Thank you to everyone for all of the encouragement! Here's the next part.

Chapter Four: Rumblings

Mark opened his eyes and blinked at the television screen. It was a moment before his sleep-fogged brain placed the image of Tommy Lee Jones yelling something to Harrison Ford. The scene shifted as Ford looked down on a long drop into a rushing river. One of the more dramatic and engaging scenes in a movie that Mark had never managed to make it all of the way through.

He shifted his gaze downward to where a book lay, the pages splayed wide, his place hopelessly lost. He could only chuckle to himself. Another thing he was having trouble finishing. Having fallen asleep on The Fugitive as well as one of his favorite mystery writers, he could only come to the conclusion that his body was trying to tell him something. Namely that he needed to head off to bed. Even if it was only - he glanced at his watch and his brows rose - 9:40 pm. It wasn't so early after all.

The surprised look turned to a frown as he took in the rest of the dimly lit room. He hadn't heard Steve come in, and the house seemed very still. He figured that he must have been called out to something that ran long. But then, he usually called if he was going to be unusually late.

Just then, the phone rang. Mark smiled at the timing. It was probably Steve, calling to check in. Clicking off the television and setting his book aside, he got up and headed toward the side table where the cordless sat against the polished wooden surface.

"Mark Sloan," he answered, though he was essentially the only one who answered this extension. The response was more out of habit than anything else.

"Oh, hi, Jess," he responded to the energetic voice on the other end of the connection. He could hear the kitchen sounds and familiar background noises of BBQ Bob's coming across the line. "No, Steve isn't here. He must be working late again."

"Working late?" Jesse clearly didn't appreciate that response. "He can't be working late. He's supposed to be here until closing. I've got a date tonight. That new nurse on 4 finally said 'yes'."

Mark chuckled. "Well, I'm sorry, Jesse. He just isn't here. Did you try his cell phone?"

"Yeah, I did." Jesse sounded deflated. "I can't just call her and tell her that I can't see her to--" There was a sudden tone over the phone, alerting Mark to the fact that he had another incoming call.

"Hold on a minute, Jess," he cut the other man off. "There's another call coming in. Caller ID says it's coming from LAPD Dispatch. Maybe it's Steve. Why don't I call you back?"

"Okay, Mark. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Bye, Jesse." Mark carefully pushed the button to switch to the other call. He got that particular process wrong as often as he got it right. "Hello? Mark Sloan." He spoke into the receiver, hoping that the procedure had gone correctly. If not, Steve would understand and call him back.

He was surprised to hear a female voice on the other end of the line. She quickly introduced herself as Detective Emma Lopez. The name rang familiar in the back of his mind, but a powerful sense of foreboding drowned it out. The formal note in her tone only increased the strength of the feeling that poured icily through his system. Despite assurances that Steve was not seriously injured, Mark felt in his bones that something was very, very wrong.

~*~

There was nothing he could do. The cloud of helplessness and worry seemed to engulf the whole of his brain. He tried to gather a coherent recollection of how they had ended up in this position, but the image of Cheryl in front of him on the gurney succeeded in completely derailing already scattered thoughts, returning him to those first waking moments in the woods . . . .

He roused from a drugging lassitude to see long hazy forms dancing rhythmically before his eyes. He struggled to lift his lids further, to make sense of the images. Then suddenly they resolved into the forms of two uniformed LAPD patrol officers picking their way through the woods toward him. One of the officers stepped off to the side, and bent over a body there on the ground. It was a woman. She was so still, so grayish, so . . . . dead that it took a moment for Steve to recognize her.

Cheryl.

All the breath dropped out of his lungs, and he simply reacted. He had to get to her, had to know for sure. He had to prove to himself that it wasn't true. He lunged his way toward his feet, only peripherally noting the nearest officer's restraining arm. And then he was broadsided with an unexpected wall of pain and dizziness.

The world tilted on its axis, sending his insides into a gut-wrenching nose dive. A jolt ran through his body as he collapsed heavily back to the ground. Pete Koffer, the closest officer, said something encouraging to him, but all he heard was Joe's announcement that he had a pulse, that she was alive!

Relief spiraled through him and he sucked in a breath. The earthy scent of the forest, the metallic twang of spilled blood, and the smell of gunfire assaulted his senses. Pain and fear and shock all vied for attention. His vision dipped and began a slow spin. He knew he was going to be sick.

