Chapter 8

The nightmare image of his father frantically struggling in roaring, muddy water refused to leave him and impelled Steve to redouble his efforts, forcing his aching and weary body past all physical limitations. Exhaustion and pain were easier to disregard than the icy, jagged shards of grief that stabbed him mercilessly, splintering the pieces of his soul.

He had worked with Search and Rescue in the past and knew from this professional experience how hard it was to recover bodies from swollen rivers. Often they were washed all the way out to sea, but they also ended up buried in river silt, caught under a snag or pushed by the spate to be trapped under a big rock. Of course, if they were retrieved, the corpses were...The abrupt mental picture caused a violent surge of nausea and he stumbled blindly as he fought for control. The jolt sent an electrical spike of agony through his body, and his pulse hammered painfully in his shoulder as he sucked in lungfuls of cool air to clear the black spots that spiraled queasily in his vision.

He straightened as he heard Jesse jogging up behind him and then moved forward again stiffly, scanning the banks of the river.

"Steve, wait up. What do you want me to do?"

Reluctantly, Steve halted, but he didn't turn to acknowledge his friend, not wanting to reveal the emotions that he knew were written with bitter clarity on his face. "Just use your eyes," he instructed impatiently, unable to spell out the details, the horror of the task rendering him almost incapable of voicing it.

"Steve, I really want to help," Jesse persevered earnestly. "You need to preserve your strength, so tell me where to go and we can cover the ground more efficiently."

The next few hours inscribed themselves indelibly, caustically, and in horrific detail in Jesse's memory, haunting him for a lifetime. He searched diligently in all the barely accessible places to which Steve directed him, scrambling over logs and rocks of all sizes and scrabbling through the assorted wet and filthy detritus that had been swept down the river. Yet he was assailed continually by a sense of utter futility, going through the motions for the sake of his friend while knowing no favorable resolution was possible.

He had been on the verge of protesting a multitude of times, but the look in Steve's eyes, fathomless with the pain of loss yet still bleakly resolute, excised the words from his lips. When Carter Sweeney had abducted Mark, Steve had investigated every crime scene, following the slightest clue with an obsessive determination that eschewed such nonessentials as food and rest, overriding his friends' protests at the irrationality of his actions.

His drive now had even more momentum, and remonstrating as to its ill-advised nature would fall on equally deaf ears. Yet back then, Steve had been in excellent physical condition, now he shouldn't even be on his feet. His breathing was growing harsher with the jarring impact of each step and his white knuckles matched his ashen face.

The light drizzle that had dampened the air became heavier, completing the job of soaking them that delving in the floodwaters of the river had started. As they worked their way down towards the ocean, the ground started to level out, the rocky banks giving way to tamer terrain while the river spread wider and became shallower. The possible places of concealment for an unconscious person diminished and, correspondingly, any hope of finding Mark declined. Still Steve persevered, although his stride became uneven and faltering. He no longer indicated areas for Jesse to scrutinise, but insisted on examining the meagre possibilities for himself.

Eventually, they were positioned over the flat, sandy delta with a clear view down to the breaking waves of the ocean. Jesse snuck a quick glance at his friend, flinching at the defeated look around his eyes and the stark gash of his lips against pallid flesh. He delved around the most optimistic corners of his mind for something comforting to say, but was unable to dredge up anything remotely appropriate.

"I suppose..." he started tentatively, but broke off, unable even to complete the sentence in his mind and realising that the suggestion that Mark's body had been swept out into the ocean would not improve his friend's state of mind.

"He's not dead!" Steve swung round with a ferocity that surprised them both. The older man wasn't even sure where the assertion had come from but now the words were out, he drew strength from them, savouring the texture and taste of their sustenance.

Jesse stared at him, clearly upset. He swallowed, uncertainty choking the words in his throat. He desperately wanted to help and he believed this denial would only harm. "Steve, he's gone." Grief, both first-hand and vicarious for his friend's sake, shredded his composure and he blinked back the extraneous moisture in his eyes. "Mark's gone. God, I know it hurts, but you have to accept that." He stepped forward, holding out a hand in an attempt to mitigate the impact of his declaration, but lowered it as Steve rejected it with a violent gesture.

"I don't have to accept a damned thing," Steve stated in a low, passionate tone. "There's no body, and I will never believe he's gone until I have tangible proof. Dad would never give up on me and I'll be damned if I give up on him."

