Chapter 4

Mark's emotions were in too turbulent a disarray to easily subside and so precluded an easy descent into sleep. This temporary insomnia resulted in him sleeping long past his son's departure for work in the morning. Steve had thoughtfully left some coffee for him, and a box of cereal had been placed next to a clean bowl and spoon, obviously intended as an aid to his memory since his appetite had been lacking recently.

Obedient to his son's unspoken directive, Mark poured himself a reasonable helping and spooned it into his mouth absentmindedly while he read through Amanda's autopsy result again. The printed words marched relentlessly across his mind, describing in merciless detail the final indignity perpetrated on Serena Trenton, but Mark was unable to find further inspiration in its pages, although he was struck again by the consummate tidiness of her death.

Amanda had estimated that Serena had died within half an hour of eating, so if they could pin down her last meal, they would have a closer estimate of her time of death which would prove useful later when they narrowed down a list of suspects. Mark read through the short inventory of her stomach contents again; the meal consisted of a garden salad and mangosteens -- a healthy meal very much in keeping with her food proclivities, packed with anti-oxidants. A memory twitched in the back of his mind, edging forward but remaining tantalisingly out of reach, and before Mark could pin it down, the phone rang. With a sigh, he mentally ear-marked the context and moved to pick up the phone.

It was Amanda, and he could tell instantly from the excitement in her voice that they'd hit paydirt. "You were right, Mark, it was Tubarine. It was mixed with another chemical that I haven't identified yet, not scoline, which I half-expected. I also found the injection site after a lot of searching, hidden by the rope marks on the neck. It was definitely murder."

"That's great, honey. Good job," Mark congratulated her warmly. "Have you told Steve yet?"

"No, I thought you'd like to be the one to tell him." There was an innocence in her voice that hinted at ulterior motives for this suggestion.

With a smile and a last word of thanks, Mark disconnected and immediately called Steve.

"Lieutenant Sloan here." Mark thought he could detect an element of uncharacteristic strain in his son's voice even in the delivery of those three words.

"Hey Steve, it's me. Sorry I missed you last night."

There was a slight pause as if Steve had moved somewhere more private. "Yeah, me too. So...did you sleep well?"

Mark grimaced at the slight awkwardness that had sprung up between them, understanding that his son was trying to frame his concern in a way that wouldn't earn him another rebuff.

"Eventually, I suppose," he responded, offering the gift of honesty. He wanted to do more, to apologise for the times in the past months when he'd dismissed that concern, even from his son, with polite lies, but a telephone conversation did not offer the right intimacy to attempt a complex mending of fences and, reluctantly, he continued the exchange by explaining the purpose of his call.

"Amanda just phoned. Our hunch paid off and now it's officially a murder investigation."

There was a long moment of silence at the other end, and Mark wasn't sure if his son had been distracted by events in the station or if the shift in topic had thrown his son and he was mentally shifting gears. He feared that it wasn't the result Steve had hoped for.

He suddenly wished he'd gone to the station to tell Steve in person; it would have been easier to read his son's reaction. The pause bother him and Mark hurried to fill the gap with an attempt at humour. "You know how I hate to say 'I told you so!'"

To his relief, Steve picked up the olive branch. "Oh, you do, you really do...at least more than once a day."

Mark chuckled. "I'm not that bad, am I?"

"No," Steve retorted. "You're that good. That's great work, Dad. What've you got?"

"I'd be looking for someone in the pharmaceutical business with this one. She was injected with tubarine, a derivative of curare. It blocks neuromuscular transmission, effectively causing paralysis. It's not exactly an over-the-counter prescription, but it's used in hospitals as an aid to anesthesia. Interestingly enough, it's also been used in the intelligence community as a method of murder. It's probably most notorious for its use in South Africa where the military would inject it into SWAPO fighters they'd captured and wanted to get rid off. Once paralyzed, they'd load them up on a plane, fly out to sea and push them out of the aircraft over the ocean."

"Nasty." The grimness in his son's voice reinforced the sentiment.

"Very nasty. Steve, that poor girl was probably conscious throughout the whole thing. Conscious, and aware of everything that was going to happen to her, but unable to move a muscle to save herself or even plead for her life."

