Chapter Eleven: Breaking Down

It was the faint rattling sound that came to his attention first, softly at the beginning, then more harshly. He twitched his ankle automatically in response. It felt heavy and confined, something clinched tightly around it, a deep burning ringing it. He shifted restlessly, trying to kick it off. The rattling grew more pronounced, but now it only underscored another sound: a coarse, stuttering laughter. He tried to cover his ears, but his hands were caught somehow, tangled in something. His heart picked up pace, thumping loudly inside his chest. A pair of squinting, malevolent eyes swam before him, still laughing. "Enjoyed it, didn't you, cop?"

No. No, I didn't. I hated it. I hate myself for it.

"Felt good, didn't it?"

His heart thumped harder, choking him.

"Steve." A different voice this time, one he knew as well as he knew his own, but the faint note of recrimination there made him wince, kept him from looking. "Steve, how could you, son?"

I don't know, Dad, I don't know. I didn't mean - I'm sorry…

"That's not what I taught you, son. Human life is sacred."

I know . . . his stomach roiled within him, pushed itself up against his heart. I know . . . I don't understand what happened . . .

"Gets better every time, boy." The hated voice persisted gleefully. "Next time you'll like it even more. Afore you know it, you'll be looking' fer reasons ta do it."

I won't! I -

"He's right, Steve." His father sounded so sad, he still couldn't bring himself to look at him. "I'm sorry, but he's right, Violence begets violence. Once you misuse your position that way it becomes an easy answer to everything. I'm very disappointed, son."

Me too, Dad - me too . . . but I don't think -

"Man needs to fight for what's his. Others get hurt, well, that's just too dang bad - right, boy?"

No! It's NOT right. Might does NOT equal right - the weak deserve protection too -

"That was before, son." The sorrow in his father's voice cracked his heart. "Now you're just another bully, preying on the weak - "

No! No, Dad, I just - I don't know what - never again . . "

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, son . . ." The beloved voice seemed to be getting fainter, the vicious laughter louder and nearer. "Once you cross the line, it's not that simple to go back. After all, look what you did to me."

Startled, Steve turned to look in the direction of his father's voice for the first time. The figure was in shadow, but there was no mistaking the patches of blood staining his head and his face and his chest. He swayed, his eyes empty and sad.

Steve felt the air explode out of him. "Dad!"

The sound of his own voice shook him awake, the dark around him melting away, replaced by the prosaic white walls of a hospital room, the tangle of voices evaporating under the soft, rhythmic sounds of the hospital in motion. Steve stayed very still, trying to orient himself. His right arm twinged and he realized that he had somehow pushed himself up on his elbows and sank back slowly against the pillows, rubbing absently at the back of the right arm. His fingers came in contact with a square dressing there and he twisted to try and see. Gradually he recalled the small shot wounds and let the arm fall. Oh. Everything rushed back and he pressed his hands over his eyes. Oh, God. What have I done?

Nausea boiled through him. How had he gotten here? He had the smallest glimmer of a confused memory about that, of people and voices and needles sticking in him and - Oh, God. Dad - ?

He turned his head, trying to get his bearings, saw the next bed and stopped, let his breath out in a slow, careful sigh.

Dad. Oh, thank God. He spent a few seconds watching his father's chest go up and down in what seemed to be a peaceful sleep, then decided that he had to have a better look. Cautiously, he bolstered himself upright, using his good arm. His back tightened and prickled a warning, his head swam. He sat still, giving things a second to settle.

Everything hurt. Not acutely - in a sort of distant, can't-quite-care-about-it kind of way, so they must have him on something. He saw that one ankle and the other shin were both bandaged and sighed quietly. That was inconvenient. He eased them carefully over the side of the bed and sat, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It was really hot in here. Were they afraid they were going to freeze to death? Of course, Dad was older - maybe he needed it warm.

He tried out his feet, testing how they would hold him, clinging to the pole that held his IV for support. He rocked a little, then steadied. Not too bad. But the heat was suddenly swallowed up by a sweeping chill that started at his head and traveled down to his feet, engulfing him. He shivered. Must be something wrong with the heating system. He'd have to tell a nurse about it. Balancing carefully, he pulled an extra blanket off the end of the bed and dragged it over his shoulders. That was a little better.

