Chapter 8:- Steve and Amanda part 3

Jesse's car came to a halt on the driveway, parallel to the house. The police and FBI vehicles had parked round the side, leaving the front clear; the only other vehicle was Mark's.

For a moment there was no movement from either man. Finally Steve turned his head and looked up, registering the stark white paint and darkened windows of a house that was normally warm and inviting.

"What if she doesn't want me here?" he asked quietly, his tone registering defeat.

Jesse resisted the urge to sigh as he turned to look at his friend, noting with continued concern the drawn gray complexion and the heavy lines that etched into his normally smooth features. There were no words of comfort he could offer, nothing that would alleviate the pain of the situation, the deep sense of responsibility that he knew his friend felt. Platitudes and all offers of sympathy at this point would probably only serve to make him feel worse. So he stuck to the practical. "She may not," he admitted, "but she needs you. Right now she needs all of us."

Steve looked back down at his hands but didn't really see them. He absently ran his thumb along the side of his finger, trying hard not to acknowledge the slight shake that defied all of his attempts to control it. Jesse was right. He shouldn't be considering his own feelings, and his trepidation about entering the house had nothing really to do with how Amanda would feel about it and everything to do with how difficult he would find it to face her. He gave himself a mental shake. This wasn't about him. He gave a very slight nod. "We should go in," he stated, not waiting for a reply before releasing his seatbelt and unfolding his lanky frame from the passenger seat.

This time Jesse let the sigh escape, pausing for a moment in an attempt to clear his mind. He would need all of his strength over the next few hours? . . .days? . . .weeks? He hit the steering wheel in frustration allowing a soft curse to escape from his lips. How could you prepare yourself to deal with something like this? How could you help others? He drew in a deep breath, so much for mental preparation. He climbed out of the car and followed Steve, pausing to retrieve his medical bag from the trunk along the way.

DMDMDM

Time dragged slowly, seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, filled by tasks that were so ordinary that carrying them out in the atmosphere of fear and tension made them seem surreal. Amanda's heart was shattering piece by piece as the seconds ticked by; she shouldn't be making coffee, shouldn't be preparing food for the army of law enforcement officials who now filled her home, shouldn't be sorting out the bedding in the spare rooms as it seemed inevitable that people would stay, shouldn't be replacing the soap in the bathroom, or any of the endless array of everyday chores that she seemed to be occupying herself with.

Part of her felt that in these exceptional circumstances nothing ordinary should be happening, the whole world should somehow be different, but it wasn't.

She had spent time when she first arrived home with Dion. He had needed her, had needed reassurances that none of this was his fault. That he blamed himself was clear from the moment he'd been reunited with her, burying himself in her arms and repeating over and over that he was sorry, before dissolving into his own bout of sobbing.

At first she just held him, countering his apologies with the reassurance that 'it was ok', that 'everything would be ok', but he needed more than that.

The sobs eventually died down and he pushed himself away from the comfort of his mother's embrace. "I'm sorry mom I should have been watching him," he had finally stated

Amanda's heart tore a little more. This was hard enough for all of them without Dion feeling responsible for what had happened. "Oh honey, It's OK. That wasn't your responsibility. Uncle Steve was supposed to be taking care of you."

"But I knew he was busy," Dion replied earnestly. "He was helping to save that boy. I should've. . ."

"Now, Dion honey, I want you to listen to me carefully. None of this is your fault. Some bad people have taken your brother and they are the only ones to blame. Not you, not your uncle Steve, but the people who have done this bad thing. Do you understand me?"

Dion stared deep into his mother's eyes swayed as much by the love and sincerity that they held as he was by the words she had spoken. "Yes mom," he said, before burying his head back into her shoulder, seeking and finding comfort in the embrace.

