Chapter Twelve: Midnight Vigil and a Talk
As two burly orderlies wheeled his son's inert body into the room, Mark levered himself into a sitting position, ignoring the concomitant pains such abrupt movement caused in his battered body. His face bleached to a fair imitation of Steve's pallor as he noted the limp immobility that bespoke the forced unconsciousness of drugs rather than the natural relaxation of sleep.
Jesse followed the gurney into the room and proceeded to bustle round the bed as Steve was transferred, humming in a totally transparent effort to deflect Mark's concern.
"Jess?" Anxiety sharpened the query in Mark's voice to a point of acerbity which prodded uncomfortably at Jesse's conscience.
"He's fine," Jesse chirped brightly in response to the unspoken question but, behind the privacy of his own back, he winced both at the banality of his statement and the futility of his pretense.
"Jesse, what tests could you possibly have had run that needed anesthesia?" Mark exclaimed as Jesse's evasion only increased his worry.
"He's not been anesthetized," Jesse was floundering and he knew it but made one last-ditch attempt to keep his head above water. "He was just over-doing it, you know, so I had to give him a sedative."
Mark was obviously not placated by the distinction. "Over-doing what?" he demanded in exasperation.
Jesse went down for the third time and spluttered a confession. "Seems that Steve self-prescribed himself some exercise and wanted to go down to see how Cletus was doing, so he just upped and went for a walk, taking his IV pole with him. Then..." Jesse's babbling exposition faltered as he realised he couldn't possibly explain Steve's reluctance to return to his room. Jesse's recent actions, although motivated purely by concern for Steve, had caused him to feel enough guilt for his treachery without compounding the offense by further betrayal of his friend's painful confidences. "I guess he didn't have enough steam to get back by himself," he finished lamely. "So we..." A busily gesturing finger described through the air passage onto the gurney and off again as his words trailed off.
Despite Jesse's reticence on the issue, Mark seemed to understand everything that had been left unsaid. His eyes rested on his son, lying still and vulnerable on the bed, and Jesse could read the pained empathy and unfailing love contained in their blue depths. There was also something in that determined expression that Jesse found reassuring. Whatever demons were haunting Steve, Mark wouldn't rest until he'd plucked each one from the shadows of his son's mind and wrestled it into submission.
Jesse knew that Steve had never succeeded in hiding anything from his father's gimlet eye. Come to think of it, neither had anyone else. As if reading his mind, Mark switched his gaze to scrutinise his young colleague again.
"So, no tests?" he enquired with a glint of humour.
"Not one," Jesse admitted with a shameless grin; then, to clear up any medical apprehensions Mark might be harboring, he shifted into a more professional mode. "Physically," the word was stressed, "he's doing fine, all things considered. His temperature's up, but that's to be expected and I've given him something for that. What he really needs is rest, and the sedative will hopefully ensure that he sleeps through the night. His injuries, taken individually, are relatively superficial; it's only the cumulative effect that is worrying."
Mark knew that Jesse was right, but even still, the memory of tending to his son's bloodied and beaten body decimated any comfort he might have received from that notion. His imagination lingered uncomfortably on the acquisition of those injuries.
"How is Cletus doing?" he asked abruptly.
"He's been upgraded to serious. I think he'll be fine," Jesse observed in a neutral tone.
Mark nodded, relieved for Steve's sake, but unable to summon up much concern for the man himself.
"Anyway," Jesse continued brightly, unsure how Mark would take his next announcement, "I won't be in to check on you guys until tomorrow evening, but Dr. Patil will be taking care of you during the day."
Mark was surprised. It was unusual for Jesse to shift the burden of Steve's care to another while he was in the hospital. "I'm sure a rest is a good idea; you've been busy recently," he commented carefully.
"Well, actually I'm going to be moonlighting, except it's during the day so I suppose technically that would make it sunlighting," Jesse laughed a trifle nervously.
"What are you up to?" Mark asked suspiciously.
"I've got a part-time job. I filled out the paperwork last week and they're really short-handed so I start tomorrow," he finished in a rush.
"Doing what, Jess?" Mark wasn't reassured by his young friend's obvious uncertainty.