Jesse lowered his head, unable to withstand the adamant force of those blue eyes, their depths haunted and filled with pain. This wasn't the best time for a confrontation even if he wanted one. Tension was rolling through Steve in shuddering waves, compounding tremors caused by damp clothes and an overstressed system. He looked on the point of collapse and would never make it back to the car under his own power so Jesse fell back on practicalities.

"Why don't you sit down here while I try and find Amanda? We'll bring the car down to the landing ramp." He watched Steve lower himself wearily onto a large rock, huddled in an uncomfortable position, then set off at a run.

There was more undergrowth on the other bank so Amanda hadn't made it as far down the river, but once he'd located her, Jesse yelled across to meet back at the car and a wave of her arm indicated her understanding and agreement.

The solitary walk allowed too much time for reflection and for the welter of powerful emotions that rampaged through his mind to deteriorate into even greater disorder. He regretted pushing Steve to accept his father's death, but mixed in with his compassion for his friend was frustration for the detective's willful neglect of his own health and stubborn disregard of the facts. Underscoring and blurring it all was his own misery and corresponding but unfocused anger.

Nervous energy kept him moving even after he reached the car and he paced around in aimless circles until he spotted Amanda approaching, besmeared with mud and with her wet hair hanging limply in strands.

"How's Steve?" she called anxiously in greeting.

"Well, he's not collapsed yet, through some miracle of sheer pigheadedness, but he's not doing well," Jesse responded dryly. He waited until they were in the car and he'd given Amanda the directions to the turn-off before unburdening his train of thought.

"I think it was a mistake to bring him out here. He refuses to believe that Mark is...gone. In fact, he says he won't believe it until he sees the body." It was difficult to talk about such things and the stress spilled over as irritation.

Amanda recognised the source of his vexation and although she couldn't agree with his assertion, she was cautious in her expression of that disagreement. "Jesse, I'm no psychiatrist, but I seem to remember that denial is one of the normal first stages of grief. It's not unusual for someone suffering from the initial emotional shock and disorientation of loss to simply refuse to accept it. In fact, it's often healthy since it serves to protect the individual from experiencing the intensity of that grief until they are better able to cope with it."

"It's not like Steve," Jesse insisted stubbornly. "When have you known him to evade anything just because it's difficult?"

"This is hardly a typical situation. There's nothing that could hit him harder than this," Amanda protested in distress. "I think we have to expect uncharacteristic behaviour, but we still have to support him the best we can."

"But what are we supposed to do, pander to this...fantasy?" Jesse's voice broke on the last word, revealing his own heartache. "This is hard enough as it is, I can't just pretend it hasn't happened."

"I don't know. Maybe we're out of our depth on this one, maybe we should get some professional help."

Jesse snorted. "There's no way we'll get Steve to agree to that."

"I didn't mean necessarily for him, but a consultation might help us figure out the best way to help him."

There wasn't time for further conversation. "Turn in here," Jesse directed. "Steve's a bit further down on the left so park as close to the water as you can."

Steve hadn't moved from the rock where Jesse had left him, nor had his appearance improved. Lines of pain bracketed his eyes and mouth and black shadows devoured the skin under his eyes. He pushed himself laboriously to his feet as they approached and stood swaying slightly. Jesse hastily looped his friend's good arm over his shoulder, and Steve made no objection to the assistance. His efforts at walking lacked his usual smooth coordination as the renewed demands on his damaged system depleted it still further.

They stumbled along wordlessly, the exertion siphoning off any desire to converse, but the silence that engulfed them also contained something more than just weariness. Jesse was aware of an unusual constraint that he had no idea how to overcome.

He tried to catch Steve's eye as he finally eased the older man down onto the passenger seat, but the detective was oblivious not only to his friends but to his surroundings in general. His eyes were fixed on the river in front of them, but he was seeing something else altogether, something grim if Jesse could guess by his expression.

"Steve, are you...comfortable?" Jesse chose phrasing that he felt Steve would be more receptive to hearing, not wanting to duplicate his mistake in the hospital. There was no response, so Jesse gently touched his friend's knee to attract his attention. He almost regretted succeeding as the pain in the intense blue eyes that met his was almost too much to witness. He repeated his question patiently and wasn't surprised at the uninformative answer.

"I'm fine."

"Steve, I need to know how you're really doing. I can give you more painkillers if your shoulder is giving you too much trouble." There was concern in his voice but also a firmness that demanded an answer.

"No drugs." Steve rejected the idea unequivocally. "I need to think."