Just the memory affected him physically, resurrecting the nearly uncontrollable nausea. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, desperate to hold it at bay. But the darkness and the rocking motion only heightened the dizzying sensations.

His eyes snapped open and he forced his mind to focus elsewhere. Pushing the painfully loud wail of the siren to the background, he tried to tune in to the information that was being traded across the radio link to the hospital. But the words had no meaning.

Suddenly the ambulance rocked violently before continuing along the road. The motion nearly sent him over the edge. But he didn't give in. He refused to be a distraction. After several more seconds, the sensation began to abate. Then suddenly things changed.

Barked orders floated around the inside of the vehicle as Steve's gaze was drawn to Cheryl. She looked sunken almost, as if some vital part of her was missing. That was when he realized what one of the EMTs was holding in both hands, and the word that he called before settling the paddles downward against Cheryl's torso.

"Clear!" It echoed though Steve's mind, over and over. And there was nothing that he could do.

~*~*

"Kinda creepy, isn't it?"

Emma looked away from the partially open front door of the Josh Brine studio to Joe's leering face. With the wind blowing at his spiky hair, and the surrounding emergency lights reflecting off of rawboned features, he did add a sense of macabre to the already grisly night. Despite having known Joe for years, a shiver eased up her spine. She turned back to the door. "Saves us having to bust in."

Joe's chuckle grated on her nerves. Over a decade of instincts was telling her that this case had the makings of a potential nightmare. Her only goal at the moment was to try to fit the not-quite-closed door in with the information that she had managed to get out of Steve. He hadn't gone inside, but he had arrested the man who owned the place - confirmed by the identification found on the body. So they had an unsecured studio, a dead body, two wounded cops and little else. Even the reporters seemed to sense that there was something juicy in the air -- they were still camped out on the fringes of the scene.

"I'll take point." She pulled her gun from her holster, pushed the door open and went in fast and low. Though no one had seen any action from the building during the night, she wasn't willing to take any chances. Joe came in right behind her, settling against the wall on the opposite side of the entry hall.

It was like stepping into another time. A long dimly lit corridor extended before them. A black wrought iron coat tree and a matching bench broke up the monotony of beautifully polished wood flooring. The walls were decorated with vivid murals with images that she could only guess were from the early 1900s. The pictures extended ten feet up the wall on either side. For once, Joe seemed speechless, only mouthing the word "Whoa."

The effect was so distracting that it was a moment before she realized that the stairs ahead leading upward were real. The place felt empty, even oddly safe. Frowning at the thought, she came out of her alert stance and re-holstered her gun.

"This place is freakin' amazing. And I live in L.A," Joe murmured as they started down the hall. "I don't amaze easy."

"Yeah. It's something else." Emma had to agree with him. They were half along the corridor to the steps when the wall on their right opened up into a large room. A track lighting system ran along the ceiling, and there were different "sets" arranged all around the floor. On the face of things, someone had put a lot of work into the Josh Brine Studio. With a setup like this, she wondered that it wasn't in one of the more affluent areas of the city.

She turned from the opening and looked toward the steps. They led upward into the dimness of the upper level. She could make out an open door in the shadows at the top. Dim light spilled from it out onto the landing. "Let's check up their first," she suggested.

"Up we go," Joe agreed, and led the way. Near the top, Joe kicked against something that bumped the back of the metal stair before ricocheting downward to stop on one of the lower steps.

"Woulda thought this guy was too much of a neat freak," he grumbled as he moved around her and went back down to retrieve the item. Picking it up in a latex glove, he held in up in the light. "Looks like a button." He held it out to her.

Emma studied it for half second before reaching into her pocket for a small evidence bag. "It might be important," she explained as Joe dropped it in.

"You're the detective." Joe shrugged, and followed as she continued up the stairs.

The upper area was the living quarters, it seemed. Like the studio, it was meticulously neat and well arranged. It was the type of place that she would have loved to own, but would never afford. She almost missed one door, as it was located in a recessed corner of the kitchen. It was partially cracked.

Dark room equipment was immediately obvious in the rectangular room. She was familiar enough with the equipment to be certain, but she thought the lab seemed well stocked and contained nice equipment. At its far end was another door. She moved to step through it, expecting to find a closet. She was brought up short when the dim reddish light reflecting out of the dark room illuminated something along the walls. She reached for and found a light switch. The room, nearly identical in size to the dark room appeared, bathed from above with yet more recessed lighting.

