Chapter 10

Jesse shut his car door and for a moment leaned against it, staring at the house that had become his home away from home, a place of amusement when times were good and a sanctuary when his spirit was troubled. Normally the building exuded welcoming warmth, but today, in the shadows under the lowering, murky clouds it looked dark and impenetrable. Jesse knew he was projecting his own trepidation at the prospect of entering.

When he had arrived to find the house empty that morning, he'd been furious and terrified. The call from Captain Newman had been simultaneously reassuring and deeply troubling. Obviously Steve was still functioning physically which was a relief, but it was hard to imagine a more devastating series of events for his friend emotionally.

Steve was one of the strongest people Jesse had ever known, with a seemingly unassailable sense of identity, but anyone could break given sufficient pressure and he was afraid that the accumulative and percussive impact of losing his sister, his father and, even if only temporarily, his job could be the force that shattered Steve.

Jesse hesitated a moment at the front door, realising that, for the first time, he was unsure of his welcome, then reached out gently to see if it was locked. It was, and he was reluctant to ring the bell since he was hoping that Steve would be resting if not asleep. Both he and Amanda had spare keys so letting himself in was no problem. He climbed the stairs, heading for the kitchen, and was unsurprised to find Steve staring out the window, dry-eyed, but with more anguish in his face than he could remember ever seeing on someone before.

"Hey, Jess." Steve turned to acknowledge him with every appearance of normality, but the dark circles under his eyes and the tired posture as he leaned against the wall betrayed him.

Jesse's heart ached for everything his best friend was going through. "You weren't here when I arrived this morning." It wasn't what he'd intended to say and as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they lacked
conciliatory tact.

"I know, I'm sorry." The words were right, but uttered flatly with no intonation, robbing them of meaning. There was also no accompanying explanation which would have allowed Jesse to ease into the topic of Steve's suspension.

"I let myself in," he continued awkwardly, throwing his keys onto the table. "I hope you don't mind."

"No problem." Steve still sounded totally abstracted as if he'd closed the blinds, dimmed the lights and retreated so far inside himself that Jesse wondered if he'd ever manage to find his way back.

He wasn't sure which was worse, a distant, withdrawn Steve or a belligerent, hostile Steve. Neither was characteristic. Although he did not display the same gregarious amiability as his father, Steve had inherited much of Mark's easy-going nature. He was typically self-possessed and dependable, a steadfast and loyal friend who was slow to anger unless friends and family were threatened.

Jesse decided that he could at least take advantage of his friend's present preoccupation. "Let me check to see how your shoulder's doing."

He received a vague grunt of assent and Steve started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the stained bandage underneath. With a frown, Jesse began work, aggravated to discover that not only had two of his stitches been torn out, but also that the wound looked swollen and inflamed. A lecture on the stupidity of engaging in physical struggles with a hole in one's shoulder trembled on the tip of his tongue, and only the belief that he would be wasting a fine example of oratory on an oblivious audience stopped him from delivering it.

He rebound the injury, finishing with an unnecessary flourish to conceal his disquiet at his patient's utter stillness throughout the operation. Unwilling to postpone the conversation any longer, but unsure exactly how to broach the issues confronting them, he started with a tentative, "Steve?"

"No!" The tone was curtly uncompromising as, despite his distraction, Steve sensed his intent and rejected the overture.

Jesse pasted a false smile on his face and continued on a different track without hesitation. He wasn't going to leave without Steve discussing the day's events but he could bide his time. "When did you last eat?"

A one-shouldered shrug confirmed his impression that it had been too long and he stood up purposefully. "I'll make us something to eat."

The refrigerator offered little by way of choices, but he settled on what he called a 'bachelor's special' -- an omelette with anything he could find to throw in. Despite the mechanical nature of the task, he found it impossible to relax, bedeviled by echoes of past laughter and hospitality and the feeling that he was usurping Mark's position as host.

He frequently glanced across at Steve, who was sitting as still as humanly possibly, containing himself inside his body like an alabaster statue, cold and lifeless, gray shadows haunting a face weary from lack of sleep and nightmares that disregarded the distinction between waking and sleeping.

"Dinner is served," Jesse announced with grim cheer. He had to repeat himself twice before he got a reaction from his friend and he suppressed his irritation at being so comprehensively tuned out. Having got Steve's attention, he strove to keep it by maintaining a stream of trivial comments that required at least a minimal response.

However, the topic of Mark's death lay unbroached, a tangible, oppressive thing between them, like a vicious carnivore waiting to pounce. As he watched, Steve stabbed a fork into his toast, then scrutinised it with a scowl as if disappointed that it didn't fight back.

Jesse sifted through possible preliminaries: 'So, how was your day,' 'You know, I got an interesting phone call today,' 'Have you heard the one about the suspended cop?' None of these appeared promising as the verbal wedge he needed to pry open his taciturn friend. He felt like he was suddenly living in a foreign country, the language of which he barely knew.

Steve was still moving as if he wasn't really present. He had battened down his hatches and fortified his defenses, and Jesse could tell that any sympathetic advances on his part would simply ricochet off the walls that surrounded his friend. He needed a more radical approach, the conversational equivalent of lobbing a stink bomb over the barriers to force Steve to break his own way out.

