Personal Horror

As soon as Jesse and Bruce hit the ground, Steve yelled for a couple of ambulances while he and a few other cops surged forward. They found the barest of a pulse on Jesse and a cold smile on Mr. Gilchrist, who looked peacefully dead. Steve amended his request to one ambulance and the coroner.

Some uniforms rushed into the house and began actively searching out trouble, evidence, and anything they could shoot; they hadn't seen so much excitement in weeks.

"Mac!" Officer Kenmar called to his partner, Officer McMahon, on the second floor. "Dude, you gotta see this; it's, like, weirdo-central."

Mac walked in, stopped, looked around, looked at his partner, then nodded. Together they walked out to tell Detective Sloan and maybe find out if he knew anything. They figured he'd be free since they'd heard the ambulance come. Besides, the room definitely called for CSIs—and probably a psychiatrist.

"Hey, Detective, we think you oughta see something."

"What is it?"

Mac thought for a moment. "It's…weird."

Steve rolled his eyes but followed the younger cops upstairs. Trying to hold back an exasperated sigh, he stepped through the doorway and stopped. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

"What is this?" he asked hoarsely.

"That's what we wanted to know. This is the guy you shot, right? I mean, the one on the sidewalk, not the guy on the porch. I heard somebody say you knew him; d'you know what all this Fatal Attraction stuff is?"

"Good movie," Kenmar commented.

"I don't know," Steve stammered.

"You okay, Detective?" Mac asked when he noticed his superior looking ashen and distant. Was he hyperventilating? Was he…leaving the room? "So, should I cordon this off for the CSIs? Sir?"

Steve leaned against the wall in the corridor, trying to catch his breath. Jesse's words came back to haunt him. "This man has been stalking… I'm telling the truth." He clearly remembered the wildly beseeching tone and imploring eyes of his once best friend. He also remembered his own remarks. "You don't deserve to live… I knew the person you were pretending to be…I'd put a bullet in you myself if I could."

What the hell had he done?

Steve walked the halls of Community General agitatedly, checking his pager every few minutes, as though he might get a message without hearing the beep. He needed to hear something—anything—from the crime lab. Were Jesse's fingerprints there? What was all the equipment? When were the photographs taken? Come on! It had been eight hours!

"Steve?"

The detective turned to face his father, who sat in a wheelchair. "What? Has the department called here?"

"No." Mark bowed his head. He felt as nervous and haunted as his son, but couldn't display those emotions as keenly, what with the Vicodin running through his veins. "I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"Friggin' fantastic."

They remained silent for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Dr. Karen Marlow, the OR doctor who'd worked on Jesse, interrupted them.

"Gentleman," she stated, getting their attention. "I thought you would like to hear the news on Dr. Travis." She grimaced in that way only doctors can. "I really don't know if he's gonna make it; he flat lined twice during surgery and we had to defibrillate both times. I have him in ICU where he's listed as critical.

"He lost about two-and-a-third liters of blood internally and externally. The bullets to his back shattered three ribs and pierced both lungs; the bullets, thankfully, missed his heart by about a quarter of an inch on either side and never touched his spine, although there was some slight damage to the transverse process of the vertebrae attached to his left third rib. The abdominal wound did a major number, bisecting his right kidney, going through the duodenum, grazing the abdominal aorta, and lodging in his left kidney. Thank God the bullet was a .22; if he'd been hit with anything bigger, I doubt he would have made it to OR. Naturally, there was massive hemorrhaging, not to mention the injuries from earlier, which already caused blood loss, swelling, and made my job more difficult. He had a very recent lacerated kidney, which I suspect resulted from his fight in prison; whoever treated him there should be stripped of his or her license.

"Now, you don't need to worry about handcuffing him to the bed at the moment, since he's on a respirator, which means he's tied down, and he's under sedation. The armed guard was placed in his room as per procedure, however. I hope he was scheduled to be executed, 'cause that's the way it's looking."

The two Sloans nodded gravely and thanked Dr. Marlow. She walked away to check on her patient again. She couldn't wait to get home to her kids and hug them.

Before Mark or Steve even had time to look at one another after watching the OR doc leave, Steve's pager went off, shocking them both from their reveries. The youngest Sloan raced for the nurse's station and the phone, while Mark wheeled as quickly as he could.