Mark heard the indrawn breath as the brutal picture he drew took root graphically in his son's imagination and when Steve spoke, Mark could sense an infusion of new determination. "Well, he's not going to get away with it, thanks to you." There was a slight pause then, "Dad, I'm really sorry about yesterday. You were right in more ways than one. Serena and her family deserve your full commitment."

Mark knew that if he had been right, it had been for the wrong reasons and he wanted to inform his son of his mistake, but his usual facility with words had deserted him, and before he could find the precise phrases that would convey the apology he wanted to make, Steve continued. "Dad, I have to go. Cheryl and I are going to interview Owen Russell, her ex-fiancee, and this information is really going to help. He seems our most likely suspect at the moment."

Mark swallowed back the 'be careful' that rose involuntarily to his lips, but the knowledge that his son was going to face a potential murderer could not be so easily suppressed. "Bye, son, I'll see you later," he offered. Only a strong hunch that the ex-boyfriend was not the offender enabled him to manage that much.

He sat back down at the autopsy report, hoping to pin down the stray thought that had eluded him earlier but it was hard to concentrate. He rubbed his forehead wearily. He'd always worried about his son's safety, but now that anxiety was reaching paranoiac proportions, a dread, a cancer that was eating him mercilessly from inside. It wasn't logical to assume that because he'd lost one child to a premature, hideous death it was inevitable that the other would share a similar fate. But Steve confronted danger on nearly a daily basis, so the likelihood that he would meet a violent end was far greater, looming to almost certainty in Mark's anxious mind.

He knew he had to find a way to muster at least a semblance of peace before he mentally imploded. Unfortunately, the only consideration vying for space in his mind was the horror of Serena's death which bought his thoughts inexorably back to Carol and if she had...he cut off the end of that image hurriedly, knowing that to contemplate the details of her death encouraged madness.

He threw down his pen in frustration. Throughout his life, his mind had responded quickly and efficiently to any problem that confronted him: schoolwork had never posed much of a challenge, and in medicine his thoughts had leapt from symptoms to diagnosis with comparative ease. Now, instead of serving him, his thoughts seemed to control him, spinning obsessively down well-worn paths of fear and pain.

A knock on the door extricated him from his morbid thoughts. Answering the summons, he was surprised to find a young man, whose uniform identified him as an employee of T&R Biotech Research Corporation, bearing a large box.

"Dr. Sloan, a doctor at the hospital said I could find you here. Dr. Trenton asked me to deliver this to you personally."

At Mark's direction, he placed the package on the kitchen table then departed, refusing the offer of a tip.

Mark stared at the box meditatively for a moment then slowly removed the lid and started unpacking the files, sorting them into piles. Trenton had clearly had his secretarial staff working non-stop. There were folders on employee disputes dating back ten years, files on all the competing companies he'd forced under or taken over, several folders of hate mail received, and also a series of files wrapped with red tape and marked 'confidential' which contained employee information on all the staff in Serena's department and the research in which they were engaged.

Once he'd neatly categorised all the paperwork, Mark stood up abruptly and walked over to the coffee pot. He spent an inordinate amount of time pouring the coffee, sprinkling a bit of sugar and adding a touch of cream. He knew he was stalling; the task ahead suddenly looming ponderously over him. He felt a sudden urge, at odds with his impulses earlier, to pack everything back in the box, but the can of worms was already opened.

He sat down heavily in the chair, but after he started to read, any initial reluctance was soon lost in a welcome absorption which drove everything else from his mind. Some pages he skimmed through quickly, but others he perused several times and as he read, he discarded some information and resorted others, building a complex picture of the Trentons' business and family life.

Eventually, Mark leaned back and rotated his neck to the accompaniment of audible pops, estimating the elapsed time by the stiffness of his back. What was left of his coffee was now cold, and he got to his feet with a luxurious stretch to refresh his cup. He felt like a gourmand, replete with half-digested details: names and motives, culled from the feast of information spread on the table. But now it was time to disconnect from the facts. In his not inconsiderable experience, every murder had a unique 'feel', the proportion of premeditation, the technique chosen, the efficiency of the execution, all combining to provide an emotional signature that was often a better indication of the culprit that cold, hard facts.

