Chapter Seven: The Capacity to Kill
Donald sat studying the doctor in silence for a while. He could tell the old man was just itching to pepper him with more questions, maybe even ask to be taken to his son, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He looked tired and worn out, and Donald figured the geezer had probably gone off his feed because he was so worried about his son. With a frown, he realized that Pa hadn't yet missed a meal or a wink of sleep, or an excuse to drink some of his corn liquor for that matter, since Tucker had been arrested.
"When your boy was a kid, how'd you make him mind you?"
"Make him?" Mark questioned as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "I don't know that I ever did make him do anything. When he was little, he was very helpful, and he liked to stay busy working with his mother and me around the house."
"I didn't have no mother," Donnie said. "She left Pa an' me when I was a baby."
"I know," Mark said. He wasn't sure if he should add 'I'm sorry', so he just let it go.
Donnie gave a bitter laugh, "Sometimes I still wish she'd have took me with her."
Not knowing how to respond, Mark waited in silence.
"What about when he got older? When he got to be Tuck's age? Was he still such a Boy Scout?" The tone of the question made it clear that Donald didn't think much of the Boy Scouts.
Mark couldn't resist a grin as he said, "He'd never admit it, but in his teens, he was a lot like his sister for a while, stubborn, impetuous." At Donnie's confused look, he explained, "They both often acted without thinking things through, but Steve had better judgment than Carol."
"Well, what did you do when they got out of hand?"
"With Steve, it was usually enough to let him suffer the natural consequences of his actions." He could tell by the look on Donnie's face that he didn't quite comprehend the phrase 'natural consequences', so he continued. "If he didn't do his chores, his mother and I didn't take him to football practice. If he didn't go to practice, he didn't play. If he didn't do his schoolwork, the teachers told the coach, and again, he didn't get to play. It's, uh . . . it's easier when the school helps you."
Donnie eyed the old doctor shrewdly, and asked, "What about your daughter? What did you do with her?"
Mark was surprised by the question. He hadn't thought Donnie sharp enough to realize there would be any difference in the way he had raised his two children. He wasn't sure where all the questions about parenting strategies were taking them, but if there were any chance that they might get him to Steve, he would answer them. Even if Donald didn't take him to his son, as long as the younger Baxter was with him, the odds against Steve were even and he would have a better chance to escape.
"Carol was a difficult child," Mark admitted regretfully. "There was a lot of yelling and slamming of doors when she was a teenager, and she was grounded more often than not. We would take away her privileges and give her extra chores, but she often just did what she wanted anyway. She was my wild child."
"Didja ever hit her?"
"No, my wife and I agreed before we started our family that we would never strike our children."
Donnie nodded. "Do you think it might have worked with your girl?"
Mark frowned as he thought about Carol. Bruce had beaten her, how often and how severely, Mark never did find out, but eventually, she had left him, and her father had been the first person she had come to for help. She wouldn't have done that if he had hit her when she was growing up. He didn't think it would help to explain to Donnie that she had run off and married a man who abused her or that she was murdered on her honeymoon with her second husband because he was Arabic, so he said, "No, I think it would have driven her away."
"I ain't never beat Tuck," Donnie said quietly.
Mark schooled his features to hide his surprise. It was clear that Donnie wanted to be believed, to be considered a good father, and Mark knew if he let his expression give away his doubts, their conversation was over.
"I might give him a slap upside the head if he did somethin' stupid or mouthed off to me," Donnie elaborated, "but I ain't never beat him like my pa done me. He'd take his belt to me, or a shovel, or the broomstick, or any damned thing that was handy, an' when he really got started, he didn't stop 'til I quit yellin'. I swore I would never do that to my kid, an' I never have."
"So, you've made things better for your son than they were for you."
Donnie's eyes sparked with anger for a moment. "That's what a pa's supposed to do, it don't matter whether he's a fancy doctor or an ignernt redneck."
"I know," Mark said carefully, not wanting to offend the agitated man, "and from what I have seen, you've been doing a good job with Tucker. If we can figure out whom he's protecting, there's no reason he can't go back to school and someday make a good life for himself, and if my son's . . . situation works out all right, you could be a part of it."
