Chapter 15
Steve's shout roused Mark and he bolted upright, disoriented and fearful. The tableau that greeted his eyes did little to elucidate or reassure. His son appeared to be stalking one of the nurses whom Mark recognised though couldn't immediately identify. It was only as the man threw the IV pole towards Steve, turning slightly into the light, that Mark was able to place him -- Devlin's private nurse.
Under normal circumstances, Mark knew the best thing to do in a fight was to stay out of his son's way, but seeing him tangled in the IV lines and clearly hampered by his injuries, Mark felt impelled to find some way to help. His feet hadn't touched the ground when he saw the syringe lodge in Steve's arm, scant fractions of a second before his son decked his opponent.
He called out anxiously, but Steve was staring down at the floored nurse. There was something strange about his stance and Mark ripped the needle out of his hand, flicking a switch on the heart monitor to sound an alarm, and was off the bed when, in the midst of a hesitant step, his son collapsed bonelessly.
"Steve!" The cry left Mark's lips involuntarily as a wave of cold panic washed through him, coalescing into a hard, jagged lump somewhere in his gut. He shoved the IV pole at the intruder who had started to get to his feet and followed it up in quick succession with a chair and his tray table.
A nurse burst through the door but promptly reversed direction as Mark yelled at her to get security. Even if he hadn't done enough to neutralise the threat the man presented, he could no longer postpone the burning instinct to help his son and he dropped to his knees beside him.
Carefully supporting his son's head, he rolled Steve gently onto his back and a shard of ice slid into his heart at the utter lifelessness of the limp body. It sliced deeper, hammered in by visceral horror as he realised that his son wasn't breathing. Yet as he glanced up, he noticed Steve's eyes were open and, moving into their line of sight, it was impossible to miss the intelligence there, the fear combined with a desperate trust.
"You're going to be okay," he reassured him automatically, patting his son's chest and a second later was offered the hope that his own words were true. He could feel Steve's heart pounding under his fingers, pumping the blood frantically around his body in a futile search for oxygen. The symptoms all came together in a flash of understanding, which he turned immediately into action.
Tilting Steve's head back and sealing his nose, he took a deep breath and started artificial respiration. He knew how terrifying it must be for his son to be utterly helpless and dependent for even such a fundamental life function as breathing, so as he came up for air, Mark again took a moment for encouragement. "For now, I'm going to breathe for you. You're going to be fine."
He established a regular rhythm, deriving comfort from the corresponding rise and fall of his son's chest.
"Oh my God, Steve. What happened?" Mark didn't think he'd ever been so relieved to hear Jesse's voice.
"Tubarine," he explained succinctly. "Get neostigmine."
He felt the displacement of air as Jesse vanished, and out of the periphery of his vision he was dimly aware of the male nurse being led away by security. However, his entire focus had narrowed to the mechanical process of inhaling and exhaling and the life-giving oxygen being transferred. He wasn't going to lose his son, that determination filled every cell in his body.
Dizzying spots were dancing in front of his eyes, the result of hyperventilation, when a manual tank resuscitator appeared before him. "Dr. Travis told me to bring you this."
Without taking the time or precious breath to acknowledge the nurse, he quickly fit the airtight mask over Steve's nose and mouth, squeezing the bag to force the air into his son's lungs. With his fingers on Steve's pulse, he monitored the operation of the machine, giving himself a moment to recover before speaking.
"Steve, I know how frightening this is, but it's just temporary. The tubarine paralyses all your skeletal muscles, including your diaphragm which is why you can't breathe, but it will wear off and until then we'll give you artificial respiration. It doesn't effect the heart or other internal organs so it's not full CPR."
Jesse suddenly appeared beside him, his red face a testament to his haste. "It's not neostigmine, but we have the endrophonium we were using for you."
"That's fine," Mark agreed tersely.
As Jesse filled the syringe he queried, "You're sure it was Tubarine?"
Mark mentally ran through Steve's list of symptoms and the speed of his reaction and it all checked, but there was more to it than that. "It was meant for me," he confessed in a low voice. "I think it was intended to look like I'd merely succumbed to the accumulated effects of repeated doses of the mixture they'd used on me. Either for revenge or more likely because they hoped that with removal of my testimony the case against them in at least Serena's murder would collapse."
Mark allowed Jesse to give the injection, scooting round to Steve's head, continuing to compress the bag with one hand while gently smoothed back his son's hair comfortingly, knowing that while he was incapable of so much as voluntarily twitching a finger, Steve could still feel every sensation.
"We're giving you an antidote to the tubarine that will neutralise it," he explained as the needle slid into Steve's limp arm. "I'd tell you to relax, but it's not like you have any choice in the matter."
He could see the joke register in his son's eyes, the humour an unorthodox testament to the veracity of his reassurance. The apprehension that could only be expressed in the blue depths eased. Mark continued to expound on the effects the new drug would have on Steve's system, partly so his son would know what to expect, but more importantly as a distraction from the paralysis holding him captive.
The endrophonium worked gratifyingly fast and Mark could see the relief blossom on his son's face as muscle control was restored. "Don't try to force it," he advised. "It'll be out of your system soon, just take it easy."
Soon Steve's lungs were functioning without need of assistance and Jesse removed the resuscitator, frowning when he saw blood soaking the shoulder of his patient's scrubs.