The calculating precision of Serena Trenton's murder, the chilly premeditation, the ruthless performance, all spoke to Mark of financial gain. This wasn't a murder of passion, of revenge or hatred, it was one of profit. With these considerations in mind, Mark moved with new purpose, reshuffling the papers in an almost subconscious dance of inspiration, until only one file sat isolated in front of him. A square fingernail tapped the cardboard cover thoughtfully for a few moments, then, with a final rap of decision, he pulled out his cell phone to run his quarry to earth.

Once provided with a destination to continue this promising line of enquiry, Mark grabbed his car keys and was heading out the door when it occurred to him that it would be best to keep Steve apprised of his plans. He paused, thumbing the on-switch of his phone absently. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Steve would be less than thrilled with the prospect of his father conducting an interview alone, and the last thing Mark wanted was a renewal of the tension between them. However, Steve would be more upset if he discovered belatedly that his father had attempted to keep him in the dark.

Reluctantly, Mark hit his speed dial and discovered the best of both worlds as he heard the message, "The customer you're trying to reach is either out of the area or unable to take your call right now." Feeling the glow of virtue for attempting the contact, Mark scribbled a quick note, 'Tried to reach you. Going to Devlin's house. Back soon.' He hesitated, then before he lost his nerve added, 'We need to talk.'

He drove up PCH, crossing the Hilton Head Bridge, then heading up into the canyons. His journey up the winding road was eerily reminiscent of his drive several years before to Jerry Grayle's house, and he couldn't help occasionally glancing up at the sky, fearing the lurid orange glow that had accompanied him then. Steve had undoubtedly saved his life that day, despite his injuries, acting swiftly and resourcefully in an extreme situation to devise a way to extricate his father from the advancing flames.

Judging by the amount of rain they'd had recently, he was presently in more danger from mudslides than fire. It was ironic that this area, rife with natural disasters waiting to happen -- wildfires, flood and earthquake, was still considered prime real estate, and he was sure than Devlin had paid a pretty penny for his isolated corner of it.

Despite the fact that it was several miles to the nearest neighbour, Devlin had a large wall topped with barbed wire surrounding his property and a wrought-iron gate blocking the driveway. It created the picture of a curmudgeonly misanthrope in Mark's mind. There was no security guard, and Mark depressed the button marked 'speak' on the intercom system, waiting for some acknowledgment of his arrival. The long delay would have discouraged most people, but Mark was abnormally persistent, and eventually his patience was rewarded. A male voice answered in a discouraging monosyllable, "Yes?"

"Mark Sloan here to see Mr. Devlin."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Devlin isn't seeing anyone at the moment."

The voice sounded more dismissive than apologetic, and before he could be cut off, Mark added hastily, "It's about the murder of Serena Trenton."

There was a pause then, "Just a minute." No further attempt was made at communication, but after several minutes, the lock disengaged with a click and the gates swung creakily open. Taking that as a grudging invitation, Mark drove through.

The road curved round several times, gratuitously in Mark's opinion, before approaching a house that was extensive, but paled in comparison to Trenton's and not only in size. The two men were long term business rivals and the recent shift in their fortunes was reflected in their houses, for whereas Trenton's mansion held an understated opulence, this building, on closer inspection, had a shabby, rundown appearance, with paint peeling off some sagging boards.

Mark marched up the steps, and the front door opened as he reached out a hand to ring the rust-flecked bell. A stocky young man stood back to let him in, his apparel more suited to that of a male nurse than a butler, a mystery that was soon explained as Mark was shown in to the sitting room. Devlin was clearly not much longer for this world. He was sitting in a wheelchair, a blanket wrapped round his legs, although swollen ankles peaked out at the bottom. His lips held a bluish tinge, and behind his seat Mark could spot the portable oxygen cylinder that led to the nasal cannula worn under his nostrils.

His face was twisted in slightly malicious amusement as he caught sight of Mark's surprise. "Dr. Sloan, I wasn't expecting a house call. Doctors are so rarely accommodating these days." His voice was hoarse, and it was possible to see his chest heaving with the effort of talking.