"I'm going to be a substitute teacher at South Gate Senior High School."
Mark's mouth dropped open slightly and his mind flashed through a variety of responses, from a suggestion as to why the schools were so desperate for substitutes to a remark on the impossibility of holding down two jobs at once, but the comment that actually left his lips was characteristic. "I wish I'd thought of that." An admiring smile curved his lips.
Relived, Jesse smiled back. "You probably would have if you hadn't been so focused on finding Steve these past few days. Anyway, I'm substituting for the Biology teacher."
Mark regarded his young colleague thoughtfully. Many people underestimated Jesse Travis; his small stature and friendly, eager manner were deceptive, but anyone who'd seen his competent and commanding work in the stressful environment of the emergency room would not make that mistake again. However, he didn't look much older than the kids he'd be teaching, and a class of high-school kids could be more brutal and pitiless than the most hardened criminal, so there was concern in his voice as he advised, "Be careful, Jess. Keep your ears open, but don't try anything by yourself."
From the eager anticipation in Jesse's face, Mark felt that the young doctor's personal education in a Minnesota high school must have been light-years from the typical experiences found in downtown Los Angeles. However, he said nothing more to dim Jesse's obvious enthusiasm.
He persuaded Jesse to remove his IV line, convincing him that he would sleep better unencumbered by wires, then the young doctor left with a final injunction to Mark to get some sleep, since his son would need him the next day.
Amanda joined Mark for supper, smuggling in a more attractive dessert than the ubiquitous jello, and she updated him on Cheryl's latest investigations. Although she didn't directly discuss Steve's recent excursion, she did drop enough hints to confirm Mark's earlier suspicions as to his son's frame of mind.
Mark had slept sufficiently during the day so as not to feel too tired, which proved fortuitous since he wasn't destined to sleep much that night. A slight noise woke him from a light doze and, for a moment, he lay still, thinking the sound had emanated from the corridor beyond their room, although he had been successfully filtering out the background clamor of the hospital. Fond thoughts of returning to sleep burnt away like the last wisps of morning fog in the full heat of the sun as the sound was repeated. It was merely a whisper: "Dad."
Mark craned his neck in an attempt to assess his son's condition, but there wasn't enough light to see anything more than the fact that Steve was still propped up on his side facing the wall, to spare his back the pressure of lying on his injuries. It looked like Steve was still asleep, but before Mark could lie down, another sound, indistinguishable in content but clearly anguished in nature, reached him, and Mark swung his legs around and was out of bed before even thinking about the decision to stand up. His movements proved too hasty, and he swayed dizzily, grabbing hold of a chair to avoid pitching forward on his face.
The combination of forced inactivity, drugs and even, he admitted to himself, his injuries, meant his legs seemed to buckle and waiver untrustworthily under him, and he used the furniture as support to wend his way to the other side of Steve's bed where he collapsed into the chair, so thoughtfully placed there, with a sigh of relief. Steve was indeed still asleep, but the rapid shiver of his eyes beneath closed eyelids and the small convulsive twitches of his tense body informed Mark he was in the throes of a nightmare.
"Sorry." The whisper forced itself out between dry lips as Steve's head moved restlessly against the pillow, and Mark responded instinctively to the pained uncertainty contained in that low voice, grasping Steve's hand, unsurprised by the dry warmth that indicated his son still harbored a fever.
"Sshhh, it's okay, you're safe now, go back to sleep." In the dark of the room, he was irresistibly carried on a backwash of memory to the long-distant times when his sleep had been interrupted by the advent of night-terrors, and he automatically reached out a hand and gently brushed back a few strands of hair, soothing his son as if he were still that child.
Somewhat to his surprise, Steve stilled under his touch, sinking back into a deeper sleep, and Mark's heart ached with tenderness at that instinctive trust. Aware that he'd not banished Steve's troubles, merely temporarily subdued them, Mark stood sentinel over his sleeping son's unconscious mind, repeated his reassurances as nightmares stirred repeatedly through the long hours. It was no burden. After the endless, painful days of uncertainty, fearing he might never see his son again, it was comforting to indulge all his senses in his son's continuing existence.
