Evidence

Jesse woke up in the jail's sickbay. He knew it was nighttime because they'd dimmed the lighting and there, across the room at a desk, sat the doctor, idly thumbing through a magazine. He looked bored and uncaring.

The patient lay in quiet agony, charting the various pains and injuries in his mind. Two fractured ribs, which pulverized his nerves with every breath. Given their location, he couldn't discount a lacerated kidney. A mid-grade concussion that responded painfully to every beat of his heart. A severely bruised shin, although he felt better knowing Tim had a similar one. A couple stitches on his lip and the stuffy feeling of dried blood in his nose. And why did his shoulder ache so—ow! He nearly yelped after his slight rotating motion made the joint explode. Apparently, Tim had also caused his shoulder to dislocate. Dr. They're-Not-Paying-Me-Enough seemed to have "popped" it back into place. Yet despite the intense, overwhelming pain that wracked his body, Jesse found solace knowing he hadn't been…attacked…all the way.

While he eyed the room, managing to keep his head and body still, a single thought plagued him:

Had he done it?

It had been hounding him ever since his arrest for Mark's attempted murder. Had he, somehow, gone crazy, molested a girl, and then tried to shoot his mentor and friend? Some people went insane and claimed to be Napoleon or stalked by aliens; could he be insane and committing heinous crimes without knowing it? He'd read a book recently about some guy who knew another guy who started a club for fighting and then tried to destroy the world, only the first guy found out at the end that he was the one trying to destroy the world. Could that be him?

Or, as seemed more likely, was someone out to destroy him? Either way, he needed to find out, and that meant getting out of jail. He mulled the dilemma over and began to wonder if perhaps God was doing him a favor by letting him get sent to the infirmary.

"Excuse me," Jess called out, using something that sounded vaguely like his voice, except far away and small. "Doctor?"

The man at the desk looked up, looked longingly back down at his magazine, then stood. Why did these creeps keep getting hurt? They were already in jail—why make things worse? He towered over his prone patient. "Yeah. What'd'ya want?"

"Could I—could I please have something for the pain? Please? Something strong. Something that'll help me sleep. Please."

Dr. I'd-Rather-Be-Taking-The-MCAT-Again shrugged and headed for the medicine cabinet, pulling out his key. They kept the box locked up tighter than the prisoners. He pointed at each bottle as he read it. Codeine, Demerol, OxyContin, Vicodin, Percocet—aha! Oral Morphine, and a fairly high dosage, too. That ought to keep the little troublemaker out of his hair.

He returned with the pill and a glass of tepid water. He didn't feel like mentioning that the medication could cause stomach upset if taken without food. A few cramps wouldn't kill the patient.

Jesse gratefully accepted the medication and water, but began coughing as they hit his throat. Out of reflex, he held up a hand to keep the doctor from worrying and to indicate that he needed a minute. The doctor didn't care on either count. He just took back the cup and walked away as his patient aspirated. Soon, however, Jess gingerly laid his body down and closed his eyes to try and shut out the muted lighting.

Then he waited and played with the disintegrating tablet in his hand. He didn't have the first clue as to escaping form prison. It seemed like a Herculean task that could easily solidify his guilt in the eyes of the court and get him in further trouble. At the same time, he viewed it as his only chance.

As he weighed his options, the jarring blare of a klaxon went off. He jumped once but quickly regained his composure and pretended to sleep through the alarm. He could hear Dr. Malpractice grab the phone and call a guard.

"What's going on?…An explosion in the kitchen? But it's 1:30 in the morning! Is anybody hurt? Is there gonna be a riot?" He waited. "Fine. Go do what you have to. My only patient is out cold and'll be that way for a long time. Heck, use all the guards, if you want." He hung up. "Geez," he muttered. "I gotta find a different place to work."

Thank you, God, Jesse thought excitedly. Thank you! Oh, Thank you! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!

He gave the situation a couple minutes, then opened his eyes and forced them to look as far left as they could. Dr. Lost-To-The-Dark-Side seemed absorbed in his task of ignoring patient care. With a steadying breath, Jess began his act. This needed to work perfectly.

"Uhn!" He cried, thrashing every so slightly. "Uhn!"

The doctor shot out of his seat, startled again. He moved closer to the patient, who seemed to be either having a nightmare or in significant nocturnal pain. He eyed Jesse carefully, trying to diagnose from five feet away.

"Head," Jesse panted. "Pain…won't stop." He began crying a little, which actually made his head ache more. He sensed the lax physician move close enough to touch and, in fact, the doctor laid his hand on Jesse's aching arm. This was his moment. Trying not to overanalyze the matter, Jesse reached back and sent his fist flying into Dr. Deserved-It's jaw with all his might.