"You need to rest," Jesse contradicted him, but he could tell that arguing would gain him nothing more than further alienating his friend so he capitulated, shutting the passenger door and sliding in behind Amanda.

The journey proceeded mostly in silence. Amanda could see that Steve's eyes were shut but every line of his body was taut with suppressed pain -- it was impossible to tell how much was physical and how much emotional. She concentrated on driving, glad for the mechanical task to distract her from her own morbid thoughts. She started when Steve finally spoke to her.

"Take the next left." The command was reinforced by a pointing finger and Amanda automatically turned as he instructed. She tried to think of a tactful way to query the wisdom of lengthening this excursion, but Jesse had no such qualms and beat her to it.

"The only place we're going is back to the hospital," he stated forcefully. "You know pain is the body's way of telling you to take it easy before you do any more damage. You're in no condition to do anything right now."

"I need to check out Dad's car. It'll have been towed to the county impound yard." Steve's voice was low and colorless and this lack of emotion helped Jesse clamp down on the harsh words that threatened to erupt.

"It's not going anywhere. It can wait until you're stronger." He couldn't see Steve's face from where he sat in the back, but there was no reaction in his body language.

"If you don't want to drive me, I'll take a taxi."

The quiet but obdurate tones pushed Jesse past the point of treading carefully, his own anger taking too strong a hold.

"Damn it, Steve. You're going to kill yourself. You have to face reality and..."

"Jesse!" Amanda broke in sharply, preventing the young doctor from saying something irrevocably damaging to his friendship with the man he saw as an older brother. She understood his growing frustration and, to a large extent, shared it. They wanted to help Steve but as hell bent as he seemed on self-destruction, it was impossible to tell what was hurting him and what was helping him and none of them were thinking too clearly at the present. Once again, she found herself wishing that Mark was there. He always knew how to deal with his recalcitrant son, but the irony was that it was only when Mark was in trouble that Steve became so intractable.

"Are you sure it will be there?" she asked hopefully.

"It'll be there. It's policy that any vehicle that is impounded for a official police investigation will be towed directly to the county impound yard."

"We'll take you there, but please, after that, you need to rest. OK?" It was a compromise, and Steve nodded briefly in agreement before furnishing her with the directions.

The Hilton Heights Police Vehicle Impound looked a lot like a junk yard, with cars in various states of disrepair littered around, interspersed with some shiny new models, all of them waiting for disposition by the courts. The only difference was the high barbed wire fence around the perimeter, with police no-trespassing notices at evenly spaced intervals and CCTV cameras recording all visitors.

Steve showed his ID at the gate and, although the security guard eyed his still damp and disheveled appearance with some skepticism, he let them in, directing them to the appropriate section. "The officer investigating the case just went in to the office to get the preliminary evaluation from the mechanic. I'll inform him you're here."

Steve exited the car without assistance, moving unerringly past several battered vehicles to locate his father's sedan. He halted abruptly as he took in his first complete look at it, reaching out a hand to touch the hood as if it provided a tangible link to Mark. It afforded little comfort since the considerable damage it had suffered was an appallingly vivid and poignant visual reminder of its driver's corresponding fate.

The lovingly polished and pristine surface was besmeared with mud with forlorn strands of dried algae adhering at intervals. The front and right corner were totally caved in and there were a myriad of dents marring the bodywork. Strangest of all, the car had been twisted into a slight crescent shape. Jesse surmised that it had been caught amidships against the bulwark of a bridge or similar structure and the force of the water on either side had crumpled the middle, thrusting the two ends around. Steve's expression was bleak, the skin pulled too tightly over the structure of his face, casting the bones into stark relief. He seemed frozen to the spot, only his eyes moving as they flickered over the length of the wreck.

Amanda took a step towards him, her hand upraised, hoping to offer some comfort, but the movement shattered Steve's reverie and he avoided the contact. "Don't touch anything but look around the car." His voice was flat and emotionless, at odds with the fathomless pain in his eyes.

The driver's door proved impossible to open, but the passenger door yielded to a tug and, entering that side, Steve eased himself over until he was behind the steering wheel. The car smelt dank and the upholstery was still soaking wet. For a moment, his knuckles gleamed white on the wheel as if he were trying to snap it in two by main force. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but his instincts told him there was something off kilter and he had to find it.

He searched under the seats and in the glove compartment, and checked the settings on the controls in front of him. There was nothing instantly recognisable as abnormal, but there were some inconsistencies which deepened the frown carved between his brows.