In the early morning, Steve's fever finally broke, and true healing sleep banished the nightmares. Mark, too weary to attempt the journey back to his own bed, pillowed his head on his arms and was almost immediately snoring.
That's where Steve found him when dawn crashed through the windows, waking him abruptly. His dread of facing his father vanished completely in his immediate concern for Mark's well-being. "Dad! Are you alright?"
Mark stirred, looking up and blinking blearily. "I'm fine," he insisted automatically. He rubbed his eyes in an effort to bring his son's face into focus. "Yes, well rested," he elaborated. He hoped nobody would call him on this bluff by asking him to relocate to his bed, since his body was too stiff to attempt anything more strenuous than sitting. He stretched, trying to make the motion look leisurely rather than necessary, but Steve wasn't fooled.
"Don't tell me you've been there all night!"
"I won't," Mark reassured him amiably, then before Steve could call him on this minor evasion, he launched a mild counterattack. "You're not the only one who can make unauthorised jaunts out of bed. Mine at least kept me in the room."
Something flickered warily at the back of Steve's eyes, and he glanced down, straightening his sheets. "You heard about that, did you?"
"Well it wasn't so much hearing about it as it was being the one to fill out a missing persons report on you. I was getting worried."
"I'm sorry, I just ..." Steve's voice trailed off, not wanting to venture into that territory, but Mark didn't seem to notice, continuing on conversationally.
"Jesse should know by now that he needs to tie you up with restraints if he wants you to stay put. Personally, I'm thinking of fitting you with some kind of locator so I know where you are at all times."
"There are occasions when that would have come in useful," Steve admitted ruefully, relaxing unconsciously under the gentle teasing.
Mark sobered abruptly. "Steve, I'm so sorry."
Steve's jaw dropped slightly, bewildered by the turn of the conversation. He felt like he'd just been pushed through the looking glass and now everything was backwards. He should be familiar with the sensation after all these years with his father, but it still disconcerted him. He had feared accusation and recriminations or at least sombre disappointment and instead, his father was apologising to him.
"What for?" he asked cautiously, untangling his IV line so he could try to sit up, feeling he could better face the contortions of his father's mind in an upright position.
"I should have found you earlier. All that you...they..."
"Dad." Seeing his father's very real distress pulled Steve out his self-absorption and helped put things back in perspective. The past few days must have been horrific for Mark with the burden of his son's life placed squarely on his shoulders. "Hey, it wasn't for lack of trying. I always knew you'd come through for me. And just in time too." His expression twisted at the memory of Mark pulling him off Cletus' prostrate body.
"No, not in time," Mark said sadly, touching his son's back gently as a reminder of the abuse Steve had suffered before he was found.
Wanting to remove the sorrow from his father's eyes, Steve reached down and squeezed his knee. "You did the best you could, Dad."
The words hung in the air between them, a reassurance and a promise of understanding but as Mark made no attempt to reply, merely regarding him seriously, Steve suddenly realised where his father's devious mind had led them and that the issue he'd wanted to avoid was somehow already exposed between them.
"It's not the same!" he protested weakly. "How did you . . . why aren't you . . . you have to be disappointed in me!" he burst out, suddenly arriving at the heart of the matter he'd have danced around for hours if Mark had tried a less subtle approach.
"I've never been disappointed in you. I've never been anything but proud of you, personally and professionally," Mark insisted. The sentiment of approbation always felt but so rarely voiced was clearly sincere and fell like balm on Steve's injured self-respect, although guilt still insisted he deny himself the comfort.
"You should be," he persisted. "I nearly killed a man, an unarmed man."
"Okay," Mark said agreeably. "Let's look at that. Was he always unarmed?"
"No, of course not."
"Was he unarmed at the beginning of that specific altercation?" Mark persisted.
"No," Steve admitted grudgingly.
"Was he surrendering?"
"No."
Steve's monosyllabic answers were beginning to make Mark feel like a prosecuting attorney facing a hostile witness, but he also felt his son's desperate need to believe and the strength of guilt holding him back. He wasn't trying to stonewall, it was just difficult for him to talk about.