Mark smiled politely. "I would diagnose lung cancer and emphysema."

The older man shrugged. "They warned me about the dangers of smoking, but I didn't listen. Who doesn't think they're indestructible when they're younger? My doctor says I have less than six months to live. Would you concur?"

Mark grimaced apologetically. "Without an examination it would be impossible to say, but it sounds likely. I'm sorry to disturb you."

Devlin gave a short laugh which turned into a prolonged coughing fit, the dry cough shaking his thin shoulders. "You're not here to discuss my health. You said the Trenton girl was murdered, but the newspapers reported it as a suicide."

"The autopsy proved otherwise," Mark stated carefully.

Devlin wiped the corner of his mouth. "Poor old Maxwell. This must be very difficult for him."

"That's very kind of you since I understand T&R Pharmaceuticals is driving you out of business," Mark commented.

The old man looked at him sharply. "I don't suppose the girl's death will change that."

"Perhaps not," Mark admitted easily.

"You think I had something to do with her death?" He didn't seem offended by the idea, merely curious, yet in that instant, Mark sensed the enquiry held more than casual interest and that he was not the only man fishing for information.

"It's a possibility that had to be ruled out," he answered readily.

"Well, you can see that I'm too weak to even stand on my own, never mind struggle with a healthy young woman."

"That's true." Mark let the acknowledgement lie between them before continuing with a seeming non-sequitur. "I believe you have three sons."

"Ah!" The old man's shoulders drooped slightly and he sighed heavily, a noise of indecision. "Do you have any children?"

Mark's breath caught at the unintentional parry as it grated against the already festering wound.

"Yes, I have a son," he elaborated. He wanted to mention Carol; it felt wrong not to acknowledge her existence, but he couldn't face the lengthy explanation that would accompany her inclusion.

"Did he follow you into medicine?" the dying man asked absently, staring through Mark into a time only he could see.

"I'm not sure who followed who," Mark admitted with a chuckle. "He's a detective, in charge of this investigation actually."

"I was so proud when all my boys followed me into the family business. This company is my legacy and their heritage." His eyes were misty and Mark allowed him his reverie, startled when Devlin suddenly refocused on him. "What would you do if your son had done something wrong? Would you protect him whatever he'd done, or would you turn him in?"

The question was clearly anything but rhetorical, and Mark's heart bounded at its implication, then lurched downward as empathy forced him to actually consider his answer. What would he do if the unimaginable happened and his sense of justice was placed against his need to protect his son? It was a dilemma of heart-breaking proportions for any parent. Mark remembered a case many years before when a mother, dying of cancer, had claimed responsibility for a murder her daughter had committed. When Mark forced the truth out, Betty Manning had appealed to him. "Wouldn't you do this for your son, wouldn't any parent?" He remembered feeling guilty afterwards; maybe her sacrifice had not been his to expose, but Steve had instantly recognised his discomfort and reminded him gently of his belief that everyone had to accept responsibility for their own actions.

Could he really betray Steve even if ultimately he believed it was for Steve's own good? The cost of such a decision would be his very soul. No, he had no easy answer for the other father, but in the deepest fibre of his being lay the conviction that he would never be required to make such a decision. His son's integrity was as boundless as his courage and strength. If he ever lost his son it would be to death, not prison, and he would never be anything but proud of him. Normally that was a cold consolation, but now Mark wondered if he'd underestimated its comfort. He was immensely fortunate to have such a fine son, who had remained not only uncorrupted amidst the depravity and degradation he worked with on a daily basis, but also caring and honourable. It shouldn't have taken this case to remind him of that.

He looked into the troubled countenance opposite and honesty forced him to confess, "I don't know what I'd do." It seemed impolitic to add that his son would never give him cause to force that decision.

The rheumy eyes grew hooded, and Mark realised that he'd failed some obscure test as Devlin straightened in his wheelchair. "I appreciate your interest, Dr. Sloan, but as I said before, no one in my family had anything to gain by killing Serena." It was a dismissal, but Mark had a few more weapons left in his arsenal.

"Your company is fighting for its life. You're in direct competition with Trenton's company to develop new anti-microbials to combat the new drug-resistant bacteria and Serena was close to success. If you could market that drug first, it might have saved your company."