Shuffling, he made his way to the next bed and leaned against his IV pole, looking. His father's head was bandaged and his wrist was braced, but otherwise he looked all right. Tired, maybe. There didn't seem to be any extreme measures of life support, so that was good. He wished he knew how to read a chart. Another shiver shook him and he pulled his blanket tighter around him. Somebody needed to turn down that air conditioning.

Maybe he could ask a nurse for the details on his father's condition. He tried to peer more closely at the bandage on the tousled white head, suddenly flashed back to his dream and felt his knees almost give underneath him. No. No, he hadn't done this. Not technically, anyway, though in a way . . .

He closed his eyes. God. Dad was alive, but Cletus . . . ? He looked back at his father, awash in a mix of apology and sorrow. The room suddenly seemed too small, hot and cold at the same time. He leaned harder into the IV pole. He needed to get out - to find things out. He needed to know . . .

He moved slowly toward the door, using the IV pole to support first the bad ankle and then the bad shin, thinking how thoughtful it was of them to provide these things with wheels.

The hospital corridor was an explosion of sound after the quiet of the small room and he stood for a second, getting his bearings. Spotting the nurses' station, he pushed himself slowly toward it. He was secretly pleased to see a nurse he didn't know and he pressed one hip against the station wall for a little extra support and tried to summon a smile. "Excuse me - "

The nurse glanced up from the computer screen she was busy with and offered him a professional flash of teeth. "How can I help you?" Her smile slipped a little as she looked him over. "Do you need help getting back to your room?"

"No - " Steve thought his answer came out a little too fast and tried the smile again. Even he could tell it was a pallid version of his usual one, but he continued doggedly, "Prescribed exercise." It wasn't a total lie - they were always prescribing that here. "I was wondering if you could give me some information on a couple of patients?"

"Certainly." The brisk efficiency returned. "Name?"

"Dr. Mark Sloan?"

"Let's see . . ." She pushed a few keys and scrolled through something while Steve waited, letting the station take a little more of his weight. "Mark Sloan . . . condition is fair, moderate concussion, sprained wrist . . . no reason why he shouldn't be back on his feet in a few days." The professional smile beamed out again.

Steve felt the breath rush out of him. "That's great." His voice cracked a little and he took a second to clear his throat. The next one was a big one. What if . . . but he wouldn't think of that. Not until he had to. Just ask, he ordered himself. "How about . . . Cletus Baxter?"

The nurse tapped a couple of more keys and frowned as the screen scrolled before her. "Baxter, Cletus . . . hm . . . looks like last night he was upgraded from critical to serious . . . flail chest, pneumothorax, but the lung's been reinflated and is responding well, some serious contusions . . . he's not in good shape, but right now the prognosis is positive. If he continues to improve, they'll move him from the ICU at the end of the day."

For a second Steve couldn't speak. He caught himself with his free hand on the station countertop as the floor gave an abrupt shift, closing his eyes quickly against a rush of moisture behind his lids. Relief seemed to have melted all his bones and for a second he wasn't sure he wasn't going to make a scene, collapsing right here in the corridor.

"Sir?" The nurse's voice brought him back to himself and he reached deep down inside for every ounce of remaining steel.

He had a feeling that the smile he pinned on this time was woefully lame, but he forced it into place anyway and asked, "Where did you say he was located?"

The nurse hesitated, her eyes suddenly narrowed. "Are you sure you're supposed to be out of bed?"

Steve remembered his dream and shuddered. "I'm sure. Where . . "

The nurse looked like she wanted to ask another question, but the phone chose that moment to ring and she reached over to answer it. Steve took advantage of the distraction to move behind her and glance at the computer screen. He was surprised to find that his eyes weren't working quite right so it took him a couple of precious seconds to bring the tiny type into focus, but he managed to read "Fifth Floor ICU, Cubicle 6" and shuffle away towards the elevator before the nurse could finish her call and question him more closely.

