a mutual love and respect that survived all aggravations, misunderstandings, and conflicts.

The sharpness of the pains that flared along his back provided first-hand experience of the very different approach Cletus Baxter took toward ensuring that his family's behavior was acceptable to him. His methods were as different as his motivation; he was not concerned with providing guidance but with maintaining control, and his weapons were fear and pain. And just as the pattern of trust and respect between Steve and Mark continued and grew into his adulthood, so the pattern of fear and submission continued with Donald and Cletus. Surreptitiously observing Donald as he scrubbed at the windows, Steve noted that the younger Baxter seemed to be uncomfortable with his role as jailor, making an occasional aborted movement as if to help when Steve had a hard time opening a particularly resistant window, his muscles and back protesting the strain, causing him to wince as pain flared sharply, but always pulling back with that furtive, nervous glance toward the door. Apparently, Donald was of a more humane disposition than his father, but was either sufficiently afraid of him or sufficiently habituated to submitting to his orders to be unwilling to go against him.

On the other hand, Steve reflected, Donald's obvious discomfort with his father's brutal treatment of their hostage might indicate that there was a chance of establishing some sort of a rapport with him. As Donald poured himself a cup of coffee, Steve asked with careful casualness, "Mind if I have a cup? Or is that against the rules?"

After a momentary hesitation, Donald shrugged and poured a second cup, bringing it over to Steve. He watched as Steve carefully stretched before taking the beverage, easing his aching muscles.

"If ya just do what Pa wants, it'll save ya a lot of hurt," he said gruffly. "He just wants to make sure you don't give us no trouble."

Steve just managed to stifle a snort of skepticism. He didn't want to alienate Donald now. "And what do you want?" he asked levelly.

"I just want to help my boy," Donald replied.

"And you think kidnapping a police officer and holding him hostage is the best way to do that?" Again Steve fought to keep his voice free of sarcasm.

"It's the only way," Donald asserted. "Tucker didn't kill that boy, but you cops won't look for anybody else. Whenever there's trouble, it's always the people like us who get blamed."

"What makes you so sure that Tucker didn't kill Rico?" Steve asked. "The evidence…"

"Evidence!" snarled Donald hotly. "The evidence don't mean squat. Anybody could plant 'evidence' – maybe even the cops themselves. 'Evidence' has gotten lotsa people convicted of stuff they didn't do. Tucker's a good kid; he was makin' somethin' of himself, was even maybe gonna go to college. He didn't kill nobody."

"Look, I can understand that you want to help your son," Steve said, trying to maintain a tone of calm reason. "But you know that he has a history of violence, and Rico had been hassling him and bullying him…"

"That Rico was a no-good son of a bitch," interrupted Donald. "But that don't mean Tucker killed him. Yeah he got in fights; a man's got to be able to stick up for himself. But cold-blooded murder's different. Tucker wouldn't do that. And since nobody else was going to help him, we've got to do it ourselves."

"Even if Tucker is innocent," Steve attempted to reason, "there are better ways to help him than committing a felony yourself."

"A man's got to protect his own flesh and blood," Donald stated with conviction, "and that's what we're doing. And that's what your pa'll do too. Now at least he'll be out lookin' for the real killer. And by what I hear, he's real good at findin' things out."

"What if he can't find anything to clear Tucker?" Steve asked. "Then what?"

"He'd better find something," growled a deep voice from the doorway. Startled, Steve and Donald turned to see Cletus entering the cabin, his expression grimly determined. "Or he'll find out what it feels like to have his family taken away from him." Striding over to Steve, he snatched the coffee mug out of his hand and prodded him deliberately in the back, grinning as Steve hissed in pain. "Now get back to work," he ordered. He watched as Steve returned to the windows, picking up the wads of newspaper to resume the washing.

"Besides," the older man added smugly, as he headed over to get himself some coffee and food, "he don't hafta prove the boy didn't do it. He just has 'ta muddy up the case enough to get the boy off."

As Steve continued scrubbing the glass, he frowned over the suggestion that Mark could deliberately attempt to confuse the case in an attempt to sabotage a conviction, even if he were unconvinced of Tucker's innocence. It was true that, if Mark did believe that someone other than Tucker had murdered Rico, but was unable to make a compelling case against someone else, he was still quite capable of uncovering enough inconsistencies or bits of evidence and theory that might muddle the prosecution's case sufficiently to prevent the youth's conviction. But he would never, Steve was sure, deliberately aid in the acquittal of someone he believed to be guilty. Which could bode very ill for the outcome of this adventure.

On the other hand, something that Donald had said had resonated more strongly with Steve than his captor could have anticipated. Steve had painful personal experience with the truth of the statement that evidence had convicted innocent people before. Mark's conviction of murder and subsequent sentencing to death row after being framed by the Trainors was still a hauntingly vivid memory, even several years later. All the evidence then had seemed to point with damning certainty to his father's guilt; was it possible that the evidence against Tucker was just as wrong? If it was, he reflected ruefully, the Baxters had certainly enlisted the assistance of perhaps the one man who could and would pick through the evidence and testimony to uncover any flaws or inconsistencies in the case against him.

"You know," Steve said softly to Donald after Cletus went back outside, "you didn't have to kidnap me to get my father to help you. You could have gone to him and explained the situation."

Donald snorted in disbelief. "Oh right. And he'd have just jumped right up, eager to help a bunch of nobodies he didn't even know."

"He probably would," Steve affirmed. "It wouldn't be the first time. He'd at least have looked into it. And if he thought that there was any chance that Tucker was innocent, he'd never let it go until he was convinced that we knew the truth."

"And why would he do all that for us?" asked Donald skeptically.

"Because he believes in justice; because he would never stand by and see somebody convicted of something he didn't do if there was any chance he could help him."

"Justice," huffed Donald. "What does somebody like him know about justice? Sittin' in his fancy home with his fancy clothes and his money and status protecting him – the 'justice' he knows is a whole lot diff'rent than what folks like us get."

"Not as different as you think," Steve replied, deliberately holding Donald's gaze, his own steady and intent. "He knows about miscarriages of justice; he's lived it. He was framed and convicted of a crime he didn't commit; he wouldn't let that happen to someone else – especially not a kid." Steve saw a flicker of something in Donald's eyes, and thought that perhaps he was getting through to him. Pursuing his advantage, he continued, "Look, it's not too late to stop this before it goes too far. I understand you're trying to help your son. But if you do it this way, what happens even if you do get Tucker released? You and your father will be arrested, and what happens to your son then? He's still under age, and his only family will be in jail; you think that's what he wants? He'll end up in foster care or a juvenile home. Is that what you want for him?"

"The important thing is to get my boy out of that jail," Donald insisted. "After that, well, we can take care of ourselves."

"How?" Steve demanded. "By going on the run? Is that any better for Tucker? A while back you said that he was going to make something of himself, go on to college. You think he can do that as a fugitive?"

In the silence that met that query, they heard the squeak of the door opening, and Cletus reentered the cabin, effectively ending the conversation. Turning back to his chores, Steve hoped that, just maybe, he had taken the first steps toward shifting Donald's certainty that following this plan was his only option.