"So how long are you going to sit around here feeling sorry for yourself?" His heart thumped sickeningly at the surprised hurt in his friend's eyes as Steve's head jerked up to stare at him.

With two long strides Steve was back at the window, standing ramrod straight, his hands clenched at his sides. The young doctor could feel the anger bleeding off him and wondered just how much more it would take to send him over the edge and if he himself would survive the attempt. This was surgery, the infliction of pain for a greater good or at least the lancing of a wound to rid it of infection, so despite hating himself for generating the additional distress, he pushed on ruthlessly.

"Mark's dead and it's time for you to move on."

Steve was now truly ice-cold furious. Jesse could see the pale blue sky of the frozen tundra in his eyes and judged it was time to fire the final volley. "Ruining your own life like this is a desecration of his memory."

He held his breath for several seconds, the count after pulling the pin from a grenade, the words hanging heavily between them; then the explosion rocked him backwards.

"Get out!" In a movement that somehow defied sight, Steve was suddenly towering over him, enforcing the bellowed command with physical intimidation. Yet despite the awareness that Steve was quite capable of picking him up and tossing him across the room, Jesse was undaunted. Even in the heat of fury, he didn't believe Steve would hurt him.

"Or you'll do what?" Jesse tipped his head back, meeting his furious gaze. "You'll beat me up, or throw me against a wall and break my arm -- you seem to have that down pat today."

He could almost feel the change in temperature as Steve's rage slowly dissipated under the reminder of his earlier violence, tipping him, unanchored, into an emotional void.

"What happened today, Steve?" he asked gently, sensing his friend was now ready to talk.

The detective looked at him consideringly then nodded reluctantly. "Dad left me a note." He started his narrative almost as a formal dissertation but his voice gained momentum and passion as he relived the events of the day until, near the end, it was hoarse and raspy, as anger and desperation churned in his tight features in equal measure.

As he listened intently, Jesse shared the same emotions, his natural empathy enhanced by his close relationship with the Sloans.

"You really believe that it wasn't an accident, that the Devlins murdered Mark?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't just believe it, I know that they are responsible for whatever has happened to him," Steve asserted resolutely.

His rejection of the term murder did not go unnoticed and Jesse found himself struggling to hold onto his own temper, which seemed determined to slide through his fingers. "Steve, as hard as it is, you've got to accept that Mark's gone. Whether it was murder or an accident, he's dead."

"Why?" Steve's very body language showing an inflexible determination which would not be swayed. "Why do I have to accept that? Maybe the question is why the hell are you in such a hurry to believe he's gone!"

Jesse felt a prickle of heat run under his eyelids and he blinked back the water that flooded unbidden down into his eyes. "This isn't about me," he choked out bitterly.

"Isn't it? Well, maybe it should be. You're all so eager to make me out to be irrational and out of control, but maybe I'm the only one here who's seeing things clearly. How could you of all people give up on him so easily?" Steve's body was stiffly coiled in on itself, practically vibrating with the force of his emotions, the violence remaining in check.

Scalding heat ran through Jesse's body like a flash flood down a dry riverbed, a composite of guilt, fury and despair but he retained enough sanity to see what was happening, the two of them ripping each other to shreds over this shared grief. "Stop it! Do you think this isn't killing me too?"

The heartache in his voice resonated with Steve's own anguish and for the first time he actually looked at his friend. Usually Jesse was incredibly animated, giving the illusion of action even while standing still, but now his body language telegraphed exhaustion rather than his usual exuberance. Steve took a deep breath, allowing another's grief to register besides his own.

"I'm sorry, Jess. I know how much Dad means to you. Look, can we get off this adversarial tangent for a minute. I'm just trying to understand. You know how resourceful Dad is, why do think it so impossible that he might still be alive?"

"Resourceful, yes, but Steve, he's not invulnerable or immortal." Jesse desperately hoped that his friend would accept his point, because he couldn't bear talking about it any more, every word abrasive on already inflamed nerves.

Steve didn't answer at once, moving over to pour himself a drink of water and, in that pause, Jesse was intensely aware of the small sounds that somehow deepened the silence; the last drips out of the faucet into the sink and the gusting wind driving the rain against the windows with a subdued rattle.

Eventually Steve turned round. "Maybe it's foolish optimism." His voice was quiet, but no less intense for that. "Or maybe it's faith, a lifetime's habit of watching him turn defeat into the most surprising victory. But most of all, it's a choice. If I accept he's gone, I'm not sure I'm going to be good for anything and there's too much to do right now, too many questions unanswered. No, until there's incontrovertible proof to the contrary, I'm going to believe my dad's out there somewhere, needing my help."

By the time he'd finished, Jesse had to strain to hear the words, but such was Steve's death grip upon the glass that the young doctor was afraid it would shatter.

It was the longest speech he'd heard his naturally taciturn friend utter for a long time and it made perfect sense. In such circumstances, forced inaction was utter agony for Steve. But Jesse's main concern was that especially with his recent injury and fear draining his natural reserves and the helpless inactivity reinforced by his suspension preventing him from refueling, what would happen if Mark was found or even worse, if his body was never discovered? At some point Steve was going to crash hard. Nobody could live under this strain indefinitely.