The elevator door obligingly slid open as he approached and he stepped inside, half-supported by the IV stand, and let the door shush closed behind him. Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall to rest. His back instantly reminded him what a bad idea that was and he teetered forward again, swearing softly at the pain, turning until he could lean against the wall on his shoulder instead. He fumbled for the button for the fifth floor and pushed.

The elevator bumped to a stop a minute later and he glanced up at the lights over the door. Two more floors to go. A couple of more passengers joined him and the doors slid shut again. He closed his eyes to enjoy the ride.

"Sir?" This voice was unfamiliar, as was the tentative touch on his arm. He opened his eyes and blinked. "I think this is your floor?"

He frowned drowsily, glancing over the door again. Well, since that was the only button left lit and it said five, she must be right. He realized with a flash of embarrassment that he must have been asleep. "Thanks . . . " His voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat again. This elevator had gotten awfully hot, too - must be a problem all over the hospital.

"Do you need help . . . ?"

He shifted his blanket and eased himself upright, clutching the IV pole. "I'm fine . . . " That sounded unconvincing, even to him, so he tried another of the not-so-good smiles. "I mean, this is my floor."

The woman looked dubious, but held the door for him as he tottered out into the corridor. This floor was quieter, and he stood looking for the signs with the little arrows that would tell him which way to go. One arrow was labeled ICU and he wheeled his stand in that direction, his leg and ankle complaining loudly at the activity. A wheelchair might not have been the worst idea in the world, but it was too late for that now . . .

He rounded a corner and saw the row of glassed-in cubicles with the ICU station before it, positioned so that the nurse could track all the monitors and keep a visual

inventory of all the patients at once. He sighed. At last. This must be how Sir Edmund Hillary felt when he reached the top of Mount Everest.

He thought about asking the nurse about Cletus, but he really didn't need to - he could spot his cubicle from here and could see him sleeping. His eyes took in the hand cuffed to the bed rail and the uniformed officer sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup nearby. Straightening his shoulders as best he could, he headed for the police guard.

"Excuse me, Officer - " he frowned hard at the name tag. " - Darby." Hopefully, he'd come close, anyway. "I'm Lt. Sloan - " Belatedly, he realized that he had neither badge

nor official ID to prove that, and gestured feebly to his hospital ID bracelet instead. Of course, it said Sloan, S. and his room number, nothing about his rank, but maybe…?

The officer looked immediately sober, and - Steve winced a little - sympathetic. He read the ID bracelet respectfully. "Yes, sir. How can I help you?"

Steve thought of mentioning that if he could find him a new body that would be really helpful, but he refrained and said instead. "Donald Baxter - is he around?"

The officer looked grim. "No, sir. He's in the county lockup." Then added with some feeling, "Better than he deserves, if you ask me."

Steve thought about reprimanding him, but decided that he was in no position to be giving lectures on conduct to anybody at the moment. "I see." He rubbed a hand over his forehead, shaking away a slick of sweat that had gathered there. "-wanted to talk to him-" His knees buckled so suddenly that he barely caught himself on the IV stand in time. Officer - Darby? Darly? Darcy? shot a hand out and supported his elbow and he hung there for a moment, trying to gather himself.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Steve nodded, not quite daring to speak. When everything steadied a little he muttered apologetically, "Maybe if I sat down for just a minute . . . "

The officer led him to a nearby sofa, tactfully placed out of the way but still in view of the cubicles, and helped him to lower himself onto it. Steve couldn't repress a gasp of relief at finally being off his feet. "Thanks . . . " He leaned back slowly, testing his back.

The officer hovered, looking young and concerned. "Should I call someone, sir? I could help you back to your room . . . "

Steve turned cold inside at the mention of his room and the cold spread through his bones, tingling along the surface of his skin. He pulled the blanket tighter, huddling inside it. "No, no - " he hoped he sounded reassuring. "I'm fine. I'll just sit here for a second."

The officer looked unconvinced, but Steve knew the habit of his training would compel him to obey. For good measure he added, "Your station, officer?" And watched with satisfaction as the officer reluctantly returned to his post by the entryway of Cubicle 6.

Steve let his eyes drift past him to the interior of the cubicle. Cletus did indeed look very much alive. Still, he wished he could talk to Donald. But maybe talking to Cletus would be just as good. He closed his eyes and thought about what he wanted to say.