Donnie nodded and sat silently for a while. Knowing he had given the man a lot to think about, Mark remained quiet, too, and watched the ocean and tried to keep calm. This might be his one and only chance to help Steve, and he didn't want to blow it by talking too much. He heard a few cars buzzing by on the highway and watched the gulls swoop and soar at the shoreline, and time had never seemed to pass so slowly. The minutes felt like days, and he could feel himself growing older as he waited for Donnie to make a decision. He smiled slightly as he remembered a scene from one of the newer Star Trek shows Jesse had made him watch, the Q Community or something like that, where everyone sat around on the porch and it took forever for anything to happen.
Just as Mark gathered himself to make a desperate plea for his son's release, Donnie asked, "If I was take you to your son, what guarantee would I have that you will keep tryin' to help Tuck?"
Mark's breath caught in his throat and his heart began to pound. Donnie wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, but he had to know Mark couldn't continue working on Tucker's case if he was being held captive. That meant he could only be considering one of two things; either he wanted to take Mark to see that Steve was all right and then have him leave his son behind, something which Mark would never allow to happen, or he was going to let Steve go and trust the Sloans to help Tucker anyway.
Knowing that without the threat to his son's safety hanging over his head there was nothing to compel him to help, Mark gave Donnie the only guarantee he could. Looking him in the eye and offering the young man his hand to shake, he said, "You have my word."
Donnie looked at the offered hand and then met the old man's gaze again. He saw nothing but worry and honesty in the clear blue eyes. Mark Sloan seemed so different from his pa, and that alone made him a decent man. He might just be able to trust him after all.
Shaking the doctor's hand, surprised by the strength of his grip, Donnie said, "All right. Get your bag out of the trunk an' follow me."
Sloans' Deck
Steve gritted his teeth and held his breath to keep from crying out as he peeled the remains of his tattered shirt away from his raw back. It wouldn't do to have Cletus find him too soon. He'd led the old man a merry chase into the woods, being sure to leave a trail that was easily followed, then misdirected him by throwing a rather large branch down a steep slope into a ravine to simulate the effect of a man crashing through the brush as he scrambled down the bank. He hadn't wanted to stay in the woods too long, though, because there wasn't enough cover in the under story. The trees in this area were so large and close together that they blocked the light, preventing much of anything from growing beneath their branches. So, once he was sure his pursuer had taken the bait and headed into the ravine, he hurried, quiet as a cat, back to the dense brush that edged the clearing around the cabin.
Trying not to notice the numerous spots of dried blood and other bodily fluids staining his shirt, he tied it to a tall, gangly shrub, making sure most of the garment was obscured so Cletus wouldn't realize he wasn't actually in it. Then he tied the end of a sturdy vine he had found to the branch as well, and crept back into the thick brush a few yards away where he had already placed a thick, heavy branch that he planned to use as a club. Finally, he picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it into the trees somewhere in Cletus' general direction and yelled as if he'd been hurt.
Steve knew he had to be patient. Donnie might have come crashing through the bushes at the sound of his yell, either to help him, or to fret about what his pa might say, depending on how brave he was feeling at the moment, but Cletus was more suspicious. He would approach cautiously, and everything would have to be timed perfectly for Steve's plan to work. As he crouched in the brush listening intently for the sounds of Cletus' approach, he ignored the buzzing, whining insects, the biting flies, and mosquitoes. Sweat broke out on his face and neck, and he never wiped it away. Tired muscles ached, cramped, and trembled, but he kept still and focused. Finally, his patience was rewarded.
The snapping of a twig alerted Steve to Cletus' approach first. Then he heard soft, careful footsteps; the pace was deliberately erratic so the sound would blend in better with the quiet cacophony of woodland noises than the steady tread of a man on a mission. He spotted the old man approaching from the direction of the outhouse, peering about, poking the barrel of the shotgun into masses of tangled shrubs and weeds around the edge of the clearing. Patience had never been one of his virtues, but Steve waited, and then he waited a little longer until he was sure the Cletus was close enough to spot the shirt but far enough away to not realize that nobody was in it anymore.
Finally, Cletus was right where Steve wanted him to be, and he pulled the vine that made the branch shake. Cletus zeroed in on it immediately, and Steve held his breath as he raised the shotgun and took aim.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Cletus taunted as he stepped slowly forward, and Steve waited.
Just fire the damned gun, Steve thought. He gave the vine in his hand another gentle tug, hoping to goad the old man into action. Cletus just grinned and stepped closer. Shoot, dammit! It was all Steve could do not to yell instructions as Cletus stalked across the clearing, passing within just a few feet of his hiding place. Steve yanked on the vine again, and felt his heart sink when Cletus stopped just five feet away. Then his posture changed, and Steve knew he had spotted the ruse.