The dark circles under Steve's eyes and the thinness of his cheeks were a testament to the anxiety that had burned through him for the last few days. These telltale symptoms of extreme emotional stress were readily apparent. What was less visible was the tension that crackled with Steve's every movement. An almost electrical charge seemed to tingle in the air as Steve paced restlessly.

Jesse could think of no way to relieve this strain, but he owed Steve the same honesty his friend had offered him. "When they told me that Mark was...dead, it was one of the worst moments in my life and although I'd dearly love to believe that there's a chance he's still alive, I don't dare hope with such little foundation. To go through that again...to set myself up for..." He broke off, unable to find words that wouldn't exacerbate his own misery and seem insensitive to Steve's grief.

He was immensely grateful to see understanding amid the somber pain that lurked in his friend's eyes and suddenly realised that, despite his positive stance, Steve was deeply afraid for his father. He wished there was something constructive he could provide. "Steve, I'll help in any way I can. If you truly believe that the Devlins are responsible for what happened to Mark, I'll try to help you prove it." He paused nervously, knowing he had to qualify that promise. "But I won't be party to you destroying yourself, either personally or professionally. The Devlins have a restraining order out on you so anything we do has to be discreet."

Jesse's instincts told him that saving Steve's job might, at this point, be synonymous with saving his life. If his obsession with the Devlins resulted in his dismissal from the force, it would be the final straw, the one that broke the proverbial camel's back. His occupation was the only thing that would keep him moderately sane.

Steve's normally sparkling blue eyes were sunken and dull, the dark shadows under them evidence of his exhausted state and Jesse hoped his friend would concede with at least minimal grace to the imperative of sleep. Putting their tenuous truce to the test, he continued firmly, "And you'll be in no shape for anything active in the next forty-eight hours at least."

For a moment he thought he'd overstepped the boundaries, but Steve merely nodded his head wearily. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go downstairs and rest." He hesitated, trailing the fingers of his left hand along the table without looking at his friend. "You must be tired too. The bed in the spare room is made up if you want to stay the night."

Jesse tried to conceal his pleasure at the invitation, glad that his friend's isolationist impulses had mellowed. It would be considerably easier to keep an eye on Steve's activities and apply a restraining presence to overly hazardous ventures from close by.

His initial sense of delight quickly palled into depression as the unaccustomed silence of the effectively empty house emphasised the sorrowful change of circumstances. After a lackluster attempt at cleaning up after his culinary endeavors, Jesse retired to the bedroom he'd occupied frequently in the past, most notably while recovering from genetically modified smallpox. From such an inauspicious beginning, Jesse dated the true beginning of his close relationship with the Sloans as they had so generously opened their home and family to him.

He'd marveled with a fringe of envy at the way the lives of father and son intertwined like oak and ivy growing into and through each other, at work, home and play. Now, however, he could see the downside to that symbiosis. When ripped apart, there was no styptic in the world for the depth of that wound. Seeking the oblivion of sleep from his morbid thoughts, Jesse pulled the covers over his head.

He slept better than he'd expected, lulled by the rhythmic white noise of the waves. There was no sound in the house when he woke and he hoped this equated to an equally peaceful night for Steve. He showered and shaved with a backup razor he left in the guest bathroom for just such eventualities, then entered the kitchen. There was no sign that Steve had breakfasted and a search of the refrigerator left him uninspired so he sat and watched the rain-driven surf surging high on the beach.

A good night's sleep might restore a greater emotional equilibrium to his friend, so he had no intention of waking him. He knew that anger was a legitimate part of the grieving process, but it was disconcerting to see Steve's mercurial oscillations between rage and quiet abstraction. "Things will get better," he told himself, but it was a mantra that brought him no calm whatsoever.

Eventually, the audible growling of his stomach, complaining of the paucity of recent sustenance, drove him to his feet. It would be nice to have some fresh bagels, maybe with bacon and eggs, to tempt Steve into eating breakfast. He patted his pocket to confirm the location of his wallet, then looked around vaguely for his keys. A visual survey of the room offered no revelation so he wandered into his bedroom. When a quick search of that area uncovered nothing, he resorted to pulling up the cushions on the sofa.

More bewildered than exasperated, he applied the Holmesian axiom that having eliminated all the possibilities in the house, whatever remained, however improbable, must be true and went outside to check his car. Afterwards, he couldn't imagine why it took him so long to realise the truth, but as he gaped in bewilderment at the empty space where his car had been, the alternatives that first crossed his mind were that the vehicle had been stolen or he was mistaken as to where he'd left it.

The realisation didn't hit at once but filtered in slowly, cementing the gap between suspicion and certainty. How could he have been so stupid! With Mark's fate uncertain, how could he have deluded himself into believing Steve would listen to reason? He tore back into the house and down the steps into the basement apartment two at a time.

Without announcement or apology he flung open the door to the bedroom. Steve was gone, the emptiness of the room conveying a frightening finality.

"Oh God, Steve, what have you got yourself into now."