Sloans' Deck

Cheryl rounded the corner of the corridor, her eyes on the pad in one hand, her other hand kneading at a tight spot on the back of her neck that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there.

She had questioned Sandy Green and still couldn't decide if it had put her further ahead or further behind. She had seemed like a sweet girl, with a quiet, serious face, and as hard as she tried, she couldn't picture her taking a hammer to anybody. Still. If there was one thing that working Homicide taught you, it was that people surprised you pretty much every day. She sighed to herself. That meant that she got to spend a little more quality time with Cletus Baxter. Much as she tried to maintain her professionalism, she had to admit that she wasn't looking forward to it.

She was so intent on her notebook and her thoughts that she almost missed the sofa in her path and just stopped herself from cracking a knee against it. Embarrassed, she looked up to apologize to the occupant, stopped, suddenly silent. After a frowning moment, she seated herself next to the figure on the sofa instead, then reached out to touch the blanketed arm. "Hey."

Heavy lids peeled reluctantly back over a pair of fever-bright eyes and the figure tried to straighten up, gave it up quickly and slumped down again. "Hey, yourself. What are you doing here?"

"Working. What's your excuse?"

"Me too."

"Uh huh." Cheryl resisted the urge to reach over and feel his forehead. "Why do I get the feeling you're AWOL?"

Steve blinked and ran a hand over his face to rouse himself, neatly avoiding the question. "I wanted to talk to Donald. But he's in custody?"

"Of course he is." Her voice was a little sharper than she'd intended.

Steve nodded groggily, making another attempt to sit up straighter. "I thought maybe - because of his dad - "

"Once Cletus was downgraded from critical we took him into custody. Normal procedure."

Steve gave a shorter nod, his face unreadable. "He saved my life," he said quietly after a moment.

"He kidnapped you. Started this whole thing in motion. If it wasn't for him, you wouldn't be hurt in the first place."

"Still." He looked away from her, eyes on the glass cubicle. "He - I didn't mean just that. If - he hadn't brought my Dad at just that moment . . . " She watched the Adam's apple in his throat bob spasmodically, his eyes studiously avoiding hers. "I did this, Cheryl." The voice was so soft she only just caught the words.

She found his forearm again under the blanket and pressed it lightly. "I know."

Startled, he did meet her eyes this time. Whatever he had expected to see there must have been missing, because he seemed to relax a little. "I wanted to - tell him how sorry I was. Not explain - I - can't explain - just - let him know I was sorry. That I appreciated . . . "

He broke off and scrubbed the heel of his hand at his eyes and for one terrible second Cheryl was terrified that he might cry. And if he did cry, the shaky house of cards she had been holding together for days would all fall down and she would start to bawl like a three year old and maybe never stop. She couldn't decide which of them that would be more humiliating for, so her voice had a biting edge that she hoped would forestall any emotional scenes when she retorted, "You wanted to apologize to him. Now, that's rich."

Steve just looked at her. "The one thing doesn't make the other right," he pointed out wearily.

"Just what I was thinking."

"Cheryl, his father almost died because of me."

"Yeah? Your father isn't looking too good either. And directly or indirectly, that's because of him."

The stricken look on Steve's face made her sorry the second she said it, but after a pause he gave an abbreviated nod, rubbing a hand over his mouth, then bent forward to bury his face in his hands.

Cheryl's heart twisted inside her. "Steve, listen to me." She softened her voice just a little, but tried to keep it matter-of-fact. "The problem with a felony is that it tends to escalate and turn into two felonies, or more - robbery becomes rape, rape becomes murder, murder becomes multiple murders - it all gets out of control. That's just one reason it's such a bad idea and a really big crime. But that's the responsibility of the felon. You were just - dragged into the middle of it and doing what you had to to survive. The responsibility wasn't yours, it was Donald's. I'm sorry his father got hurt too - well, sorry might be too strong a word - but those are the consequences of playing with fire. Besides, it looks like the old coot is going to pull through just fine."

Steve nodded dully. "That's what the nurse told me."

"Then why don't you let me take you back to your room and we'll cross any other bridges as we get to them?"