Mark continued patiently, trying to build up a picture of events in his head. "Was the gun near enough for him to retrieve at any time?"
Steve's eyes were unfocused, reliving the painful, confused experience. "I managed to disarm him, the gun was on the ground. I thought it was over; I never intended to hurt him, but then he said, 'now we're even,' and threw a punch, and before I knew it..."
Mark shook his arm to recall him to the present, and compelled him with his penetrating blue eyes to really listen. "Cletus may not have been young, but he was strong and brutal with it. He may have been unarmed, but, except for a few fragments of makeshift buckshot, some of which you were also carrying in your leg, he was also uninjured. You were not. Do you need me to give you a list of your injuries? Because I can, in great detail."
Each of his son's wounds was etched indelibly in his mind's eye, and at the memory, he had to fight down outraged nausea for what his son had suffered. His throat tightened, forcing the words out in heated and increasing volume. Realising he'd just shouted at Steve, he held a hand out in wordless apology, but his son seemed to understand that the anger was not aimed at him.
"I'm going to be okay, Dad," he confirmed softly.
"No thanks to him," Mark jerked his head in the approximate direction of the ICU, regretting the abrupt movement as his vision swam and blurred.
"Two wrongs don't make a right. You taught me that." Steve's voice was regretful. "Dad, I appreciate what you're trying to say and I know you've got a point." After a good night's sleep and with his mind unimpaired by fever, Steve could indeed regard his actions from a more detached perspective and appreciate the fact that there were mitigating factors. Most of all, the knowledge of his father's undiminished respect had healed the most acute of his fears, and if he hadn't been so off balance he would have known that nothing could have diminished his father's love; it was the one fixed, unchanging point in his universe. However, with a clarity he had not formerly possessed, he still believed that the injuries he had inflicted on Cletus were inexcusable.
"The truth is, Dad, that whatever condition he was in or I was in, it was still excessive. I was totally out of control and nearly killed a man, and I don't see how that makes me any better than him."
His tongue was dry with the disgust of that assertion, the words sucking the moisture from his mouth, and he turned away from Mark and shakily poured some water into the plastic cup that stood on his nightstand.
Mark choked back the rebuttal that sprang to his lips and waited patiently for his son to face him again, but the bottom of Steve's water cup must have suddenly manifested an object of great interest. Finally, Mark reached over and grabbed Steve's hand, pulling his attention back forcefully.
"You're nothing like him. The very fact that we're having this conversation and you're having so much trouble reconciling your actions proves you're nothing like him. You're an honourable and caring man, forced into an untenable situation through no fault of your own. Don't even think of comparing yourself to that violent, abusive man."
Seeing the pain still lurking in his son's eyes, Mark sought for an argument cogent enough to remove the residual self-doubt. "Steve, I swear to you that if I'd had the opportunity up on that mountain, my actions would not have been much different from yours."
A disbelieving smile tugged at the corners of Steve's mouth. "You're the most gentle man I know, you'd never..."
"You're wrong," Mark cut in firmly. The mental image of Malcolm Trainer taunting him with threats to Steve's life flashed into his mind. His reaction then had been unequivocal, he'd gone for the man's throat. "Not only have I had similar impulses, I've also tried to carry them through. The difference between us," his mouth tipped wryly, "is that I don't have the physical capability to carry it through. Anyone can be pushed beyond their limits. I'm telling you that each of your friends who saw you up there felt the same impulse when we realised how he'd treated you."
"Cheryl said the same thing," Steve murmured uncertainly. He leaned back against the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to integrate this new concept into the confusion of his thoughts.
He could feel Mark gripping his hand tightly, his voice low and almost hypnotic. "You need to believe me, Steve. Don't let him win; you've not been diminished by this. You're still the same good man you've always been. You have to accept that and let it go."
Steve was trying, but his mind threw up one more roadblock. He opened his eyes, staring into his father's compassionate gaze. "If I hadn't hurt him so badly he needed to be airlifted off, we wouldn't have been stuck there and you wouldn't have got hurt."