"What've you got?" Steve demanded, ignoring the annoyed huff of that floor's head nurse. Instead, he pointed to his father and the desk's other phone so they could both listen.

"Yeah, so, that whole room was covered in Mr. Gilchrist's fingerprints, but we only found a couple of Mr. Travis's," Patrick Skeen drawled, toying with a rubber band. "We found some hairs on the clothes in the armoire that resemble Mr. Gilchrist's hairs. At the moment, we're led to believe that he solely occupied the room and for a significant length of time, given the buildup of trash. At the moment, we're working on processing the hairs for DNA, running ballistics on the bullet from Mr. Travis that the hospital delivered, trying to find out more on Mr. Gilchrist's past, and dating the pictures you discovered at the scene."

"What's your initial opinion?"

"Eh, it certainly looks like this Gilchrist guy was stalking Travis for quite some time. It could be because Travis molested his daughter or any number of other things. But I'll tell you, there was some crazy stuff going on there. Oh—look, I gotta go; the pizza's here and we've been working like mad to get you this stuff. I'll call you when we get more information, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He hung up and followed his dad to the doctor's lounge, but spoke before Mark had a chance. "Jesse is an escaped convict who is accused of attempted murder. He will remain nothing more until evidence proves otherwise and a judge clears him of the crimes. Dammit, dad, I'm not gonna feel guilty about shooting him!"

"Son, you felt guilty the minute you pulled the trigger."

Steve suddenly looked wild. "What? I thought he was gonna shoot me! I didn't know that he was turning to look at the noise! I didn't think!"

Mark's brow furrowed in surprise and confusion. He'd meant that his son felt bad for shooting a friend. "What are you talking about? Steve, why did you shoot him?"

Steve buried his face in his hands. "Oh, dad. He spun around so quickly and I just…I just pulled the trigger. I thought he was responsible for shooting you and hurting that girl. I didn't see him as a criminal; I saw him as something even worse than that."

"Somebody who would hurt me and betray you?"

Steve nodded, then looked up at his dad with needy, conflicted eyes. "Look, could we just hold off on the guilt until more evidence comes to light? I can't take this right now."

They agreed to stave off any conversation until Patrick called with more information. Unfortunately, a lack of conversation did not equal a lack of fear for either man that they had crucified a dear and innocent friend.

In the days that followed, Patrick and his crew uncovered a wealth of evidence that not only proved Jesse was innocent, but that he had been setup by Bruce Gilchrist. Steve wanted to do all the investigating himself, but his superiors deemed him unfit, given his closeness to the victim/criminal and, thus, lack of detachment. The young doctor didn't know anything about the police investigations; he stayed in a coma for nearly a week.

Topping the lab's list was Bruce's computer. It contained audio recordings of Jess on the phone, scanned photos dating to six months earlier, and a copy of the journal on Jesse's computer, as well as the child pornography. Moreover, and much to the lab techs' delight, it had a Word document outlining Bruce's entire plan. The man was methodical, to which his former employers at Paramount Studios would readily attest. They stated that, based on the work Mr. Gilchrist did for them and the excellent quality he consistently achieved, he would certainly be capable of utilizing his talents to impersonate someone else. An audio file contained the exact speech "Jesse" gave Mark before shooting him, spliced from numerous different recorded telephone conversations. The Word doc even contained the phone numbers to the actresses who played Lily, Mrs. Driver, and Mrs. Orła-Bukowska; they thought they were making a film,

What really cinched it for the police and courts—what proved Jesse couldn't have shot Mark—was a trace on Jesse's phone records. It showed he received and answered a call to his home only ten minutes after the crime; it took him at least twenty minutes to drive to Mark's house. Everybody would admit that Jesse was extremely bright and gifted, but he couldn't be in two places at once.

The courts dropped the charges. Similarly, Mark contacted the Medical Board of California and requested they immediately reinstate Jesse's certification and completely clear his name. After learning the circumstances, they complied without delay. If Jesse woke up, he would have nothing to worry about except healing.

And a horrible, empty despair.