Steve was silent for so long that she leaned in close to make sure that he hadn't drifted off, but he finally whispered, so quietly that she could barely make out the words, "I can't face him."

Cheryl rumpled her forehead. Couldn't face . . . the Captain? Cletus? Donald . . . ? Oh! "Oh, Steve!" She was almost speechless. "Your Dad!"

Steve didn't answer, just kneaded between his brows.

"Steve," She tried to catch his eyes, "your Dad doesn't blame you! He's just so glad and so relieved to have you back - I honestly don't think he can even focus on anything else!"

"I know that - I mean, I know how he is." Steve's voice sounded unutterably weary. "That's not - that's not the point."

"Then you're going to have to explain the point to me, because I'm missing it."

Steve sighed through his nose, his gaze drifting back to Cubicle #6. "He taught me better. What I did was against everything - he ever taught me. He had a right to expect better from me - he deserved better from me. No matter how you look at it, Cheryl, I let him down. Let the department down - let myself down."

"I see." Cheryl found her temper mounting unreasonably . "So I suppose I'm on that list? I suppose you let me down too? Or do I get some say in how I feel about that?"

Steve looked at her, shook his head. "Leave it alone, Cheryl."

"I don't think I can. Steve, I talked to that man under perfectly safe and sane circumstances for about ten minutes and I was ready to throttle him - for the life of me, I don't know how you held out as long as you did. I think that you both came out of this alive is a testament to the kind of man you are."

"I'm not so sure that I know what kind of man that is any more."

"No? Then I'll tell you. You're the man I trust my life to every single day. You're the man I trust to do the up and up on the job. You're the man I count on to toe the line, to be there for me, no matter what happens, and for me, none of that has changed. I look at you and I still see the same man." She wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but she didn't dare risk touching his back, so she rested it gently on the back of his head instead, drew it away with a frown. "And a man who should be in bed. You're really hot, Steve."

"Yeah, I think there's something wrong with the hospital's heating/cooling system."

"Well, I think there's something wrong with somebody's heating/cooling system, but I don't think it's the hospital's since I'm perfectly comfortable. Let me take you back to your bed?"

Steve ignored the question. "Cheryl, I - know you mean what you said, but you're my friend and you're just a little prejudiced in my favor."

"Maybe I spend a lot of time with you under a lot of really terrible circumstances and I just know you really well - maybe better than you know yourself. And I know something else, too - Cletus Baxter is a very lucky man."

Steve almost smiled at that. "Really. How do you figure."

"Because you got to him before I did."

Steve's smile grew to a short laugh, then died almost as quickly as he studied her expression. Cheryl shrugged mentally. He must have noticed that she wasn't joking.

Steve dropped his eyes, studied his fingers picking nervously at the blanket binding as though that required all his focus. "So," he said finally. "What have you got?"

Cheryl didn't quite manage to suppress a sardonic grin.

Ah. Work. A nice, safe refuge from emotional overload for both of them. She glanced down at her notebook. "Lots of questions, but not a lot of answers. You know, we found some flaws in the physical evidence. Tucker Baxter could be innocent." The fragile hope that lit Steve's face made her almost wish that she hadn't told him. No, no Steve - don't get emotionally invested. Don't make it personal. On the other hand, after what he'd been through, how could it not be?

"There you are! I - Steve!" Even if the voice hadn't been familiar, the tone - shocked, reproving, indignant, concerned, would have been unmistakable. Cheryl noticed with some amusement Steve's guilty schoolboy expression, quickly quashed under one of defensive stubbornness.

"Hi, Amanda . . . " He made a weak attempt at an innocent smile.

Amanda, less reticent than Cheryl, threw her arms around him, keeping them carefully about his neck where they wouldn't cause him much pain. After a startled hesitation, Steve hugged her gently back. Cheryl got a glimpse of his face and for a second was sure that she was going to break down and cry after all.

Amanda pulled back to get a look at him, her fingers brushing lightly over the bruise at his temple, then the one on his jaw. "Steve, you're burning up. What is your temperature? Does Jesse know you're wandering around? I'll bet he doesn't. What have they - " She broke off as she caught sight of his IV bag, got up to take a closer look. "These things have to be replaced on schedule, you know, and yours is getting low. When's the last time you had your meds?"