Amanda looked up to see Mark standing watching silently from the doorway. She had known him long enough to read his thoughts. What she had just told to her own son his son needed to hear. Steve needed to hear her say that she didn't blame him, and, on a rational level, she didn't, she knew that everything she had told Dion was true. The rational part of her mind knew that, knew that the responsibility lay elsewhere, but emotionally. . . . .emotionally she had to blame him. He had left that morning with her two sons and had returned only one of them to her. She wasn't sure that she could ever forgive him for that. Whether it was his fault or not seemed irrelevant to the emotion. Her eyes filled with tears of regret. There was nothing she could do to relieve Steve's suffering, it was too tied in with her own. She held Mark's gaze for a long moment and saw the look of understanding, of compassion.

"Mom?" the silent communication was interrupted.

"Yes honey?" Amanda looked down again at her son, his head now resting to one side so that his speech was not muffled.

"Is CJ gonna be all right?" he asked, the innocence of the question begging reassurance.

The tears in Amanda's eyes overflowed. "Of course he is honey," she obliged, as the water began to track down her cheeks. She kissed him on the top of his head, looking up to meet Mark's gaze once more, as she sought some reassurance and comfort of her own. "Of course he is."

DMDMDM

Steve shook the pillow down into the case and then did his best to neaten the edges before dropping it onto the bed. The simple task took longer than it should; the actions dotted with unnecessary pauses, as Steve's mind drifted so far from the task that he did not even realise he'd stopped moving. Each time he'd fight his way back from the painful introspection to carry on with the job he'd been relieved to volunteer for. Anything to escape the tension in the downstairs rooms, which was touching on the unbearable.

He wasn't sure what finally alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone but he looked across to the doorway to see his father standing watching him. Now that his presence had been noted, Mark walked into the room, picking up one side of the cover he wordlessly helped Steve with the last of the tasks involved in making the bed.

The silence was neutral, not comfortable as it could be when the two men shared in a familiar task and Mark felt it. He watched, waited, noting the tension and pain in his son's actions, etched on his features, but this wasn't the physical pain that his skills as a doctor would allow him to treat, this was a level of emotional pain that Mark felt ill equipped to do anything for, but he had to try. As the last cover was tucked under and Steve still hadn't looked up he decided to make his opening.

"She doesn't blame you, you know," he stated gently

"She should." Steve replied, still avoiding his father's gaze. "She was right, I was supposed to be watching him."

"From what I hear you had your hands full saving a life." Mark countered.

Steve turned and sank heavily on to the freshly made bed. He stared down at the floor. "It was still my responsibility to make sure he was all right. I should have stayed with him. There were other people who could've helped I should have. . . ." He trailed off, not knowing quite how to complete the sentence.

Mark sat down beside him, shaking his head. "No you couldn't. It's not in you to sit by when someone's life is in danger, and you had no way of knowing that this was going to happen." He paused, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. His tone neutral, "You're not to blame for any of this."

Steve tried hard to take comfort from the reassurance but somehow he couldn't. He kept coming back to the simple fact that CJ had been his responsibility. There was no escaping that.

Mark watched his son for a moment as Steve continued to stare forward, his eyes defocused. He tried again. "You have to stop blaming yourself for things over which you had no control."

There was something in Mark's tone that alerted him to the double meaning and finally he turned to meet his father's gaze. There was a moment's silence as he read the sincerity, confirmed that Mark wasn't just referring to the current situation he meant his own attack too.

Was it that easy? Could he just tell himself that he wasn't to blame, that nothing that had happened was his responsibility?

A part of him wanted to believe with an intensity that bordered on desperation. He held Mark's gaze for a fraction of a second and then his thoughts imploded. It was as though his temerity in daring to even think that he might be able to forgive himself deserved a punishment from the inner demons that plagued him. Carefully constructed walls weakened, whispering nagging doubts seeped out. Past emotions adding to the current guilt as pain twisted his gut.

He tried to cover it, swallowing hard and turning his head quickly away, but he was not quick enough. Mark caught the look of haunted anguish in his eyes.

His muscles tensed as his body prepared for a physical attack, fight or flight chemicals flooded his system. The instinct to run away was powerful, even though there was nothing to run from.

For a moment it felt like he was falling apart, for a moment he almost let it happen.

"Steve. . ." Mark began, not sure how to continue. Not sure how his words that were meant to comfort and reassure had had the opposite effect, and such a powerful effect.