"Excuse me, Sir." The unexpected voice brought Steve's attention round with a jerk, surprising a gasp of pain from him as the movement jarred his shoulder. The speaker was a uniformed policeman, and Steve once more dug out his credentials for inspection.

While they were scrutinised, he slid back out of the car to stand beside the cop whose nametag proclaimed him to be Officer Collins. He was typical of many young recruits, his hair closely cropped in regulation style and his slight chubbiness accentuated by the bulletproof vest that most officers on the streets wore as a matter of course under their uniform.

"Lieutenant Sloan." He looked up from Steve's ID. "Are you related to the owner of this vehicle?"

"My father," Steve stated shortly, then as the young man stammered his way through a sincere but awkward expression of condolence, he cut him off. "Can you tell me what's been discovered so far?"

"It was a tragic accident." Collins pulled out some papers from a file he was carrying, clearly happier to be on more solid ground. "The mechanic's report indicates that nothing was wrong with the car. From the testimony of witnesses to the incident, our best guess is that he...Dr...your father suffered a heart attack or..."

"There was nothing wrong with his heart," Steve broke in heatedly. "It's as strong as mine."

"Oh." The officer looked nonplused for a moment then carried on doggedly. "..or some other medical condition which caused him to lose control of his vehicle while he was crossing the Hilton Heights Bridge, leading to..."

Steve again interrupted, unable to listen to the formal recitation of the accident. "All the windows were wide open and the AC was on yet it was a cool, damp evening. How do you explain that?"

Collins gaped in bewilderment, then glanced down at the paper in his hands for inspiration. "Well, the windows...the proper procedure to escape from a flooding vehicle..."

"So," Steve cut in ruthlessly. "My father had recovered enough from this crippling heart attack despite the shock of the fall to open the windows."

"We do have one more working theory," the young man defended himself. "People who observed the accident stated that the car changed direction suddenly and seemed to charge deliberately at the side of the bridge. It is possible that it was a suicide attempt. I understand that there'd been another death in the family and he was depressed."

Steve was furious; Jesse could see it in the white around his lips, the blue ice in his eyes and the pounding of the pulse in his neck, and he shifted slightly to block his friend from acting on that rage, but Steve restrained himself with glacial control. "That is completely impossible. My father was not suicidal and if you repeat that again I'll see you brought up on charges of incompetence."

Collins quailed before the blast of cold fury. "Then what do you think happened?" he asked in bewildered frustration.

"Attempted murder. Someone arranged for my Dad's car to go off the bridge."

Collins was clearly out of his depth and considering retreat, but he attempted one last-ditch stab at reason. "But all the eyewitnesses say there was only one person in the car."

"That they could see," Steve rebutted. The cresting wave of exhaustion and pain suddenly broke over him and only by leaning heavily against the car did he avoid the almost irresistible pull of gravity. Jesse and Amanda were instantly by his side, propping him up and propelling him gently back to the car.

"Thanks for your help." Amanda smiled kindly at the young officer, sensing he was well-meaning if not overly bright.

They were settling Steve into the car, his face almost translucently pale against the cream of Amanda's upholstery, when Collins hurried up again. "Excuse me, I almost forgot. The Search and Rescue team recovered these items. I wondered if you could identify them."

With the utmost reluctance, Steve reached out to take the grimy plastic bag. There were two items inside, both metallic although the muddy river water had removed the original sheen. One was a cell phone, destined never to work again, the other was a pen. He recognised the latter instantly and in that moment everything faded to insubstantiality except that one object which seemed to expand to fill his vision.

He'd given it to Mark for Father's Day with the comment that it was the modern equivalent of soap on a rope. The doctor had been laughingly complaining of senility, that he was incapable of keeping a pen more than a few days, so Steve had bought him one that was worn round the neck, the leather attached to the lid so it was always available when required. Mark had worn it every day since.

"They're my dad's." His voice was devoid of expression and the flat, neutral tone was more chilling than if he had sounded angry or distressed. Steve felt like a ghost, drained of all vitality. His eyes burned, his head ached and pain danced a jangled rhythm with stiletto heels along every nerve ending culminating with a polka on his shoulder that felt as if it were impaled by a red-hot poker.

"Amanda, please take me home." His eyes were shut but someone with as much knowledge of him as the two doctors could sense the palpable distress that emanated from him. Jesse traded a worried glance with Amanda, both too concerned to fulfill the heartfelt plea without some discussion.

"We need to go back to the hospital. You agreed..."

"I agreed to rest," Steve interrupted tersely. "I'll do that much better in my own bed."