Steve launched himself from his hiding place and attacked. Stiff muscles screamed and the branches scraping his tortured back made it burn like he'd been splashed with hot oil, but he managed to get in one solid blow to Cletus' ribs with his club and grinned with satisfaction as he heard the crunch of bone. Cletus screamed in pain and wheeled toward him, but the shotgun had a long barrel and Steve was too close for him to pull up and get off a shot. Dropping his club, Steve grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pointed it toward the ground as he stepped closer to prevent Cletus from backing up and firing. As the two men wrestled for the weapon, it discharged, wounding them both.
Steve wrested the gun away from Cletus, took a step back, and looked down at his leg. A few particles of whatever Baxter used instead of buckshot had penetrated his jeans and were probably lodged in his shin. The stinging pain and spots of blood on the dark blue denim were finally more insult than he could bear. He threw the gun away and glared at the old coot, wild-eyed and enraged.
If Cletus had shown some fear, if he had just backed away a step, things might have gone differently from there, but as it was, he laughed his cackley laugh, balled up his fists, adopted a fighting stance, and said, "So, now the odds are even."
Sloans' Deck
Mark sighed with relief as the ancient truck finally bounced into the clearing and shuddered to a halt. He took hold of his bag and already had the door open before Donnie grabbed his arm.
"You best let me go in first. Pa's liable to blow your head off if he don't know you're comin'."
Mark nodded, and though it cost him dearly, he patiently followed the younger man to the cabin when he really wanted to bolt across the clearing and rush to his son's side. As he stepped into the single dingy room, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he could tell just by the feel of the place that it was empty.
"Huh!" Donnie grunted. "I suppose Pa could have took him to the outhouse. Reckon you ought to stay here while I go check."
The young man was hardly out the door when the sound of gunfire rent the air. Throwing all caution to the wind, Mark dropped his bag and charged out the door behind Donnie. As he raced across the clearing to the source of the noise, he couldn't help but wonder what person in his right mind would run toward the sound of gunfire? When he and Donnie arrived at the scene, what they saw made them both freeze for a moment.
Cletus Baxter was flat on his back, arms flung up to protect his face and head, pleading for mercy. Steve was on top of him, sweating, sobbing, muttering vile curses, and swearing that Cletus would never hurt anyone else as he pounded the living hell out of the old man.
The first thing that actually registered in Mark's mind was the mass of scabs and inflamed, seeping wounds on his son's back. Then he realized that Cletus had stopped struggling, but Steve was still beating him, slamming his fists into the old man's body with a mechanical motion that somehow suggested that he didn't know how to stop himself. Finally, it occurred to him that if he didn't stop his son soon, he could easily beat Cletus to death.
"Steve," he said calmly as he stepped forward and grabbed one of his son's flailing fists. Steve tried to jerk his arm free and swing again, but Mark held on and crouched down beside his boy.
"Steve, it's over. I'm here, Son." He continued to talk soothingly as he placed his hands on his son's bare shoulders and gently turned him to face him. Steve let his body be turned, but he kept his face toward Cletus. Mark reached up and cupped his chin in his hand, turning his head so he could look Steve in the eye. For a moment, Steve's expression was blank, his eyes dead, then they filled with shame.
"Oh, God, Dad! What did I do?" He retched once, lurched to his feet, and scrambled a few feet away where he collapsed to his knees and vomited in the grass.
Mark followed his son and dropped down beside him. "Steve, are you all right?" After that one look at Steve's back, he knew the real answer was no, but he also knew that those injuries were minor compared to what Cletus might have suffered, and if Steve could assure him he was ok, ethically, he was bound to look after Cletus first.
Steve nodded as he gasped for air, and he said, "I'll . . . be ok, but . . . Oh, God, Dad, if I killed him . . . "
"If you killed him, it was in self-defense, son."
"Please, Dad, don't let him die!"
The anguish he saw in Steve's eyes and heard in his voice tore at Mark's heart. "I'll do my best son. You just rest here, ok?"
Steve nodded, and lay face down on the grass where he struggled to catch his breath. Mark turned toward his patient as he took his cell phone out of his pocket. "Get my bag," he told Donnie. "I dropped it in the cabin. I'm calling 911. Where should I tell them we are?"