"Keep still for a moment, will you," he adjured as Steve moved underneath his hands, testing the extent of his mobility.
Steve scowled up at him. The last thing he felt like doing at that moment was keeping still and very deliberately he wriggled his fingers in his friend's face.
"If you don't quit shifting around, I'll give you another shot of tubarine," Jesse threatened.
"Jesse!" Mark protested, half-laughing, but the experience was too recent and too nearly fatal to be entirely humorous.
"Well, this is the third time he's popped the stitches in that shoulder. I swear, I'm not going to bother with needle and thread anymore. I'm going to use a staple gun, or maybe some glue."
Despite his aggrieved words, Jesse's hands were gentle as he repaired that and other damage. "You know, when I prescribed rest, I really didn't have this in mind," he teased his friend.
"Yeah, well, when I said I wanted to sleep for a week, this wasn't what I had in mind either," Steve retorted. He struggled to his feet, needing to prove to himself that his legs were capable of supporting him again. A hand on the wall provided a necessary prop, but although the muscles felt sufficiently stable, a residual dizziness spun the room around him and he realised he'd better sit. The floor was probably the best option and he'd already proved he could hit it, but an inherent stubbornness made him aim for the bed. Luckily, Jesse grabbed an arm before he pitched forward on his face and, with the help of a nurse, he maneuvered Steve back under the covers.
Mark hovered close behind. Despite the continuing banter between the two younger men, he could sense that his son was badly shaken by his recent ordeal. Steve was entirely too forthright and honest to camouflage his feelings successfully from those who knew him well and Mark could catch the troubled look in his son's eyes as they flickered in his direction.
After Jesse had got his patient settled and comfortable, Mark signaled discreetly that he would like a few minutes alone with his son. As the young doctor departed muttering about checking some blood-work, Mark perched himself of the side of Steve's bed. He knew better than to tackle his son directly on the issue bothering him.
"So," he started lightly, "should we expect any more visitors tonight?"
"I certainly hope not." Steve gave the matter some thought and shook his head. "There's only one Devlin left and he's almost certainly under medical care or under arrest. I wouldn't expect that much loyalty from any of their other employees. I think the nurse was in it as deep as the rest of the family, and that was a last ditch attempt to stave off prosecution."
"Well, thanks for stopping him, though next time I'd prefer it if you did it without him stopping you. You had me scared there, for a minute."
"You weren't the only one," Steve admitted ruefully. "Dad...?" The hesitant pause warned Mark that his son was moving to the heart of what was bothering him and he tried to look as receptive as possible.
"Was that what it was like for you?"
The air left Mark's lungs in a whoosh, leaving him winded. He'd assumed that Steve's unease had stemmed from his own traumatic experience; he hadn't thought of the insight it had offered his son into Mark's ordeal.
"It was nothing like as bad for me," he claimed staunchly. "You were injected with pure Tubarine, not the drug cocktail they used on me. My breathing was never compromised."
"But you couldn't move," Steve insisted.
"No...I mean, yes. Well, I'm not saying it was any fun, but it could have been worse." Mark was aware he was stuttering, his own demons surfacing and interfering with his attempt at reassurance.
Steve regarded him steadily. After the last hour, it took little imagination on his part to fathom the hell his father must have lived through and despite the minor issue of breathing, it had to have been far worse than his own. Mark's little adventure into paralysis had been unrelieved by the presence of family and friends and the corresponding hope of protection. He had lain there, totally helpless, unable to even defend himself with his best weapon, communication, not knowing when the psychopaths holding him would return to commit murder.
Mark took a deep breath, reading the concerns passing through those pained blue eyes and tried again. "I think there was some kind of narcotic in the drugs they gave me. I really don't remember much about the time before I lost consciousness." As it looked like Steve might protest, he held his son's gaze serenely as he continued gently. "And I never doubted for a minute that you'd find me."
The words drifted between them like soothing balm, softening the whirlwind of their emotions. It was probably the one comforting thing Mark could have said that Steve would truly believe and his son settled back against the pillow, temporarily satisfied, a stifled wince of pain momentarily crossing his face as his shoulder protested the movement.
"That reminds me," Mark continued blithely. "I don't remember anything in your narrative that would explain the bandages on your feet either."
"Well, you did ask for the short version." Steve deflected the grievance gracefully.
"Clearly an error on my part," Mark returned amiably. "One I intend to remedy." Watching his son yawn widely, he amended, "In the morning...or afternoon."
"Night, Dad." The mutter was barely intelligible as Steve relinquished awareness, sliding into sleep like a seal into deep water.
"Good night, son," Mark murmured, patting the blanket-covered leg beside him. Despite his own fatigue, he didn't move back to his own bed but sat watching his son sleep as he had that night in Steve's apartment. He reveled in the easy rhythm of his son's breathing, yet that contentment was marred as, in the dim light, he also visually catalogued the myriad of bruises and lacerations exposed and the bandages white and stark against Steve's skin. He'd made some mistakes and it seemed that Steve had paid a higher price than he had and the heavy ache of that knowledge would take a long time to fade away. Yet, for tonight, they were both alive and that was enough.
Author's Note - Just one more chapter, folks!