The single utterance of his name was enough to anchor Steve back. A mental lifeline, as the familiar tones penetrated his suddenly jumbled thinking. He couldn't do this, couldn't allow himself to disappear into the mire of guilt and recrimination. Not here, not now, not in front of his father, but he didn't have the strength to refute the ever more insistent voices, to counter the accusations, to confront those demons both new and old, inspired by the current crisis, lingering undealt with from the last. So he resorted to the only strategy that would allow him to continue to function, the strategy that had been keeping him functioning for the last few weeks- suppression. Drawing on a rapidly dwindling inner reserve of mental strength he fought to blank his mind.

"Steve?" the tone was gentler, questioning concern evident.

This time Steve could not look at him. "I'm sorry dad, I know you want to help. . ." and I wish you could. I really wish you could. . . The sentiment went unspoken, "but this is something I'm just going to have to deal with for myself." The emphasis on the word 'I' was heavy. He stood stiffly, still not turning to look, knowing that at this point his father's unconditional love might well be his undoing. He could just about manage to blank out the emotion, confronting it; dealing with it in the current climate of crisis was beyond him. He looked at his watch. "I'm needed back downstairs," he lied obviously, moving to leave.

Mark silently watched his retreat, there was a slight pause as he reached the door, and for a moment Mark thought he might return, hoped he might return, but the moment passed and he was gone. Mark let out a heavy sigh, cursing the stoicism that he often admired in his son, cursing his own inability to be more open with his feelings, as he acknowledged that it was a trait Steve had either learned or inherited from him. It was a trait that was costing his son, and if CJ wasn't returned. . ? He let out an involuntary shiver, not wanting to consider that possibility as he practiced a little suppression of his own. Like father like son.

DMDM

The call came at 9pm. It was the third time the phone had rung that evening. The third time Amanda had her skin temperature drop to feel like ice was sliding over its surface; the third time her heart had started beating so hard that she thought it would escape from her chest, the third time her intestines had twisted in fear.

"Hello, Amanda Bentley," her voice shook slightly

"We have your son."

The tension which already made the air in the room seem oppressive increased. Several pairs of hands began to frantically type or silently signal.

Amanda wanted to throw up. "What. . .?" She barely got the word out; someone had stolen all of the moisture from her mouth. She took a breath. "What do you want?"

Steve's cell phone began vibrating in his pocket a fraction of a second before the ringing sliced through the atmosphere in the room. He flushed blood red, retreating through the door behind him as he fumbled to retrieve it from his pocket. He wasn't sure why he took the time to answer it; wasn't sure why he didn't just turn his phone off and check on it later, after all it couldn't be more important than the call from the kidnappers could it?

"Steve Sloan."

"I'm glad you answered, I would have hated to have to hurt the child."

Steve almost dropped his phone in surprise. It was the same voice, the same person who was currently delivering a ransom call to Amanda in the next room. How. . . ? His mind struggled to process the implications. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Its very simple , at the moment Dr. Bentley is listening to a recorded message that will ask for one million dollars in ransom. You will be asked to deliver it tomorrow, and you will follow the instructions to the letter, with a small exception, and if you do not do exactly as I say, I will kill the boy."

"And if I follow your instructions?"

"He will, of course, be released unharmed."

"I want to talk to him; I want to know that he's all right." If Amanda was listening to a recorded message then that had to mean that if she spoke to CJ that was recorded too. Steve needed the reassurance that CJ was, at least up to now, alive and well."

"Uncle Steve?" the voice was full of fear.

Steve couldn't help the tears that formed in his eye. He bit his lip, the pain giving him enough focus to prevent them from falling. "CJ," he tried to sound confident, reassuring. "How're you doing?"

"I'm OK," there was a slight sniffle "but I want to come home."

"You will be soon, I promise." Steve stated, willing himself to believe it as he injected every ounce of confidence he could into the assurance.

"So, Lieutenant are you satisfied?"

