Fathers and Sons, pt. 3

"… but it's love that wrote the play, for in this darkness love can show the way." - David Wilcox

"Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13.

xxxx

"We've found them."

The agent's grim face had alerted Sandy to the fact that in spite of the seemingly good news, something was not right. He'd woken Kirsten, and they'd left Seth sleeping soundly in their room.

As they started down the stairs toward the kitchen, Special Agent in Charge Jack Martin began in a low tone, "There's a cabin in the Sierra Madres they've holed up in. Couple of boys out skippin' school came across them a couple of days ago. One of the kids finally cracked – he was afraid to tell his parents, but his conscience ultimately caught up with him."

Sandy nodded numbly, hoping that his foggy brain would clear and he'd be able to process this rationally.

Kirsten asked eagerly, "Is he OK? Do we have him back?"

"No, we don't have him." Jack shook his head.

"I don't know if he's OK, Kirsten. I'm sorry." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "We have a problem, actually. Local p.d. couldn't leave well enough alone, and they went out there, trying to be heroes. Atwood and his men killed one of them; wounded another." He looked over at Sandy. "We're in a stand off."

"What?" Sandy was incredulous. "Jack…"

"I'm sorry."

"What does that mean? What's being done?" Kirsten had paled, clutching Sandy's hand as they went into the kitchen.

Sandy's eyes were fixed on the open face of the man he'd known for almost 20 years. He and Jack Martin had been on opposite sides of almost every issue in law school – Sandy, the son of a Jewish social worker from the Bronx, Jack, the son of a Baptist preacher from Birmingham, Alabama . But the two young men had personified Shakespeare's words in The Taming of the Shrew, "And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends." In spite of their differences, Sandy and Jack had trusted each other, believed in one another's integrity, understood the other's convictions.

Ultimately their shared passion for justice had led them to different sides of the law. Sandy had chosen public defense, Jack prosecution. But their friendship had remained steady if distant over the years.

Jack's career had taken him to the FBI after years as a federal prosecutor. He'd risen to the rank of Assistant Director in charge of domestic terrorism. Ryan's case had landed on his desk because of the tie with three ex-cons associated with one of the hate groups his office tracked. When he'd seen Sandy's name listed as guardian – seen the Chrismukkah picture he still had on his refrigerator with the Cohens' grins, Ryan's shy, somehow wondering smile – Jack had been on the next plane to California to oversee things personally.

"Sandy." Jack put a hand on his friend's elbow, steering him and Kirsten to the kitchen table. He looked at one of the agents, leaning against a counter. "Coffee?" Nodding, the man poured two cups and set them in front of the Cohens, who had obediently sat down in the chairs Jack pulled out for them. Hands shaking, Sandy cradled the mug.

"What do we do?" He looked at Kirsten's drawn face and back at his friend.

"I'm headed out there right now."

"I'm coming with you."

"Sandy…"

"Jack, if you think I'm going to sit here and wait when we know where he is, when I can be there, you…"

"Agent Martin?"

Jack transferred his disturbed scowl from Sandy to the young woman standing in the doorway.

"What, Agent Bristow?" he snapped.

"Could I…?" she held a cell phone in her hand, and motioned with her head toward the living room.

Sighing, he stood. "I'll be right back. Sandy, I don't think it's a good idea for you to come. Kirsten, would you please…?" He trailed off, asking with his eyes for her to talk sense to her husband. Kirsten's own eyes were non-committal.

Sandy reached for Kirsten, pulling her out of her chair, into his arms. He held her for a long minute, gaining strength from the feel of her.

"I can't not go," he whispered.

"I know," she said, pressing her face into his neck.

They looked up when Jack re-entered the room.

"Dave Atwood has asked for you."

xxxx

He'd heard cursing and gunfire, the sound of something hitting the walls, and sluggishly, he'd pulled himself tighter into a ball, still huddled in the corner he'd been consigned to days before. He didn't know what was happening, but the chaos around him had him instinctively trying to make himself smaller, to remove himself from whatever was going on around him.