Jesse became vaguely conscious of himself. He sensed that he existed, to some degree, but it took a few moments for that awareness to notice anything else. Slowly, sounds intruded; he could hear quiet chatter that seemed far away and the beeping of something, although he couldn't register quite what, and footsteps.

The crash of a tray threw him into a greater sense of reality and he discovered that his whole body ached dully, muted by drugs. Good grief, he could hardly think past the gentle opiate waves that tried to lovingly tug him under their surface. Oh, they only wanted to help him. They caressed his mind and whispered sweet nothings to his subconscious but, like the advances of an unwanted lover, he fought them. No, he didn't want to feel so out-of-control. He wanted reality; it lurked just behind the drugs' kindly façade.

Suddenly, the medicine stepped aside and Jess crashed into his life.

No! He thought, cognizant of everything. No! I don't want to wake up. Oh, take me back, sleep! God, why haven't You let me die yet? I'd like You to know that I resent not being dead; if You can giveth life, I know perfectly well that You can taketh it away. Wait. Is there someone in my room? How long have I been here? Am I paralyzed? No, I can move my toes. Can I open my eyes? Yes. It's dark in here. Is it nighttime? What is that down there? Someone is in my room! Is it a guard? Is it Steve, come to finish the job? I'm thirsty.

Jesse opened his mouth to ask for a nurse who could alleviate the dreadful yearning in his mouth, but his words came out a bit jumbled. "Nurse" came out as "uh," but it served to wake the sleeping figure at the foot of his bed.

"Jess? Are you awake?"

Terror attacked the young doctor. He recognized that voice and that silhouette. Tightness gripped Jesse's chest despite the morphine drip and the heart monitor registered an increased pulse. Pretend you're still asleep, he told himself and closed his eyes.

Too late, though. Steve was already running to get a nurse, who paged the doctor before jogging into her patient's room. Steve didn't follow immediately; he had to call his dad and Amanda, but he reentered the room shortly.

"Hi," a middle-aged woman announced as she turned on the room's light. "I'm Nurse McGowan. How are you feeling?"

Jesse didn't know how to respond. She sounded so…not hateful. "Thirsty."

"I'll bet. Let me get you a little glass of water, but be sure to drink it in tiny sips; we don't want you overdoing anything, especially with that stomach injury." In a moment, she returned with the cool liquid. She checked his vitals and made notes in his chart while he devoted all his attention to the beautiful water.

Steve stepped into the room, but Jess simply stared at the blue plastic cup.

"Well," Dr. Robbins exclaimed as he stepped through the door, "it looks like our miracle patient is awake! Welcome back to the real world, Dr. Travis." Dr. Travis didn't respond. "How're you feeling? Any pain?"

"Not really."

"Good, good." He pulled out his penlight and examined the patient's eyes. "You look pretty well. Tell me, do you know where you are?"

"Community General."

"Very good. Do you know what happened to you?"

Jesse struggled to draw in a shaky breath. "I…got…shot." He glanced at Steve's waist, to see if the detective was going to pull out his gun to put another bullet in him. No, nothing. Yet.

"Excellent job. Now, I'm gonna ask you some of the routine questions—you know the drill. Who's the President?"

"Bill Clinton."

"What do an apple and an orange have in common?"

"They're both fruits."

"Please touch your right ear and then the tip of your nose…mm-hmm, good. Well, your brain is certainly intact; we didn't suspect any brain damage, but you've been out of it for a good while."

"How long?"

"Five days." He smiled at Jesse. "Now I think it's time you got some more sleep. You have a great deal of recovering to do and I can tell you're tired. We'll work on the rest of the stuff tomorrow."

Jess grabbed for Dr. Robbins's coat sleeve, though he couldn't quite force his fingers to latch on. "Please," he whispered. "Can I…can I be alone in here? Just me?"

Dr. Robbins glanced from his patient to Detective Sloan and shrugged. "Certainly." He walked towards the door with Nurse McGowan and a reluctant Steve in tow, then turned off the light. "Sleep well. Page the nurse if you need anything."

Dark solitude engulfed Jesse and he gloried in it.

A/N: I hope this story doesn't go overboard on the angst. Let me know if I'm laying it on too thick, okay? My deep gratitude for your reviews and please, PLEASE leave me more constructive feedback. Thanks.—your humble author