"I would never have sanctioned anything illegal," the old man argued stubbornly.

"I believe you," Mark responded sincerely, leaning forward in an effort to reestablish more open communication, "but I also believe that at least one of your sons had different ideas -- after all, it was to save their birthright." A flicker of dismay in the other man's expression confirmed his suspicion.

"I can't help you," he stated heavily, not meeting Mark's eyes, his breathing shallow and harsh.

Mark pushed on relentlessly, the image of the girl's suspended body obscuring the reality of pain and confusion in the man opposite. "Do you know how she died? She was injected with tubarine, she..."

He broke off at Devlin's choking gasp, the struggle for air degenerating into a paroxysm of coughing, flecks of phlegm decorating his blue lips. The tremor in his hands was pronounced as he searched frantically for something amid the folds of the blanket. Mark quickly reached in and located a nebulizer, holding it securely for the old man to take as deep a breath as possible of the bronchodilator.

"Is there anything else you're taking," he asked, falling automatically into professional mode. The rasping cough finally eased.

"In the kitchen," Devlin whispered shakily, waving a trembling hand towards the hallway.

Mark hurried down the well-worn carpet to the kitchen, feeling vaguely disgusted with his own behaviour -- bullying a dying man to betray his sons, even to serve the cause of justice was sinking to a new low. He had allowed his obsession with this case to override his sense of compassion. Well, it wasn't going to happen again. Proof must exist somewhere else, and he would find it.

Mark located the medicine with no difficulty, automatically checking the label. He poured a drink of water then, as he was turning back to the door, his gaze fell on a bowl of fruit placed in the middle of the table. Slowly, he set down the glass and bottle of pills and leaned over to pick up a round, smooth, dark-purple fruit.

Several years ago, Mark had gleefully wasted many a happy hour on video games, quickly mastering the strategies and skills necessary to win at Pacman, Space Invaders and others, but his favourite had been Tetris. The elemental satisfaction he'd received from fitting the shapes together was matched now by a more metaphorical dropping of pieces into place as he rotated the mangosteen slowly in his palm, the tangible object snagging the information that had eluded him earlier from the recesses of his memory.

Although mangosteen puree was available in up-market stores and by mail-order, the whole fruit was banned in the United States because of fear of pests. Any whole mangosteens in the country had been illegally imported and how many stashes of smuggled fruit could there be locally? It was circumstantial evidence but a link nonetheless between Serena and the Devlin family. Looking around the kitchen, he could see many of the same wholesome food products that Serena had favoured, and he guessed that she had met one of the brothers at a health food store or club. It was possible that...

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Mark spun around guilty at the sound of the strident and unfamiliar voice. A tall, well-built man in his early 40's stood in the doorway, his black brows beetled together in a scowl. The relationship between him and the elderly man in the other room was unmistakable and Mark quickly recovered his composure, gracing the newcomer with his most innocent smile. "I'm Dr. Sloan. I'm treating your father." He picked the medicine back up and waved it ingratiatingly.

The other man's dark gaze was on the mangosteen still in Mark's hand, and the doctor had to fight the childish urge to hide it behind his back.

"My father is a sick old man, and you've got no business in this house bothering him with questions."

"Then I'll give him this medicine and be on my way," Mark replied with equanimity, stepping round the younger man and proceeding along the hall, the back of his neck tickling with the presentiment of danger. He moved quickly, his eyes alert for any sudden movement from behind and eager to reach the restraining presence of the older Devlin. However, his steps faltered as he entered the sitting room. Two other men were hovering around the invalid in the wheelchair and, at Mark's entrance, they raised faces distorted by identical expressions of anger and fear.

Mark's breath caught painfully in his throat as he realised the magnitude of his folly. He'd come to the house to beard one old lion in his den, now he was confronted by three males in their prime and he could sense that any weakness on his part would see him torn to shreds by the ravening pride. It was essential to retain a strong bluff even though every instinct insisted on flight, but with one brother behind and two in front, he was trapped, encircled.

"Medicine, Mr. Devlin," he announced brightly, thrusting the glass into the old man's bony, trembling hand.