"But at the hospital..."

"I'm not going back there." Steve's habitual easy-going nature was not evident in the uncompromising tones.

This time there was resignation in the visual exchange and Amanda started the car with a grimace of vexation. However, she couldn't find it in her to blame Steve for his current willfulness. He'd just been forced to absorb two severe blows on top of the emotional buffeting he'd already suffered. Identifying his father's personal effects had been a painful ordeal which must have blasted his hopes for Mark's survival. Perhaps even worse had been the unintentionally cruel suggestion that his father had committed suicide. Even if he'd immediately discounted the idea, the mere concept of such a betrayal had clearly shaken him.

Troubled thoughts bedeviled Amanda as she drove to the Beach House and she knew she wasn't alone in that distress. However, she didn't anticipate that matters would deteriorate further when they arrived.

Steve got out of the car then turned to face his friends as they prepared to accompany him into the house. The shadow of his unshaven chin highlighted his drawn ashen face and the fine tremble in his frame displayed the dizziness and exhaustion wreaking their misery on him. However, his expression was shuttered and he seemed to have erected a wall of grief between himself and the rest of the world.

"I want to thank you for everything you have done today, but now I'd appreciate it if the two of you would go home."

Amanda and Jesse exchanged glances of consternation. The thought of leaving Steve alone under these circumstances was anathema to both of them.

"Steve," Jesse began carefully. "You're in no condition to be left by yourself. You didn't want to go to the hospital and we respected that, but then you're going to have to accept that one of us at least has to stay with you."

"I don't have to accept anything," Steve snapped, the reference reminiscent of their earlier argument. He made a visible attempt to reign in his temper. "Look, I just want...I need some time alone."

Jesse gazed at his friend in dismay. He understood what motivated the request. Steve was a private individual and needed some solitude to come to terms with recent events. His emotions ran like a subterranean river of lava, deep, hidden and always controlled. However, there were times when they threatened to erupt in a molten pyrotechnic display. Jesse had never been the target of his anger but seeing how close Steve's feelings were to the surface, he feared that the wrong words on his part would spark an explosion.

"I understand you want time by yourself." His offer was conciliatory. "You won't even notice I'm here. I'll stay in another room and I'll..."

"No!" Steve struggled for control. The rational part of him knew his friends were only trying to help and didn't deserve his ire, but he craved privacy, the opportunity to lower his guard and lick his wounds in private. Also, it was hard to contain the anger now it had seeped in. It may have been only a convenient replacement for grief, but the sheer precipice of loss now facing him was too daunting to face and that blaze of fury diverted him from the void.

He took a deep breath. "Look, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm exhausted and I have no intention of doing anything other than sleeping. You can come back in the morning and check up on me. I just don't want anyone around right now."

Jesse was forced to defer to his wishes. Steve's concession of allowing them to return the next morning made the departure slightly more palatable, but they still left with great reluctance.

"Are we doing the right thing?" Amanda asked anxiously, watching in the rearview mirror as Steve trudged wearily towards his own entrance to the Beach House, blatantly averse to venturing into the upper levels.

"I don't see that we have much choice," Jesse returned gloomily. "I think trying to force him into anything would do more harm than good. He needs to feel in control of something at this point. I thought anger was supposed to be the stage of grief experienced after denial but he seems to have combined the two."

"Always the overachiever." Amanda tried to smile but it slipped miserably off her face as if it had nothing to hold onto.

Steve paused at the corner as they left, the expected relief at their departure never materializing, just a renewal of the desolation that went so deep and hurt so much. Stiffly, he fit the key into the lock and swung open the door, not allowing himself to feel the aberration of entering at the lower floor. For a moment he stood, at a loss for his next move, then he lowered himself down on the couch.

His grief was a monstrous force that left him reeling. All the things he should have said and done became a pile of regrets heaped upon his shoulders, overwhelming him with their weight. He curled forward, his arms wrapped around his body as he shook with emotion -- guilt, overwhelming sorrow and loss.

After a while, he lifted his feet onto the couch, curling up into a position more defensive than comfortable, unable to forget waking up in the same place less than forty-eight hours before, hours that extended into a lifetime. He thought he'd never fall asleep, but exhaustion hijacked him almost immediately and suddenly he was falling, tumbling weightlessly into the dark void opening before him.