Steve wanted to say no, that he needed more time to talk to CJ, there must be something he could say to help take some of the fear out of that young voice, and still a larger part of him wanted to swear at the man; to call him every name, every expletive that he knew; to threaten him with violent retribution if he harmed even a single hair on CJ's head, but he knew that it would do no good. "What do you want me to do?"

"Very good Lieutenant, that was the right answer, but first I feel we need a little test, just in case you feel it necessary to share our conversation with any of your colleagues. I want you to go back into the other room and tell them something, a fact, a thought, anything at all. I will contact you again in thirty minutes." The line went dead with an audible click. Steve dropped the phone from his ear, but it was a full minute before he made any further movement.

The room he had left had had an atmosphere of tension and barely restrained energy. The one he now entered seemed to have all of that energy released. Not a single figure was still or quiet and an endless stream of police and agents moved in and out.

Jesse spotted him and moved over. "Who was the call?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard in the semi-chaos.

"A wrong number," Steve lied, grateful that it was Jesse asking and not his father. "What did they say?"

"They want one million dollars and they want you to deliver it. Amanda's gone to talk to her parents to see about arranging it. Mark's with her." Jesse supplied. "They're going to call back with the details on the drop."

Any questions Steve was about to ask were interrupted by the lead FBI investigator. "Lieutenant Sloan?"

Steve nodded an acknowledgement.

"I'm agent Parnell, we'll need to talk you through the procedures involved for tomorrow, assuming we go ahead with delivery of the money, the kidnappers have asked for you to deliver it. It's potentially a very dangerous job and I can't force you to volunteer to do this, but since the kidnappers clearly know what you look like. . ."

"Dr Bentley is one of my best friends," Steve interrupted, 'and it's my fault that CJ was taken,' the thought like so many of his negative thoughts went unspoken. "Of course I'm going to do it."

"Ok, but I want to be sure that you appreciate the dangers involved."

"I've done this before." Steve stated. "About three years ago, I delivered the ransom in the kidnapping of a boy called Johnny Edelman. We got him back alive."

"That's good to know, I'll check out the file." He looked Steve in the eye, "but I'll still need to brief you."

Steve nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

DMDMDM

Steve sat in the bathroom, the door locked, and waited. Staring at the clock on the digital display of his cell, he tried to decide if it was better to have as indication of the seconds ticking by or not. A minute seemed such an interminably long time.

He was so focused on staring at it; the insistent buzz of the vibration took a moment to penetrate his senses, with no accompanying sound it seemed strange; he had turned it off, but now he wished he hadn't, the familiar tones might have anchored him in reality. He hit the answer button. "Sloan."

"My we are abrupt, aren't we?."

Steve ignored the comment. "I'm listening."

"So you've been a delivery boy before Lieutenant, that should help in our favour, the FBI won't be expecting you to ditch them, and if all goes to plan then you will get CJ Bentley back alive and in one piece just as you did with Johnny. . .or should that be Joey Edelman."

Steve's heart sank. There had been the outside possibility that the kidnappers could have guessed what he would choose as his 'fact' to pass on, but not that he had deliberately got the name wrong. Their intention was clear, to prove that they had someone on the inside, and they had succeeded in that beyond any doubts Steve had. "What do you want me to do?"

"It's very simple Lieutenant," the tone was smug, patronizing. "You will follow every set of instruction to the letter. You will dutifully read out all of the information to those monitoring you, including the last set, which you will recognize from the star in the top left hand corner. At that point you will remove all of the monitoring equipment and do the exact opposite of what the instructions tell you. When you have delivered the money we will hand over the boy to you unharmed. If however, you fail to follow these instructions or you try to tell anyone about our conversation then. . .I'm sure I can leave that threat to your imagination."

Steve tried to stifle the sigh. "I'll do as you ask," he stated.

"Good, because you will not hear from me again." Again the line went dead with a click.

Steve allowed himself to slide from the position he was sitting on the edge of the bath onto the floor, considering his dilemma. If went along with what he'd been asked to do there was still every chance that CJ would not be returned alive. On the other hand if he did not go along with it, or if he told the wrong person about what he had been asked to do, then he was definitely signing the child's death warrant. He closed his eyes tightly. What was he going to do?