There was a cot along the long side of one wall with a night stand sized table nearby. The same hardwood flooring from the first level had been installed here as well. The incredible thing about the room however were the number of photographs carefully placed along the walls. There were dozens of them, all of beautiful young women posing for the camera. Some of the larger photos though were framed with odd items -- black silk, red velvet ribbons, and a few were framed by linked paper doll cut outs.

Emma frowned and shared a silent look with Joe. There was something a little eerie and off kilter about the room. But she wasn't quite able to put her finger on it.

~*~*

"My name is Dr. Jesse Travis, and I was informed that LAPD police Lt. Steve Sloan was brought here. I'm his personal physician." Though Jesse hadn't been specifically requested in that capacity, he was willing to use whatever leverage he could to get access to information as to his friend's condition. The ploy worked, because the woman on the opposite side of the desk picked up the phone and placed a call.

While she had a brief discussion with someone, Jesse took a moment to look around the reception area. Mark had yet to arrive - which was no surprise. Keller Memorial was a long drive from Malibu. Even though Mark had called him while already enroute to the city, they had both known that Jesse would get there sooner.

The woman on the opposite side of the desk put down the phone and turned back to Jesse. "Someone will be out to speak with you soon. You can have a seat over there." She nodded toward a section of plastic chairs.

"Thanks." Jesse smiled his appreciation and paced away from the desk. He was too full of nervous energy to sit and wait. He practically itched to be in the examination room, handling the necessary procedures himself. From the moment he had received the call from Mark, telling him that Steve was being transported, all he could think of were the potential injuries. Jesse was getting a new understanding of what the families of his patients went through. Standing out in the hall, not knowing what was going on, made him feel helpless. And he just couldn't sit still for that.

He found himself pacing near the thick, double-paned glass ER entrance doors. He'd lost track of the number of times that he had made the circuit, but he glanced in the direction of the intake desk, hoping to see someone there waiting to see him. But things were much as they had been since he had arrived. The desk attendant was speaking with someone about something on a chart, while others waited for medical care, or to hear the outcomes of loved ones.

He stopped at the sound of the doors sliding open behind him. His spirits lifted. Finally, Mark had arrived. Maybe he would know someone who could get them to Steve sooner. Mark seemed to have friends everywhere. But when he turned, Mark wasn't standing behind him.

It was a young woman. What remained of her dress was covered in dried blood. The dark substance was smeared across her arms and on her bare feet. For a moment, all he could do was stare in shock. And then his training kicked in, and forgetting that this wasn't his hospital, he yelled for a gurney.

The woman blinked once and held a crumpled piece of silk toward him. Her mouth worked as if she would speak, and then the light went out of her eyes and she collapsed into Jesse's arms. He eased her toward the floor and began to check her vitals even as he heard the wheels of an approaching gurney.

Equipment appeared along with other hands which assisted in getting the unconscious woman on the rolling bed. It was automatic that he moved with them as she was rolled toward the doors which would lead to the trauma rooms.

"Intern?" the dark-haired man on the opposite side of the bed questioned.

"Resident. Community General," was Jesse's response.

"Do you have privileges here?"

"No." Jesse shook his head and immediately stood away from the gurney. He could do little more than watch as it continued to roll by him. He knew what the rules were. Unless he had official authorization by the hospital's board of trustees to treat patients at Keller Memorial, there was nothing more that he could do.

"Sorry, pal." The dark-haired man threw over his shoulder before the doors closed, separating the medical team from Jesse's sight.

The adrenaline rush that had resulted from the woman's collapse, only added to an almost desperate need to do something. Throwing himself into helping patients was clearly out of the question. And what was taking Steve's doctor so long? He flipped his wrist over and glanced at his watch.

That was when he noticed the item which fluttered in the small breeze caused by his movement. It was the scarf that the woman had given him before she'd collapsed. He'd forgotten that he was holding it.

Appreciative of even such a small distraction, never mind an opportunity to hopefully ingratiate himself with the attendant and possibly get some information on Steve, he hurried back toward the admittance desk. If he turned the item over right away, there was still a chance that it would be put with the personal belongings of the correct patient. And, as it looked to be a rather nice scarf, he imagined that the woman would probably want it back.

The desk wasn't clear as when he entered. A tall, broad shouldered man was blocking his way. Though his voice wasn't raised, he seemed to be arguing about something.