Steve held up the hand that wasn't cinching the blanket closed, trying to stop the flow of words long enough to answer at least one of the questions. "I woke up and didn't want to disturb Dad, so I took a little walk."

"Disturb him!" Amanda placed her hands on her hips. "And what do you think you could do lying in bed resting that would disturb him?"

A shadow passed over Steve's face.

Amanda must have seen it too, because Cheryl could almost watch her adjust her next sentence from her original intent. She pressed her lips together for a minute then ordered, "You wait here," and hurried toward the ICU nurse.

"I wasn't going anywhere," Steve mumbled under his breath, then looked embarrassed when he realized that Cheryl had overheard him. He looked at his hands again, clearing his throat. "Have any suspects?" he persisted.

Cheryl glanced over at the ICU station. She couldn't hear the conversation, but she could see Amanda's bright, persuasive smile. "Maybe. But since Amanda put me onto one of them, I'd like to wait for her." She watched Amanda take something from the ICU nurse, then proffer one more of her gracious smiles before heading back in their direction with her quick, light step. As she got close, Cheryl could see that she was carrying a regulation hospital tumbler with a plastic straw poking out of the lid.

Amanda handed it to Steve. "Sip on that. Can I get you anything, Cheryl?" she added, looking a little flustered to have overlooked her.

"If I want anything, I can get it myself," Cheryl assured her. "I saw Sandy Green."

"Oh!" Amanda seemed to remember why she was there in the first place. "That's why I was looking for you - I certainly didn't expect to find you." She fixed Steve with a stern glance. "I went over the autopsy report again."

"Well?" Steve broke in impatiently when she didn't seem to be continuing.

Amanda folded her arms, gesturing to the cup with her chin. "I said to drink that."

Steve rolled his eyes, but sucked obediently on the straw.

Amanda beamed smug satisfaction. "I wanted to review a few things in light of Sandy as a possible suspect. Given the placement of the wounds and their depth, the killer could be a woman. I'd even go so far as to say that it's likely."

Cheryl chewed her lip. "Cletus' truck was there that day. And he isn't tall."

Steve shook his head. "I don't like Cletus for this."

Cheryl stared. "Why's that? You think he couldn't pound somebody with a hammer? Cause if that's what you think, I'll get you a mirror."

"It's not that." Steve caught sight of Amanda's brows, pointedly lifted in his direction, and took another swallow from the straw, tossing her a "Satisfied?" look. Amanda smiled benevolent approval. "- it's that I can't see him pretending that he didn't do it. If he clubbed somebody with a hammer, I think he'd be bragging about it, pointing out to anybody who would listen how justified he was. I don't see him keeping quiet and hiding behind his grandson. Besides - " he rubbed unconsciously at the bruise on his jaw. "If I'm following what Amanda's saying, the wounds are lower and shallower than she'd expect from a man. Cletus has plenty of muscle. Believe me." The rueful note in Steve's voice made Cheryl wince and Amanda impulsively cover his hand with her own.

Cheryl jumped into the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Steve, it's probably sheer spite on my part, but I still like Cletus better than little Sandy Green. She seems like a sweet kid - truly worried about Tucker and bewildered by what she's found herself in the middle of. I honestly don't think that she could hurt a fly."

"I agree that I'd rather it was Cletus, but Steve is right - it doesn't fit," Amanda argued. "Suppose Rico attacked Sandy or attacked Tucker? If she was terrified enough, instinct could take over. Anyone can become violent under the right circumstances, if you're threatened enough or scared enough - " She caught sight of Steve's face, saw the meager color leech away, leaving it transparently white and rigid, his eyes inexorably drawn to the ICU cubicles. She broke off in horror. "Oh, Steve - I didn't mean - I'm so sorry!"

Steve's hands flexed on the blanket. He swallowed, then swallowed again. He held himself stiffly, but finally managed a semblance of a smile so forced that Cheryl was sure that this time she really was going to weep. "It's okay." His voice was thin and unconvincing. He must have heard it himself, because he coughed to clear his throat and tried again. "It's a good point. What other women are there in Tucker's life?"