The stocky young man on his left darted round him to hiss in a clearly audible voice, "Jack, he knows!"

"Shut up, you idiot," his older brother growled, and Mark heartily endorsed the sentiment. As long as the topic remained unvoiced, their individual suspicions would not meet the critical mass needed to overcome civilised behaviour. However, his wish was to go unheeded as the younger man persisted in militant tones.

"But Dad says he knows everything."

The eldest Devlin sibling jerked his head, "Jeff." The third brother obeyed Jack's unspoken command and disappeared out of Mark's peripheral vision.

"I'm leaving now," Mark announced carefully, but his exit was blocked and to force his way through would instigate the violence he was desperately trying to avoid.

"What exactly do you know, Dr. Sloan?" Jack asked silkily, his dark gaze flat and unblinking as a shark.

"Only that if I'm not home soon, they'll be sending out the search parties," Mark stated emphatically.

"He knows about the Tubarine and the development of the anti-microbials,"
the youngest brother piped in maliciously -- Mark's own personal harbinger of doom.

"It's too late. Let him go." Their father's querulous voice held a command, but his hold on his sons had weakened during the course of his illness and they ignored his recommendation.

"Don't worry, Dad. We'll handle it." Jack's words were conciliatory, but his tone left no doubt as to who was in charge.

Mark's heart was racing, pulsing strongly against his chest wall as if trying to enact the escape that was looking increasingly impossible for Mark himself. He summoned his considerable authority to stare levelly at the man blocking his path. "I'm leaving now," he repeated quietly.

Billy Devlin shifted uncomfortably, glancing over at his brother for direction and, for a moment, Mark's life trembled on a knife-edge of decision. The stalemate was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps running up the hall, but any hopes Mark might have entertained of imminent rescue were summarily dashed as the missing brother appeared in the doorway. His stomach plunged as if he'd just dropped thirty stories in a runaway elevator, and he stepped back involuntarily in horror as his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the object in Jeff's hand -- a hypodermic syringe -- and his gaze was riveted to the liquid drop glistening at its tip.

As all three brothers advanced towards him, Mark was forced to fall back, trying to buy extra seconds to appeal to reason. "Listen, the police know I'm here; my son is in charge of the investigation."

"Then we'll have to do something to distract them." Jack was icy cool, displaying a dispassionate control that Mark could correlate to the ruthless indifference behind Serena's murder.

"Jack, this isn't the way to do it." The elder Devlin tried again to intervene, his voice louder and more vigorous, and Mark hoped his words of wisdom would prevail, but the siblings didn't even acknowledge his interruption.

Mark searched desperately for the right words to stave off the inevitable, but they remained elusive, slipping formlessly through his grasp. He swallowed painfully, cursing his stupidity for coming alone to this place. Steve wouldn't even know where to start looking for him until it was too late, yet his son would blame himself for not arriving in time, would always believe he had failed his father. Even worse, if the Devlin's disposed of his body efficiently and it was never found, Steve would never know peace.

Oh God, Steve! Mark nearly groaned aloud as despair washed over him. He couldn't even begin to imagine the grief his son would experience at this additional loss, father and sister in a few short months, but it would be devastating. He shut his eyes momentarily in anguish. He knew his son too well to fear that Steve would eat his gun, but the life expectancy of a cop who cared little about survival was short. It was a useless time to be struck by an epiphany, but with blinding clarity he realised how foolish he'd been in the last few months. He should have been enjoying every minute he could with his son, instead of pulling away to grieve privately. Carol's death should have taught him the inestimably precious worth of each second.

Fueled with new and desperate intent, Mark backed up a few steps. "Listen to your father," he urged. "This won't help at all. If I don't make contact with my son soon, this place will be swarming with cops. You're just making matters worse. Besides, even your father's nurse knows I'm here."

"Who do you think called us?" Jack responded calmly, his advance all the more menacing for its impassiveness.

Mark's heel hit something solid and, with a start of terror, he realised that no further retreat was possible, his back was literally against the wall. The blood drained from his head, pooling in leaden feet, leaving him dizzy and ponderous, but he braced himself for a last futile struggle as the piercing needle advanced.