"Steve!" his father scolded him in affectionate exasperation. "You cannot accept responsibility for my stupidity. You have to understand. I wasn't thinking straight either. I was so angry and I didn't have the option of thumping Cletus." He hung on to Steve's hand as his son flinched in shock, needing him to understand. "I needed an outlet for my anger too."
Mark's common sense was steadily assuaging his feelings of shame, and Steve could feel the tension beginning to leach out of his own muscles, but this relaxation also forced out his last concern. He blinked, closed his eyes, then looked up resolutely. "What if I do it again?"
To his relief, Mark didn't merely dismiss his concern. "God forbid these circumstances should ever be repeated."
"But it's not the first time I've lost control," Steve confessed, his forehead creased in apprehension at sharing that revelation
"What happened?"
"When we arrested Rosser, I...well, they had to pull me off him."
Mark merely looked interested. "You never told me," was his only comment.
"I suppose I never really felt that guilty over it," Steve admitted. "I mean, he tried to kill you." Now the episode took on more worrying overtones.
Mark had to suppress a smile at Steve's reasoning. Clearly, being severely beaten himself was not sufficient motivation for retaliation, but an attack on his father was.
"Well, let's hope those circumstances never repeat themselves either," he offered lightly.
The highly incredulous look on Steve's face dragged a smile out of Mark as he recognised the dubious nature of that wish, but he persevered doggedly. "Excessive force is not in your nature. So, in your long career there have been a couple of times when exceptional circumstances have forced uncharacteristic actions. That doesn't make you a bad cop or a bad person. I suppose the bottom line is that I trust you and know you will always make the right decisions."
Steve's eyes fastened on his father and held his so long that, if it had been anyone else, Mark might have felt uncomfortable. As it was, he held his son's gaze steadily and convincingly until it relaxed in surrender.
"You win, Dad. Maybe it wasn't totally unforgivable. Just give me some time to come to terms with things. There is, however, one thing that I really need to do."
Mark looked at him expectantly.
"I want to bail Donald out." Somewhat to his surprise, Mark just nodded, but Steve still felt the need to justify himself. "I guess I need to talk to him, and he deserves to be nearby while his father's a patient."
It was only a partial explanation, but he felt unable to fully articulate his reasons. He knew it would be hell for him to be held in jail while Mark was recovering from serious injuries and wanted no part of inflicting that on another person. Although Donald may have precipitated the chain of events, he'd also helped save Steve's life, and being locked up was scant reward.
"I'll pay his bail," Mark offered, and the last of Steve's anxiety dissipated at the understanding he heard in his father's voice.
Mark stretched, trying to unknot muscles that had been wound way too tight with the tension of the conversation, and Steve's eyes tracked over his father's pale face, noting the black circles of weariness smudged under the blue eyes, the pain lines noticeable at the side of his mouth.
"You're not looking too good. Why don't you go and lie down," he suggested solicitously.
Mark eyed his bed with longing, but it seemed as inaccessible as a far-off galaxy. Collapsing en route would merely cause a resurgence of Steve's guilt which he had worked so hard to dispel.
"Actually, I'm quite comfortable here," he replied brightly.
Steve regarded him suspiciously. "You think that chair's more comfortable than a bed?"
"Well, the air-conditioning is blowing too hard on my bed; it's warmer over here," Mark improvised.
"Even so, I bet Jesse will have a fit if he comes in to find you sitting there."
"Oh, talking about Jesse," Mark seized upon the distraction with fervour. "He's not coming in this morning, and you'll never guess why."
Steve wasn't so easily sidetracked. "Is there any reason why you can't tell me while you're lying down in bed?"
Mark cast around frantically for another plausible excuse or at least a diverting one. "My leg's gone to sleep," he explained feebly. Seeing that Steve was unimpressed, he continued, waving at his bare feet, "and the floor's cold."
From the quizzical stare he was receiving from his son, he realised he was busted, so he opted for distraction. "The view is better from here. Besides, my bed was too high, I was getting vertigo over there"
Steve's eyebrow was crawling up his forehead, but Mark spotted the reluctant curl of his lips and continued, encouraged. "The TV remote doesn't work over there."
"And we know that 6am is just a great time for TV viewing," Steve agreed sardonically.