Ryan knew that he was in bad shape. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the last bit of awareness that he was clinging to told him he was almost done. He was no longer sure what was real and what was imagined in this hell he'd found himself in.

The words if he takes you he knew we'll find you were real we won't let you go; but it was harder and harder to hold on to them – they slipped out of his grasp, evaded him, danced, sometimes, just out of reach, taunting him.

But somehow we'll find you when he forgot we won't let you go even then we'll find you he knew they were true. But it was getting so hard.

Now, the noise was over and Ryan felt, again, a hand on his shoulder, lifting him up, someone telling him to stand. He struggled, stumbled, was held, supported.

"Because, God damn it, he's going to be in the way out here, Dave." Billy, Ryan thought, muzzily. "I'm putting him in the back room."

His father said something harsh.

"You gonna be sleepin' a lot, now that the cops are on to us?" Billy spat. "You don't need the goddamn bed."

Ryan felt himself propelled forward, went where he was directed.

"Here." Ryan stopped, sat unsteadily, was lowered onto a mattress, felt his legs lifted, placed on the bed. He curled into a ball, tight against the headboard. Something soft covered him, and Ryan clutched it, pulling the blanket close. A hand brushing his forehead, ice cold against its heat, a sigh. The sound of the door clicking shut. And he was alone.

We'llfindyouwe'llfindyouwe'llfindyouwe'llfindyouwe'llfindyouwe'llfindyouwe'llfindyou.

Wewon'tletyougo.

xxxx

"Sandy, you know what this man believes. You can't put yourself in his hands." Jack's eyes went to Kirsten, white-faced and frozen by the sink. "He'll kill you."

Sandy looked at his wife where she'd fled out of his arms after Jack's announcement. She stood stiffly, arms crossed over her chest, staring out the window toward the pool house.

"We don't know that, Jack," he said softly, eyes never leaving Kirsten's still frame.

"Yes, we do, Sandy. We do know that. Let us handle this. This guy hates you for just being you. Never mind your connection to his son…."

"He's our son." Kirsten's soft voice stopped Jack cold.

She turned.

Her eyes when they met Sandy's were tragic. She knew the risk; knew there was a possibility she was trading Sandy for Ryan. But they had no choice.

"Bring him home, Sandy."

He crossed the room to her. Drew her close. "Bring him home."

xxxx

They'd told Seth only that Sandy was going with Jack to follow a lead.

There was something in his parents' somberness that frightened Seth. "You're not identifying a body or something, are you?" Seth was pale, bruises standing out starkly on his cheeks.

"Oh, baby, no." Kirsten hurried to wrap her arms around Seth. "It's nothing like that, sweetie. Daddy's just going to help Jack with something." She ran comforting hands up and down his back. "You don't need to worry, sweetie. Everything's going to be OK."

Seth nodded against his mother's neck, too overwhelmed to do anything but take her at her word. After a long moment, he raised his head and put his chin on her shoulder, watched his father with solemn brown eyes. Sandy moved forward, putting his arms around his wife and his son. Everything's going to be OK.

xxxx

"Here."

Sandy took back the shirt that he'd surrendered to the technical people just a few moments before. Awkwardly, he shrugged back into it.

"We've sewn a mic into the collar here." The young man in riot gear touched the spot briefly. "We'll be able to pick up you and anyone within a 20 foot radius."

"Will I be able to hear you?" Sandy worked on the buttons, his hands not quite steady.

Jack shook his head, eyes unhappy as the agents prepped Sandy to go into the cabin.

"There's no way they'll detect the mic, but if you have something in your ear, we're afraid it will give you away. Sandy…"

"Seriously?" Sandy raised his voice to override his friend. "I watch Alias. Don't you guys have any of those cool gadgets?"

There was a round of polite chuckles.

"That's the CIA, dude," the young man helping him snickered. A smack on the back of the head by his supervisor straightened him out. "I mean, sir," he corrected.

