Ch. 8 Memories Consume

Mark walked slowly through the living room and into the kitchen. He pulled his son's badge and gun from his jacket pocket, stared at them, and put them slowly in the drawer to the right of the sink. Eventually, he would have to give them back to the department, but for now… He walked back out into the living room, and stood there, staring out towards the ocean. The beautiful sight of waves crashing, gulls flying, and people jogging was lost on him, though. In his mind's eye, all he could see was Steve's still form jerking with the defibrillator's shock, and falling still. Jerking and falling still. And then nothing. Just the steady tone of the heart rate monitor blaring out its unbroken note until Amanda turned it off.
Moving again, Mark passed the bookcase, his fingers tracing the shelf and then resting by a framed picture of him and Steve. They were sitting on the beach, on a log, and the sky was darkening behind them, turning the waves black. Mark had his left arm around Steve's shoulders and the firelight had been stopped in mid-flicker on their faces when the picture had been snapped. They had been having a barbecue with Jesse and Amanda a year before. Mark smiled as he remembered, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes.
Jesse had been teasing Steve again about those salads he wanted at BBQ Bob's. Steve had shot the most mischievous grin to Mark and Amanda, who were building the fire, and tripped the young doctor into the water. Jesse had latched onto Steve's ankles and hauled the taller man in with him. They'd both ended up tramping through the sand, up the beach to the house, wearing identical sheepish grins as they passed. He and Amanda had laughed, and the boys had gone in for changes of clothes.
Mark smiled bitter-sweetly as tears formed a veil before his eyes, blurring the picture. He resumed walked, wiping his cheek with one hand as the first tear broke free. For a moment he paused in the doorway, and then continued into the hall. On a small shelf to the right, something caught his eye. A picture frame, catching the light and throwing it back to him. He stopped and picked it up, running his fingertips gently down the glass.
Seven faces smiled out at him from in front of a Christmas tree. Norman, Jesse, Carol, Mark himself, Steve, and Amanda holding a baby CJ. As if he were watching a film the scene came alive in his mind. Norman buzzing around snapping pictures, Mark's two children together, getting along, all the smiling faces. The song broke free of his memory and he heard it so clearly that he blinked, sure it was playing somewhere. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." He could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks, falling silently, but didn't care, didn't bother to wipe them away. He simply stood there for a while, immersed in memories so thick he was breathing them, living them, could touch them and brush them away from his face. Mark dropped his head.

"Now you will follow your son, Dr. Sloan," the man whispered. He was outside of the Sloan residence, and practically unaware that he was speaking out loud. He had hidden himself in the bushes outside of Sloan's house and waited for him to return home.
At last, Sloan had arrived. The man smiled as the thought crossed his mind. Sloan had arrived. Not "Dr. Sloan" or "Mark Sloan." The specification was no longer necessary. There was only the one Sloan here now. The man watched as Sloan went inside, walking slowly, no doubt feeling the weight of grief on his shoulders. He knew it well, himself. For a father to outlive his son... It wasn't meant to be that way.
After waiting a moment, the man slipped from the bushes, hurried to the window, and glanced around. Seeing no one, he pulled himself up on the sill and slipped inside. He landed softly and immediately moved into the doorway, waiting. The man could hear Sloan's footsteps in the next room. He waited until they stopped, and began to head in, when they started again. He gritted his teeth and fingered the switchblade in his pocket, the knife he'd brought as a backup plan, and a way to follow his own son. But the footsteps faded as Sloan apparently left the room, heading deeper into the house. With a deep breath, the man entered the room Sloan had just left.
It was the living room, with a breathtaking view of the ocean, and decorated with years of memories that must have been crushing Sloan. The man smiled again and took a look around to see which was Sloan had gone. The hall. The man flexed his fingers and followed.
Sloan was standing in the hall, shoulders hunched as if weighted with a heavy burden, his right hand clutching a framed picture. Making no more effort to hide his presence, the man strode into the hall, his footsteps muffled but audible on the carpet. Hearing, Sloan whirled around, almost dropping the picture. Tears! There were tears rolling down Sloan's face! He had to stifle a laugh. Now, now he understood! His smile grew. Sloan's eyes were wide, face trading its grief-stricken expression for one of shock and fear. For a moment, the man simply stood there, soaking this up with pleasure. His thoughts went to his son, who must be watching him now and laughing the same laugh the man had to stifle.
"Who are you?" Sloan's voice was rough, and he hastily wiped the tears from his face. "What do you want?" he asked, as the man continued to smile.
"One question at a time please, Sloan." His voice was amused, betraying some of the laughter he held at bay. "My name is Carl Hanning." There was the barest flicker of recognition in Sloan's eyes. "Yes. You remember my son, don't you? You and your son," he laughed scornfully, "sent him to prison where he was killed. And now I'll take what it is I want. Your life, as I took your son's."
Hanning watched Sloan's eyes darken. Ah! The ecstasy of grief, with something more: anger, and maybe even hatred. Sloan's eyes flicked from his for a split second, and then moved back. His jaw was set, eyes cold steel.
"You took my son from me." It was a toneless statement, not a question. Hanning loved how he didn't bother with trivial questions like "why?" He nodded once. "And now you intend to kill me." Another statement. Another nod. "Because we sent your son to his death. Two lives for one?" Now, finally emotion in Sloan's voice. Anger and the clear statement that this wasn't fair. Hanning shook his head.
"No. Two lives for two lives. You don't understand, but that's fine. I don't need you to." He flexed his fingers again. Sloan's eyes flicked down to them and back up. "Finally," he whispered…