Cheryl and Amanda exchanged a speaking glance, then Cheryl shrugged and answered, "None that we know of. No special teachers, or friends, or counselors…"

"What about Tucker's mother?" Steve made a face at the suggestion of a tremor that edged the words, dragged his eyes determinedly away from Cletus.

"His mother's dead, remember? AIDS? Had a crack habit?"

Steve shrugged deeper into the blanket, drawing in on himself. "We know that for sure?"

"Of course we do. Who lies about a thing like that?"

"I don't know - it's an easy world to disappear into. Maybe Donald wanted the baby and she needed money. Crack addicts usually do. Maybe they cut a deal."

Amanda sighed. "Steve, that is so - either you're delirious, or you've been secretly watching the Soap Channel." She reached out to touch his forehead again, but Steve ducked away from her.

"It's worth looking into," he insisted stubbornly.

Cheryl eyed him intently. She couldn't decide if he really believed this or was just grasping at any straw to distract himself from Cubicle #6 and the chain of events that had led to it. "Look, Steve - " she tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, but she secretly agreed with Amanda that there was more fever talking here than police work. "You really think Tucker would go to prison for a mother he didn't even know?"

"A kid who grows up without a mother can easily idealize the idea of one. Could go to a lot of extremes to protect that ideal - " He looked hopefully at Cheryl.

She watched the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat and grimaced. Well, if it makes him feel better…she threw up her hands. "All right, I'll check it out! The Captain can't think I'm any crazier than he already does."

Cheryl watched Steve's eyes try to narrow at her, could tell that they didn't quite focus. "Trouble?"

Cheryl smiled. "Nothing that I can't handle."

Steve studied her a little longer, then nodded, blotting at his forehead with the blanket. "Okay. Good. Thanks." His eyes drifted past her, over her shoulder, then squinted in irritation. "Oh, for - what did you guys do? Form a posse?"

Cheryl followed his gaze and saw the inevitable - Jesse hurrying toward them, managing to look simultaneously exasperated and relieved.

He skidded to a stop beside the sofa, eyeing his patient critically. "I should have known I'd find you here. Didn't your father ever teach you to tell people where you're going?"

"I just went for a walk!"

"Yeah, and I've got a floor nurse trying to administer meds wringing her hands and looking for her lost patient, and your Dad wondering where you are - I made up some lame story about tests - now I've got to think of some tests you might have that he would believe but not be scared to death about."

At the mention of his father, Steve's face changed. He wiped at his forehead with his wrist, frowning. "You told him I'm okay?"

Jesse perched on the arm of the sofa and pressed the back of his hand against Steve's forehead. "Steve, he's seen you - he knows you're not okay." He made a face and lifted his hand away, picked up the IV bag instead. "You need a new one of these - let's go back to your room. You've got a date with a nurse and a hypodermic."

"I don't want to be doped up."

Cheryl glanced at him in surprise - the words were Steve's standard tough-guy response, but the tone had a thin thread of panic in it.

Jesse evidently heard it too, because he dropped the IV bag with a thoughtful frown. "Sorry, buddy, but I think you need a little something to take the edge off."

"It's not that bad - I can hang on without it."

Jesse raised a questioning eyebrow at Cheryl and Amanda, but continued calmly, "Now, see, here's the deal - the idea isn't to waste more of your energy on trying to fight the pain. The meds are supposed to kill some of the pain so that you can relax and recover."

"I don't need them."

This time Jesse sat very still and looked hard at him, hearing something underneath the stubbornness - a note almost of incipient hysteria. "Yeah, well, okay." He plucked up a smile that was almost as fake as Steve's. "Then let's at least get you a new bag of saline anyway, huh? You need to stay hydrated. Come on." He reached for Steve's arm to help him up.

Steve froze, thoughts visibly churning behind his eyes. "I'm going to stay here."

Jesse sighed patiently. "Steve, you can't. You need to lie down. And your Dad needs to see you - he's worried - c'mon, imagine how he feels." The bicep under his hand went as rigid as stone. Jesse scrunched his brows together, looking from Amanda to Cheryl for help - insight - anything. He caught Amanda's eyes and jerked his head meaningfully towards the ICU nurse's station. Amanda slipped quietly away in that direction. Jesse watched her go, mindlessly patting Steve's arm.