Sandy grinned at the kid, slapping him on the back. Jack shook his head. "Yeah. Does Jones here look like Jennifer Garner?"

They shared a moment of easy camaraderie. And then the pall settled again.

"You ready?" Jack asked softly.

Sandy nodded. "Let's go."

xxxx

The door opened slightly.

"Cohen?"

Sandy nodded, unable to see anything at all through the slender crack that opened into the dark house.

The door swung the rest of the way open, and Sandy stepped in.

xxxx

He'd been patted down roughly and pushed up against the wall. Sandy struggled to make out the man in front of him, but it was too dark. He was managing to keep his breathing steady, though he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

"Where's Ryan?" Sandy was relieved – his voice was even, too.

Silence.

"Where is he?" The anger that had been boiling, unseen by anyone for almost a week, began to spill over. "Where is my son?" The question came out of his mouth without thought, frustration and fear making him careless.

"Your son?" The voice came from Sandy's right. Not from the man who held him now, who had searched him. Sandy swiveled his head in the direction of the voice. He forced himself to relax.

"Where's Ryan?" he asked again, calmer. He would not get into a pissing contest with this unseen man who was probably Ryan's father. Not now. Not yet. He locked his rage down again, willing himself to wait.

There was another long pause.

"He's in the back."

If there was a gesture, Sandy didn't see it, but the hand that had been flat against his chest, holding him against the wall, suddenly gripped his shirt and pulled him forward, leading him deeper into the house.

When they stopped, Sandy's eyes had adjusted some to the dark, and he could make out a pale line on the floor, the gray light from another room seeping out from under a door. The door swung open, and Sandy was pushed into the room. The door closed sharply behind him. Heart beating wildly, Sandy stood frozen, listening, trying to get his bearings.

He groped to his left, hoping for a light switch and heard the rustle of cloth against cloth somewhere in front of him and the soft uneven sound of a breath being drawn.

He stopped, ears straining.

"Ryan?" he whispered.

"Sandy…" Ryan's voice was disoriented, weak.

"Thank God," Sandy breathed, crossing the space in three long strides, reaching the bed that he could just make out now in the pale light. He crouched at the bedside, looking for a lamp, anything that would let him see.

Finally, Sandy noticed the lamp on the bedside table and he reached under the shade, fumbling for the switch, even as he reached out with his other hand toward Ryan.

"It's OK, sweetheart," he soothed, voice starting to shake.

Sandy's clumsy fingers managed to manipulate the knob on the lamp and a gentle light flooded the room.

Sandy drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Ryan. Even listening to the tape of Seth's statement to the police had not prepared him for the battered child in front of him. Sandy touched Ryan's cheek, his shoulder, wondered distantly if Dave had continued to beat Ryan after they'd left the house, if that would account for the damage.

Or if the man had done this while Ryan had been at Sandy's house, under his protection, where he'd thought his children were safe. Had he'd failed so miserably to provide a place where his sons could live without fear of being hurt like this?

Ryan was crouched against the headboard, and he blinked groggily at Sandy. His blue eyes were glazed and jewel bright against his flushed cheeks. It was hard to tell how much of the redness burnishing his skin was from the fever and how much was from contact with his father's fists. One eye was swelled mostly closed, and his lower lip had been split it a couple of places. Sandy reached out a hand to cup Ryan's cheek, wincing at the heat the boy was giving off.

Sandy ran his eyes quickly over Ryan, looking for more injuries. He knew the right arm was going to be a problem, and he gently eased off the blanket Ryan had wrapped around his shoulders. Ryan was wearing the t-shirt and sweatpants he'd gone to bed in six nights before. He was holding the arm loosely to his chest. Sandy felt like ice slipped down his spine when he saw the swollen, distorted limb. Sandy's eyes went swiftly back to Ryan's face.