"South end of Piney Creek Ravine, north of the fire road, but tell them to be careful, Pa booby trapped the road," Mark nodded, and as he dialed, he began a visual survey of his patient.
Cletus had two black eyes, a broken nose, several newly missing teeth, and possibly a fractured jaw. There were also handprint bruises around his neck where Steve had apparently choked him during the struggle. After requesting a Medivac helicopter and warning the would-be rescuers about the booby-trapped fire road, Mark opened Cletus' shirt and winced at what he saw.
Purplish, fist-sized bruises covered the man's torso. The way his ribs sucked in with each wheezing breath and bulged out with each exhalation indicated that he was suffering from a flailed chest and probably a pneumothorax as well. Mark shook his head, wondering just how bad things had been to make his son beat the man so severely that he had broken three or four of his ribs in the front and back. Chances were, Cletus also had some abdominal bleeding, and maybe even a ruptured spleen.
Amazingly, Cletus was coming around just as Donnie arrived with the medical bag.
"Pa?" the worried son queried. "Pa, please don't die."
As Mark checked his vitals, Cletus gave a raspy, gurgling laugh and said, "Durned fool . . . you of all people . . . should know . . . I'm too damned mean . . . to die yet."
Donnie smiled weakly as Mark admonished his patient, "Don't talk."
Cletus spat out a tooth and a good amount of blood along with it, then turned his head left and right until he spotted Steve. His mouth twisted into a bloody rictus of a grin and he wheezed mockingly, "So . . . cop . . . you enjoyed it . . . didn't you . . . beatin' the hell . . . outta me? Howzit feel . . . hatin' me enough . . . to wanna kill me . . . knowin' you're as bad . . . as you think I am?"
Steve, who was now sitting cross-legged in the grass watching as his father treated Cletus' injuries, just bowed his head and shook it.
"Shut up, Baxter," Mark hissed. "Leave him alone."
"He kin take it . . ." Cletus wheezed. "He's tougher . . . than you think."
"He probably is," Mark agreed coldly, "but my son is no murderer. He doesn't have the capacity to kill you out of simple hatred. He is a decent man, something you can't understand. He was acting in self-defense, and when he knew help was here, he stopped."
"Every man . . . who's really a man . . . " Cletus rolled his eyes toward his son and gave him a venomous look. " . . . knows how to kill."
Mark looked over at Donnie and shook his head as he saw the young man turn red with shame. He couldn't understand why a father would want to hurt his own son in that way.
"You may be right," he agreed with Cletus surprising both of the Baxters and himself. Then his tone turned disdainful, "But to my son, you're not worth the trouble."
Cletus laughed and spat out some more blood. "I think . . . he'd a done it . . . if you hadn't . . . come when you did."
"And I know you're wrong," Mark said firmly. "Now, while my conscience wouldn't suffer any to watch you die slowly right here, I am ethically bound as a doctor to inform you that every breath you take and every word you speak is contributing to a pneumothorax that could kill you before help arrives."
"New-muh . . . ?"
"Collapsed lung," Mark explained. "You'll suffocate. Just shut up and take slow, shallow breaths."
As Mark finished wrapping Cletus' ribs and giving him morphine for the pain, the Medivac flight could be heard in the distance. By the time he'd made one more check of his patient's vitals, the chopper had arrived. He gave the paramedics the rundown on Cletus' condition, Donnie boarded the helicopter with his father, and they were gone in a matter of minutes. Finally, it was just Mark and Steve in the clearing.
Mark approached his son carefully. Steve was clearly traumatized, and he wouldn't handle any more stress well. He wanted to check out the wounds on his son's back, to see if there was any infection and to ask what had caused them. He crouched down and placed a hand gently on Steve's bare, tanned shoulder, one of the few parts that didn't appear to be battered and abused, and was surprised to feel his son trembling beneath his touch.
"Steve?"
"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."
"Sorry? What for?"
Steve looked at him, his face a mask of anguish. "I wanted to kill him, Dad," he continued whispering, "I wanted to kill him with my bare hands." His jaw hung slack, his eyes welled with tears, and he began weeping silently. As Steve leaned forward and rested his head on his dad's shoulder, Mark sank to the grass to sit beside his son.
"It's ok, Son, it's over now. You're safe. You're safe." With a featherlight touch, doing his best to avoid the inflamed gouges on Steve's back, Mark put his arms around his son and held him, and that is how Amanda and Jesse found them twenty minutes later.