She was back only a short time later and the syringe in her hand was casually concealed, but Steve caught sight of it anyway and tried to jerk his arm away from Jesse's grasp. "Jesse - no - I don't want to sleep!"

The confession sounded as if it had been torn from him and Jesse stared, shocked, his own jaw working. After a second he got up from the arm of the sofa and squatted in front of Steve, resting his hands lightly on his knees. "Look, I know you've been through a lot, buddy, but I'm only trying to help, okay? Let me help. You've really got to get some rest."

Steve must have noticed how shaken Jesse was, because he gave him a desperate, apologetic look and made a visible effort to pull himself together. "I - had this dream," he muttered in a low voice.

Jesse held his eyes, tightening his grip on Steve's knee. Cheryl swallowed hard at the tension knotting his face, wishing there was something she could do to help, but despite his obvious distress, Jesse's voice was calm and soothing. "Yeah, okay, I get it. Maybe I have something that will help with that. Now, will you let me get you back to your Dad?"

Steve turned to look at Cheryl, the pulse in his neck beating fast and furious. Cheryl tried to summon a reassuring smile, knowing he was too embarrassed to admit to Jesse and Amanda what he had half-inadvertently confessed to her.

"It'll be okay, Steve." She tried to smile. "You know how things are always worse in your head. You'll feel better if you talk to your Dad. I really think so."

Steve opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes suddenly widened. He turned his head sharply to stare accusingly at Jesse.

Jesse was efficiently finishing emptying the syringe into Steve's thigh, his face showing guiltily that he considered himself the worst kind of traitor.

"I know, I know - " He avoided Steve's eyes and handed the empty syringe back to Amanda. "Dirty trick, and you can kill me once you're back on your feet, but first I have to make sure you GET back on your feet. You're getting yourself all worked up and spiking your fever. I need to settle you down."

Steve opened his mouth again to retort, closed it, his eyes suddenly losing focus. He gripped the arm of the sofa. "I - " he blinked, seemed to collapse in on himself.

Jesse held onto his other wrist, counting, shook his head. "Man, you're fighting it. Just take a couple of deep breaths for me."

Steve swiveled, trying to get a glimpse of Cletus. "I - " He closed his eyes, dragged them open again. "Let - let me walk…"

"Yeah, like you could even manage that."

"No - wheelchair…"

"Wheelchair? Nothing but the best for you - you'll be traveling in style, by gurney. Come on - another deep breath."

Cheryl gave his arm a squeeze, trying to draw his eyes away from the ICU cubicle. "Hey, I'll look into things for you, okay? You talk to your Dad."

Steve blinked uncertainly at her. "Tell - Dad - sorry…" His eyes drifted closed.

"That's better," Jesse's tone was light, but surprisingly gentle. "In a little while you'll be able to tell him yourself. Just let it go…"

Steve struggled with his lids. "Jess - "

"Yeah. I'm not going anywhere. You just relax - your ride's here."

"I wanted - " Steve's eyes rolled back in his head.

"That's better. Say good night, Gracie." Jesse peeled back one lid to check, then folded the blanket more tightly around him and smoothed it down, finishing with a pat. "Yup. That does it. Orderly - ?"

A pair of orderlies standing nearby, just out of sight, moved forward with a gurney and began to load Steve as efficiently as if he weighed nothing. Jesse crossed his arms tightly over his chest and watched, his face miserable.

Cheryl watched him. "You okay?"

Jesse looked at her in surprise, as if he'd almost forgotten she was there. "No," he admitted baldly. "Not really." He shrugged, trying to shake something off. "Sometimes the personal and professional don't mix so well." He caught the eye of one of the orderlies, nodded in the general direction of the elevator. "I'm coming too."

Cheryl watched them go, thinking that he looked as though he could use a nap himself. She glanced down and caught sight of her notebook lying open on the sofa, made a face. Damn. How could she have forgotten to take Steve's statement?

She picked it up with a measured sigh, stuffed it into her pocket.

"Yeah," she agreed tiredly. "I know what you mean."