Ryan had submitted to the inspection without making a sound, his eyes slowly tracking Sandy's every movement. When Sandy looked at Ryan again, he was unsure, frankly, whether the boy could be fully aware that he was there. Sandy didn't see how it would be possible given the pain Ryan must be in. But blue gaze was steady, if slightly unfocused.

"I knew you'd come," Ryan said softly, eyes unwavering on Sandy's. "Seth said you'd come."

The look in Ryan's eyes was one Sandy recognized. It was an expression he remembered from the "catch me" phase Seth had gone through when he was about five. It was the look Seth had always worn just before he launched himself off the wall, the chair, the side of the pool – the look he had as he cried, "Daddy, catch me!" trusting that Sandy would be there, that his arms would keep him from falling, that his father would snatch him out of the air and save him from any hurt. It was the expression he'd seen in Seth's eyes just hours before when he'd clung to Sandy, when he'd looked at his father and said brokenly, "I told him we'd find him."

Sandy had only been able to nod, and hold Seth tightly to him. He'd felt Seth relax against him, fingers clutching at Sandy's shirt, trusting as always that his father would make things right.

Now it was Ryan he clung to. And Ryan, unable to lift his arms to return the embrace, who pressed his face into Sandy's chest, inhaling the scent of this man who was the only father he'd ever known – Old Spice and salt and something indefinably Sandy. Ryan breathed in, the comfort and safety of Sandy's presence washing over him.

"I'm here, kid," Sandy whispered, his voice unsteady, smoothing his hand over Ryan's head. "I'm here." He felt Ryan shudder against him, and Sandy closed his eyes, carefully drawing him deeper into his arms, wishing desperately that he could protect the boy from any more contact with the man at the front of the house. Sandy held on as tightly as he dared, taking a moment to get himself under control.

Steady again, Sandy kissed Ryan on the temple, pulled back, pushing damp hair off his forehead. "Come on, kiddo. Let's get you out of here."

xxxx

It had taken Sandy several minutes to figure out how exactly to get Ryan out of the room. He'd started to pick him up, but Ryan had resisted, conscious even in his feverish state that Dave Atwood would see that as weakness. He wouldn't be carried. So, Sandy had eased him off the bed, steadied him until Ryan regained his equilibrium, and they'd made their way slowly to the front of the house. It was all Sandy could do not to disregard Ryan's pride and pick the boy up, but he didn't. Instead, he walked carefully, taking as much of Ryan's weight as he could.

Just before they reached the front room, Sandy slowed, bracing for the confrontation he knew was coming.

"Don't worry, Ryan," he said, glancing quickly at the boy. "I'll take care of everything, OK?" Ryan nodded at Sandy, eyes exhausted, trusting.

The room seemed lighter to Sandy as they entered. He could actually see the men who had invaded his home, hurt his children, as the ex-cons moved restlessly around the room. He paused, shifting his hold on Ryan slightly. He waited.

The man at the window turned, watched. Sandy focused his attention on him, sure that this was Dave Atwood.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Sandy felt Ryan flinch against him, and Sandy tightened his grip almost imperceptibly, trying to reassure him.

"I'm taking him home."

"Like hell you are."

"Why did you get me up here, if not to take him?" Sandy asked angrily, although he suspected the answer.

"You ain't taking him."

"Dad…" Ryan's hoarse voice captured the attention of both men.

He raised hot eyes to the man across the room.

"You said if he came… You said…" Ryan struggled to form the sentence through the haze, around a tongue that felt twice its normal size. "You said you'd let me go… if he came." Ryan pulled himself as straight he could. "You said you'd let me go," he insisted.

Sandy's eyes went sharply to Dave Atwood and back to Ryan, wondering what made the boy think his father would keep his word after everything that had happened.

The man staring at them didn't shift his gaze from Ryan's face. He let the silence stretch out, expression immobile.

"You can go." Dave Atwood turned hard eyes on Sandy. "If he stays."

Sandy's blood chilled at the hatred in the words. But he didn't flinch.