The doctor, whose real name was Ken Foley, fell back against another bed, hit his head, and lost consciousness. Jesse felt mostly guilty for striking another person, but that didn't stop him from wasting no time. As fast as his head, ribs, shin, and shoulder allowed, he made his way from his bed to Ken, who had the keys to the medicine cupboard. Jess procured a syringe, alcohol pad, and bottle of Secobarbital from the cabinet. A nice, healthy dose of a barbiturate would keep the doctor sleeping until morning. He also drugged himself with a small shot of a much milder pain killer.

After throwing away the medical paraphernalia, Jess struggled to move Ken from the floor to his former bed, as well as trade clothes with the man. It took upwards of twenty minutes and hurt like hell, but he finally managed. Now all he had to do was get past the guards…after grabbing a bottle of codeine.

He peeked out the door and saw only one guard, napping. He'd never seen that guard before. Jess donned the doctor's trench coat and hat and thanked God they hadn't put him in a maximum-security prison. Shaking almost out of his skin, he approached the sleeping man.

"Excuse me," Jesse said in his most authoritative voice. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I've been called away on an emergency. The patient is sound asleep and won't wake up until morning. Is it all right for me to leave?"

"Huh? Oh. The patient'll be okay without you, then? Sure, whatever."

Apathy had never bred opportunity for Jesse before. This was a refreshing change of pace. He made his away around until he found the personnel exit. There he came across another guard who looked extremely occupied with firemen and the minor explosion in the kitchen. Jesse hid his swollen bottom lip by keeping his hand over his mouth and the guard waived him through after a glance at the stolen ID card.

And then…he was outside. Jesse simply could not believe he had escaped from prison. It was the first thing to go right in two weeks. Steve would be so impressed! He'd—

Jesse's happiness fell and this time nature chose to empathize. Rain beat steadily against the pavement, as it would for most of the night. He shuffled along into the darkness, pulling Ken's coat closer around him for protection. Eventually he found his way into the steam tunnels where he swallowed a codeine dry and curled up to wait for daylight. He thought it might never come.

Jesse recognized consciousness creeping up on him, but not cognizance. He moved slightly amidst the folds of the coat, ignorant to the dampness or the rat that nuzzled his hair. He sensed extreme pain, but couldn't distinguish if it came from his dream or reality. The blare of a truck passing overhead ripped him out of his somnolence.

"Oh!" he cried. Everything ached. The codeine had worn off and now the various injuries all screamed for attention. Primarily his shoulder and ribs competed for the title of Most Pain Ever Felt. Jesse gave momentary consideration to consuming all the pills in the bottle, but resolved not to. He couldn't die yet. He couldn't die in peace until he cleared his name.

After popping another analgesic, Jess psyched himself into getting up. He'd planned the matter while trying to fall asleep the night before. First, he would go to his apartment and look for answers. Then, he would apply whatever he found there. Actually, he hadn't got very far along in the planning; the sound of critters scampering across the cement occupied most of his attention.

Going on Part One of Plan A, he found his way to the surface and took the bus toward his apartment complex. He felt immensely guilty for using Dr. Should-Be-Waking-Up-Soon's money, but he needed cash to get around, and that shot of Seconal had to be worth at least $37.50.

Grey clouds drifted overhead as Jesse stepped up to the building. He figured he'd just break in through the sliding glass doors, which offered little security. He headed toward the back, where the little decks were, when a sound startled him.

"Hey, Dr. Travis."

Jesse spun around and came face-to-face with Sammy Rothman. The Sephardic-looking little boy gazed up at his neighbor innocently, waiting for some sort of greeting.

"H—hi, Sammy. Shouldn't you be at…school?"

"Half day."

"Right."

They watched one another. Jesse expected the boy to start screaming for help and run for the safety of home, but apparently no one had told the curly-haired youth of Jess's crime. The staring continued until Sammy broke it.

"My mom says you're a faygelah."

What did that mean? Did that mean murderer? Crap! "Wh—what's a—a faygelah?"

"It's 'cause guys are always going to your apartment. Is that one cop guy your boyfriend? My mom says it's a shondah, 'cause my auntie thinks you're cute."

Holy cow. This boy and his family thought he was gay and wanted to know if Steve was his boyfriend. Jesse wanted to brech then and there.

"No, that cop's not my boyfriend."

"What about that other guy?"

"What other guy?"

Sammy shrugged. "I dunno. He's got brown hair and he's about as tall as you and he always goes in through your glass door. He only comes when you're not here, but he doesn't take anything. I know; I watched him. What's his name?"