"The bathroom's closer, and I think I saw a spider near my bed," Mark continued defiantly.
"I'll call animal control."
"And I'm a decrepit invalid who should never have left his bed in the first place," Mark muttered.
"Ah hah." Steve pounced on that one.
Mark regarded him with disfavour. "You were supposed to miss that in the swirl of misinformation." He continued more solemnly. "Basically I'm fine, I've just stiffened up a bit and don't want to make a fool of myself by kissing the floor."
"Good thing you got clonked on the head," Steve said affectionately. "You might've gotten hurt otherwise."
Steve summoned a nurse who helped Mark to the bathroom then back to his bed. Breakfast arrived shortly afterwards, and the two ate in companionable silence. They were chatting amiably about inconsequentials unrelated to recent events when Cheryl arrived. She hovered just outside the doorway, unobtrusively observing the amazing transformation in her partner, unable to detect the haunted man of the day before in the quietly smiling patient on the bed. She had no difficulty identifying the architect of this miracle, but resisted the urge to say 'I told you so' as Mark waved her into the room.
"Hey, partner," she greeted Steve cheerfully. "Looks like you got more sleep than I did, thank you very much."
Steve looked puzzled at the genial accusation in her voice, his memory of their previous conversation a distant and drug-hazed blur.
"I spent a large portion of the night researching that problem you insisted I work on." She waved a file in the air. "Mary-Jane Baxter, official cause of death: heroin overdose. Body was more or less unrecognisable since it had been submerged in the bay for several days before discovery. Identified by Cletus Baxter, partially through a misshapen foot."
"Why did Cletus make the identification not Donald?" Mark inquired.
"No idea; I suppose he was out of town. The file doesn't say."
Mark nodded thoughtfully, but made no further comment.
Steve smiled his gratitude. "Thanks, Cheryl. I appreciate your hard work. There's just one more thing you could do for me."
Cheryl looked resigned. "What is it? It's not like I have anything better to do than run errands for you."
Steve ignored her cheerful sarcasm. "We want to bail Donald out. Can you put that into motion for us?"
She threw her hands in the air. "Well, why not. I arrested the guy, why not bail him out too -- one-stop shopping Cheryl Banks! Are you sure you want to do that?"
"He's no flight risk," Mark asserted confidently. "His father's here in hospital, his son's in jail. He's not going anywhere and he could be helpful in the investigation."
Cheryl looked skeptical but accepted his answer. She took a deep breath, hating to be the one to reintroduce the spectre of violence back into the room. "Before I go, I'm afraid I have to take your statement, partner."
Apart from one involuntary glance across at his father, Steve didn't react overtly. However, the skin seemed to tighten over the bones of his face, giving him a gaunt, bleached appearance as he nodded slowly.
"I could take a little trip down to the doctor's lounge," Mark offered gently.
"Thanks, Dad, but I'd actually like you to be here if you don't mind. I only want to have to do this once, and you should know what happened."
As Steve commenced his report in colourless, measured tones, Mark could feel rage tightening his chest, making it difficult to breathe. However, he sat motionless, suppressing his own anger, knowing an outburst on his part would not help his son. He wished he was still sitting next to Steve, in a position to offer comfort. Cheryl's face also looked pale, but she retained her composure behind a mask of professionalism. It was going to be a long ordeal for all of them.
Sloans' Deck
Jesse hitched his backpack further up his shoulder, ignoring the doubtful look the secretary cast his way which seemed to suggest she thought he was a student masquerading as a teacher. He listened to her instructions.
"This is your ID badge, keep it on at all times. Here are the lesson plans Mrs. Bertolli left for you. Go down the corridor, turn right, go up the stairs, turn right again, down the hall, and it's at the end on your left."
Jesse smiled at her brightly and thanked her, trying to keep the abundance of directions straight in his head, then he squeezed out of the door into the crowded hallway where the mass of shouting students, far too many of them taller than he was, pushed and jostled to their next stop. Jesse flowed with the tide, then fought his way across to approach the stairs. When he reached his destination, adrenaline was already surging through his system, and he pushed open the lab door with a flourish to face the students inside.