"No." Stunned, Ryan blinked at his father, turned frantic, stricken eyes to Sandy.

"Nonononononononononono…" Ryan's voice started as a disbelieving whisper and turned into a wail, hysteria rising with every word.

"OK." Sandy said it firmly, surely, voice pitched above Ryan's cries, seemingly unfazed by the boy next to him.

"NO!" Ryan yelled it, terrified. "Sandy, no, you can't. He'll… " Ryan couldn't continue. He couldn't say it. "Sandy, please…" Ryan turned desperately to his father. "Dad, I'll stay, I…"

"It's done, Ryan." Sandy's tone brooked no argument. His eyes met Dave's.

"Sandy, …" Sandy could hear the hear the despair, raw, in Ryan's voice.

"It's done." Sandy took Ryan's chin in his hand, heedless of the man watching, looking into the shattered, knowing eyes of the boy in front of him. "I'm staying."

Ryan sagged in Sandy's arms, knees buckling as the adrenaline subsided, and Sandy caught him, whispering in the boy's ear as he bore him to the ground, "It'll be OK, Ryan. It'll be OK."

Sandy held him briefly, even as Ryan started to shake, moving his head back and forth in denial.

"Sandy, no. Please…"

"This is what dads do, Ryan," Sandy said, softly, only for his son. He pulled back, putting both hands to Ryan's cheeks. "This is what dads do."

Tears coursing down his cheeks, Ryan could only stare at Sandy, exhaustion and pain and hopelessness finally defeating him. "Sandy," he whispered.

"Listen to me, OK?" Sandy wiped his thumbs over Ryan's cheeks, trying to dry the dampness. Dazed, Ryan blinked sluggishly, shock taking hold as he struggled to obey.

Sandy leaned close. "I love you. And nothing, no matter what happens, is ever going to change that. Do you hear me?"

Eyes trapped by Sandy's, Ryan nodded haltingly.

"He'll kill you," he whispered, unable to stop himself, even as he knew Sandy would never willingly leave him here.

Sandy's gaze didn't falter. He recognized the possibility, had from the beginning. And it was a sacrifice he would make without hesitation.

Sandy cast a quick glance at Dave and wondered how much longer the man would tolerate this whispered conversation; wondered how much Jack and his agents were hearing.

Sandy's hands came down to Ryan's shoulders. "Trust me, OK, kiddo?" He gave him the gentlest of shakes. "Can you do that for me? Will you trust me on this?"

Ryan's eyes slid to Dave and back to Sandy. He stared at Sandy, heart broken, and then slowly, painfully, he nodded.

Sandy stood, maneuvered Ryan to his feet.

"He's going," Sandy said. "I'm staying."

xxxx

SHOW THE WAY by David Wilcox

You say you see no hope, you say you see no reason
We should dream that the world would ever change
You're saying love is foolish to believe
'Cause there'll always be some crazy with an army or a knife
To wake you from your day dream, put the fear back in your life...

Look, if someone wrote a play just to glorify
What's stronger than hate, would they not arrange the stage
To look as if the hero came too late; he's almost in defeat
It's looking like the Evil side will win, so on the edge
Of every seat, from the moment that the whole thing begins
It is...

Chorus:
Love who makes the mortar
And it's Love who stacked these stones
And it's Love who made the stage here
Although it looks like we're alone
In this scene set in shadows
Like the night is here to stay
There is evil cast around us
But it's Love that wrote the play...
For in this darkness Love can show the way

So now the stage is set. Feel you own heart beating
In your chest. This life's not over yet
So we get up on our feet and do our best. We play against the
Fear. We play against the reasons not to try
We're playing for the tears burning in the happy angel's eyes
For it's...

Chorus:
Love who makes the mortar
And it's Love who stacked these stones
And it's Love who made the stage here
Although it looks like we're alone
In this scene set in shadows
Like the night is here to stay
There is evil cast around us
But it's Love that wrote the play...
For in this darkness Love can show the way