He didn't know how long he slept, but it was still dark outside when a nightmare of being inexorably pulled below murky, pitching water woke him with a choking gasp. He sat bolt upright, sweat pouring from him, chilling his body. He shivered and, drawing up his knees up, bent his face down to rest against them. He longed for the oblivion sleep offered, but was unable to relax again with the raw, gnawing ache that infiltrated soul-deep.

It seemed as if a tenebrous shroud lay over the entire world and the darkest corner hovered over his room. He couldn't sit still any longer and found himself moving, almost automatically, to the stairs. Yet, even as he emerged into the kitchen, illuminated only by the moonlight through the windows, it felt wrong. The room was empty, and it wasn't a physical emptiness. The place felt chilled without the warmth of Mark's personality filling it. How could he be haunted by someone who wasn't there?

Mechanically, Steve walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water, not bothering with the light switch. He opened a cupboard then stopped abruptly, leaning forward on the counter bracing himself with his arms, as the domesticity of the act triggered memories which ripped through him like razors, so sharp that he lost his breath for a moment.

He tried to block out the pain but it always resurfaced no matter what he tried. It was too fresh, too recent, too damn intense. His throat was tight and his chest ached, so constricted that he couldn't seem to breathe, as he fought the despair and grief that erupted at the memories. Maybe if he could find relief in tears, the pressure would lessen but he felt too empty, the pain too raw and overwhelming for tears. They would not be enough to cauterize the wound where his father had been ripped from his life.

Fury rolled through him with blinding force at the realisation that his thoughts had wandered perilously close to the abdication of hope, and he threw the glass to smash against the wall. The violent motion caused his shoulder to renew its fierce aching, but it was a pain he knew and could tolerate. With savage satisfaction he seized a mug and its trajectory resulted in the destruction of a vase sitting blamelessly on a nearby mantelpiece. The explosion of sound provided a gratifying break in the suffocating emptiness and Steve indulged his impulse to shatter the silence and the furniture for a few more minutes before sitting down heavily in a chair, rasping inhalations shuddering through his body.

Finding Mark's pen had shaken him and the shock, combined with the drugs, had left him confused and unfocused, but he wasn't going to give up. His jaw set in grim determination. He knew he was going on nothing more than faith and that thread was stretched so thin by this time it was almost invisible, but it hadn't snapped and he wasn't going to allow it. He had to maintain that hope because if he ever let go, he would shatter into so many pieces he'd never be whole again.

He wasn't in this alone, or at least he didn't have to be. Jesse and Amanda also had an emotional investment in his father's fate. He needed to use all his resources starting with harnessing the rage that rasped through him, not allowing it to control him. Slowly, his shivering body stilled and he sat there unmoving, finally applying rational thought to the problem. Why had Mark been on the bridge? Trenton had sent the files over to him. What had he found?

Steve switched on the lights and, looking around with a detective's eyes, discovered he didn't have far to explore. Piles of folders, stacked neatly on the kitchen table, invited investigation. In front of Mark's chair, one solitary file sat squarely, singled out from all the rest. He felt his heart press painfully against his insides as, in a flash of insight so vivid it was as if his father had whispered in his ear, he realised that Mark had uncovered the identity of Serena Trenton's murderer.

As he approached, he also espied the white rectangular piece of paper and a knife embedded itself in his gut as he recognised his father's distinctive handwriting marching across the page, and twisted deeper as he read the final words --We need to talk. He tried to clear his throat but found he could scarcely swallow. Bitter regret fermented inside, metastasizing like the most virulent of cancers, crippling him with despair.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" It was an agonised whisper, but he already knew the answer. Despite his best intentions, he'd made his disapproval of Mark's avid involvement in the investigation plain, depriving his father of his customary wholehearted support thus forcing him, at a time when he was at his most vulnerable, into making impulsive and reckless decisions. To distend Steve's feelings of culpability, he knew that Mark would never have become committed to unraveling the murder if he hadn't invited him into the inquiry in the first place. It seemed that every step of the way, he'd sown the seeds for this catastrophe.

However, despite the molten pain of that guilt, he knew that someone else bore the ultimate accountability for Mark's...disappearance... and the urge to find and tear apart that person burned high in his veins.

He carefully folded Mark's note, slipping it into his wallet, then opened the file, devouring every word in an effort to duplicate his father's line of thinking. When he'd finished, he couldn't find anything definitive that would prove the Devlin family complicit in the murder, but that was irrelevant. He was more than willing to take that on faith. Of more importance was his father's note and the fact that the route to their house would lead him over the Hilton Heights Bridge.

As soon as it was light enough, he had some questions for Michael Devlin and his sons.