Jess couldn't answer. He didn't know the trespasser's name, but the boy's revelation helped inflame Jesse's conviction that he was being set up. "I can't talk right now, Sammy; I have to go look around my apartment. Oh, and I'm not a…fla…flagel…"

"Faygelah."

"Yeah."

As the boy departed, Jesse jimmied open the door and walked into his messy apartment. The police had been there, gathering evidence. His computer, filing cabinet, and safe were missing; papers littered the floor, having been glanced at and then discarded as unimportant. He stepped around them and began looking for evidence of his own as to the identity of man who apparently stalked him.

He peered carefully at the lock on his front door for signs of tampering. He looked at his phone, wilting plants, books, and few knickknacks for any bugs or listening devices, although that seemed extraordinarily unlikely. Dazedly, he walked from room to room, randomly touching and staring at things for a clue. Perhaps he thought he might find a piece of paper with the name and phone number of the burglar on it. He finally realized there were no clues to be found twenty minutes later, when he also noticed his unsteadiness.

Jesse hadn't eaten much in prison. He didn't consume the breakfast and only ate the bread and fruit at lunch and dinner. Besides having no appetite, he suffered almost constant nausea and occasional diarrhea from stress and anxiety. His last meal was lunch yesterday—an orange and a slice of bread. He couldn't keep running on adrenaline and fear.

Glancing through his cupboards—an all too painfully familiar act—he spotted a jar of applesauce. Perfect! That was exactly what the BRAT diet called for, although he'd have preferred a banana.

Jess sank onto his couch with the jar and a spoon. After a few bites, he allowed himself the luxury of noticing the apartment's features: His sofa, entertainment center, kitchen table, coffee table. He ran his hand lovingly over the couch's fabric, remembering nights of falling asleep there with Steve—platonically, with an entire cushion separating them—after a basketball game. He set down the applesauce and buried his face in the sofa, starting to cry. He loved his sofa! He hadn't enjoyed anything comfortable or soft or his since the incarceration.

Jesse roused himself up after a few minutes, fighting the urge to just keep crying. He wiped away his tears on the sleeves of Ken's coat. Casting a longing glance around his home and shoveling a couple more bites of applesauce into his mouth, Jess headed back for the deck door. He'd found bupkis, but that didn't mean he would give up. If only—

"If you move another step, I will put a bullet in your brain."

Jesse stopped instantly. He'd rounded to the front of the building and there, only twenty meters away, stood Steve by his police car, gun out and ready. The doctor couldn't see his former friend's face very well; aviator glasses obscured his eyes and the sun coming up from behind him blinded Jesse. The venom in his voice, however, was unmistakable.

For his part, Steve was surprised at what he saw. Jesse had grown thinner, paler, weaker, and sickly. Good. Even better, his hunch had been right that Jesse wouldn't just try and leave the country; the detective had placed his bet on staking out the apartment complex and won.

"Don't shoot me," Jesse called out, raising his hands in surrender.

"Why shouldn't I? You don't deserve to live. Do you know the kind of pain and agony you put my father through? You shattered his kneecaps!"

"Steve, I swear to you that I didn't do that! I would never hurt Mark! I would never hurt anybody!"

The detective lifted his sunglasses to get a better look at Jesse. "Guess what we found on your computer…your personal journal. It was very nice of you to keep a record of the crimes you committed and how you really thought about us. That'll make awfully handy evidence—not to mention the kiddie porn, you sick bastard."

Was he dreaming? In the Twilight Zone? A parallel dimension? "I don't have any journals on my computer and I would never look at child pornography! Steve, someone is setting me up; a man has been breaking into my apartment for…actually, I don't know how long, but somebody wants everybody else to think I'm a criminal. Please!" he cried, reaching out to the friend he'd come to love like a brother, "I'm begging you to believe me! You know me!"

"I knew the person you were pretending to be."

Jesse felt so frustrated and angry and hurt and sad. He wanted to scream and cry at the same time. Before he could respond, however, a large black van pulled up in front of him. A male voice yelled at him through the tinted windows.

"209 Canary Road! You'll get answers there. Now run!"

Jess hesitated for only a moment, then hightailed it for the road as quickly as he could. The van trailed him slightly, providing momentary protection from Steve, who had to reholster his gun, get in his car, insert the key, turn it on, and follow. By the time he made it to the road, the van was speeding down the street and the fugitive was nowhere in sight.

As luck would have it, however, Steve happened to hear "Canary Road" and the first number in the address. That meant he could narrow the search to a single block of a street not far from his current location. With that in mind, he headed out, prepared to do whatever necessary in apprehending the escapee.

A/N: Oh, you wonderful people and your wonderful reviews! They're so great to get! Thank you very much and please keep them coming. I'm counting on you guys to tell me what you think and how I can improve. Thanks a lot. –your humble author