"I just want to know how my wife is doing. It's been so long! I need to know something. Please, just tell me how she is."

Jesse really didn't mean to eavesdrop. There was urgency to the man's tone that he couldn't help but identify with.

"Sir, if you'll just wait over there. The doctor will speak with you about your wife's case." The woman behind the desk urged in a calm, practiced tone.

"Can't you tell me something? Don't you know anything?"

"You really need to wait for the doctor. I can't --"

Jesse followed the human drama as a man in scrubs appeared at the woman's side and touched her arm.

"If you'll excuse me, sir," the desk attendant told the worried man before following the doctor several paces away.

Jesse looked toward the worried husband. He wanted to say something encouraging to him, but he really had no idea what his wife's condition was. So he said the only thing that came to mind. "They have great doctors here. I'm sure they're doing the best they can."

The man turned a speculative look on him as if debating whether or not he should be believed. "Are you a doctor?" he finally asked.

"Yes, I am," Jesse replied, and then immediately worked to correct the misunderstanding that he saw in the man's suddenly hopeful expression. "But I don't work at this hospital. I have a friend who was brought in tonight and . . . " His voice trailed away as the man's face fell.

"Then you can't help me."

Jesse's heart went out to the man. "I know what it's like to be worried and afraid because we don't know exactly what is happening behind those doors. But I can tell you that the doctors and nurses back there are doing everything they can for your wife. Sometimes all we can do while we wait is to have hope and pray."

An odd expression spread over the man's face, and he looked as if he would say something, but his attention was drawn away. Jesse turned to see a doctor being gestured in his direction. Moving a polite distance away, Jesse allowed him some privacy.

He couldn't hear what was being said, but he could tell that whatever news the man was receiving wasn't good. His usual medical detachment abandoned him as he worried that the unknown man's wife had died. Then the doctor led him to an orderly, who directed him toward an elevator.

The man's eyes met Jesse's before the elevator's doors slid shut. He lifted his hands in a gesture of prayer and mouthed the word "surgery". Jesse lifted his hands in response. He would continue to worry and hope for Steve, but he would worry and hope for the unknown man's wife as well.

~*~

Mark didn't want to number the times that he had rushed to the hospital, his insides bound up in knots of worry over a loved one. He'd repeated the heart wrenching experience often during Katherine's final weeks. But those times were different than when the one he was worried over was Steve.

Katherine's passing represented a release for her from the pain that she endured. And though he still missed her, and regretted that their time together had been cut short, that passing had been a release for him as well. After the worst of his grieving had passed, it allowed him to take the next breath and move on from the suspended animation that had encompassed him the day that he learned that there was little hope for her survival.

With Steve though, there was no debilitating illness, only the unpredictability of life as a member of the Los Angeles Police department. He refused to allow himself to dwell on the dangers of Steve's job - but these moments brought him abruptly out of his denial. Each rushed journey to the hospital filled him with the choking fear that he might be forced to live on while his son did not.

As he followed the signs that would take him to the room that the desk attendant had indicated, he gave silent thanks that Steve had been admitted to the general ward. That signified that his conditional was not critical. He came to an abrupt halt as he reached the correct door. A moment to take in a quick breath, and then he eased the door open on silent hinges before he poked his head inside.

The room was dim, only a small lamp near the head of the bed provided illumination. The soft lighting seemed perfectly placed to shine down on Steve's semi reclined form. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of sleep. If not for the bandages that were just visible, peaking around from the back of his head and sticking out from beneath the short sleeve of the hospital gown, Mark could have almost believed that Steve had merely checked in for a good night's sleep. Of course, the lone IV stand, bearing a bag full of a clear liquid would have had a share in despoiling the image as well.

Still, the sight before him was oddly quiet and peaceful. Relief flooded through Mark like a cleansing wave, washing away the fear and anxiety that had dogged him every mile of the traffic-ridden journey from Malibu. He moved farther into the room, automatically retrieving Steve's chart. But he couldn't focus on what it contained. His eyes were drawn instead to the man who occupied the bed.

As he drew closer, other details came to his attention. Tiny flecks of blood were visible on Steve's skin - there was a bit on his right arm and along the side of his neck. His hair, normally very neat, was mussed, having dried with a slight wave before it fell across his brow. His gaze continued down Steve's right arm toward the place where the IV had been inserted in his wrist. It was an automatic response to check the drip and read the side of the IV bag. Simple saline. More evidence that Steve's injuries weren't considered life threatening.

Vestiges of a smile found its way over his features. He wanted to reach out and touch Steve, but he feared waking him. Sleep was no doubt exactly what he needed. That was when he noted something else peaking from beneath the low neckline of the hospital gown - a darkening bruise. The smile faded away and he looked at last to the chart, seeking answers on the nature of the injury.

The door opened suddenly and a soft step sounded as someone entered the room. Mark turned, mildly startled, to see Jesse bearing an apologetic look.

"You made it," Jesse whispered and gestured back out toward the hallway. Mark quietly returned the chart and followed him out.

"He was very much awake when I left, and very agitated," Jesse explained once they were outside of the door. The younger doctor spoke with his usual energy, but there was something subdued about his manner that troubled Mark. "He swore I'd never get him to sleep short of large doses of drugs unless I went and checked on Cheryl for him."

"I'm glad to see he was wrong about that." Mark commiserated. He knew what sort of patient his son was.

Jesse made an agreeable expression. "A concussion and a gunshot wound will do that to you."

"What!? He was shot?" Mark's voice rose.

"It was just a flesh wound," Jesse assured him. "But he got a pretty hard knock on the head. He's being held for observation."

"Was he able to tell you what happened?" Mark wanted to know.

"He was pretty groggy and out of it by the time I got to talk to him," Jesse said. "He just wanted to know about Cheryl."

"And how is she?" Mark asked, mildly ashamed that he had forgotten that Steve's partner had been injured as well.

Jesse sobered. "She's in neurosurgical ICU, Mark. That's all I was able to get from the doctor who treated Steve in the emergency department. But still, it didn't sound good."

Mark was astounded. Steve shot and concussed, and Cheryl . . . . "What in the world happened tonight?"

"That's what I'd like to know." A no-nonsense female voice interrupted their conversation.

Mark looked up into Emma Lopez's tired expression. "Detective Lopez." He immediately moved toward her, noting the white plastic bag containing the Keller Memorial logo. "Thank you for calling and letting me know about Steve."

"No problem, Dr. Sloan. I know Steve would do the same for me." She nodded a greeting toward Jesse before she peered beyond the both of them toward the closed door of Steve's room. "How's he doing?" she asked.

"He's getting some much needed sleep," Mark informed her.

"Think he'll be up for some talking in the morning?" Emma pressed, shifting the white bag from one arm to the other.

Mark frowned at the official edge to the question. "Talk as in checking in on a fellow police officer, or something more serious?"

"I'm sure you're familiar with the drill by now, Dr. Sloan. All officer-involved shootings are investigated by Robbery Homicide."

"I am familiar," Mark agreed. "If I remember correctly, four other agencies investigate as well -- the Critical Incident Investigation Division, the District Attorney's Rollout Team, the Inspector General of the Police Commission and the LA County Coroner's office."

Emma smiled, the warmth reaching her eyes. "Very good," she commended, then immediately sobered, but her demeanor had softened from the previous. "So you know that I'm just one wave of those who are going to be questioning what happened tonight."

"That why you have Steve's clothes?" Mark asked, gesturing toward the bag that she held awkwardly under one arm.

The smile reappeared as she nodded, seemingly impressed by his deduction. "How did you know that?"

"Father's intuition." Mark shrugged, not wanting to go into the long explanation of her body language and the direction the conversation had taken. Then it was his turn to sober. "Can you tell me what you know about tonight?"

"All I know for sure, Dr. Sloan, is that one man is dead and two police officers are in the hospital."

"How was Steve involved?" Mark wanted to know. He was well aware of the media attention on the police department over the past few months.

"That's all I can share. Good night, Dr. Sloan, Dr. Travis. I'll be back in the morning to talk to Steve." Emma turned and headed back the way she'd come.

"Did Steve kill him?" Mark blurted the question, needing to know at least that much.

Emma paused, turned and walked back toward him. She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then said in a low voice, "The victim was found with a fatal gun shot wound to the back of the head, his hands cuffed behind his back. Steve told me that he'd taken the man into custody and that the hand cuffs were his. Steve's weapon showed evidence of having been fired. I'm sure you'll understand why that information is not for public consumption."

Rendered speechless, he was unable to come up with any further questions and could only share an open-mouthed look with Jesse as Emma Lopez disappeared along the corridor.

(to be continued)