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A Little Routine Police Work

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Chapter 1

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A faint rattling noise, fading in, then fading out. A squeak of rubber on linoleum. A faraway voice, echoing faintly over a PA system. Distant chatter, words indistinguishable, rising, then receding. Steve swallowed carefully, wetting his dry throat, but didn't bother to open his eyes. He didn't have to. It was all familiar, recognizable. The hospital.

He sighed silently, listening harder. The sheet under his hand was coarse and stiff and smelled of antiseptic, but he couldn't feel a respirator blocking his throat - that was something. No persistent blip tracking his vitals. Nothing too serious, then. The inside of his arm itched - IV, probably - but that didn't mean much. He shifted carefully, testing. Arms seemed okay, legs seemed okay, ribs didn't hurt…OUCH. Head. That was the problem. Definitely head.

With a light groan, he tried rolling onto his side. Could be worse. He opened his eyes to slits, wincing in the sudden brightness. He was alone, and that was a good sign, too, mostly - nothing life threatening, then. He actually felt pretty okay - if he ignored that twenty-one gun salute in his head, that is. Probably he could get up, if he tried. Find somebody who could tell him what had happened, because the last thing he remembered was…breakfast. No, that couldn't be right. There was lunch in there, too, somewhere, and riding in a car with Cheryl, but the specifics eluded him. Yeah. He needed to get up - find somebody who could fill him in. His Dad had to be around here someplace.

He got one elbow under him and eased himself up. The bed did a funny sort of dance, and he clutched quickly at the bed rail. Bed rail. Darn, he was going to have to get that thing down if he was going anywhere. He pushed at it tentatively, or meant to, but ended up falling clumsily into it instead somehow. The bed seemed to buck like a bronco and the linoleum swung up toward his face.

"Hey, hey, whoa! What are you doing! Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

A grip on his shoulders stopped his downward swoop to the floor, expertly repositioned him back on the stiff pillows. He closed his eyes again, hoping that would stop the room from whizzing past him like he was on that spinning teacup ride that CJ liked so much at the amusement park. He kept his grip on the railing though, just to make sure that maverick bed didn't try to throw him off again. He swallowed his stomach back into place and tried to smile nonchalantly, even with his eyes closed. "Hi, Jess."

"Hi yourself." Jesse clearly wasn't buying the nonchalance.

Steve cautiously cracked an eye at him. Jesse swayed a little, fuzzed, then came into focus.

"What do you think you were doing? You know enough to ring for a nurse if you need help."

"I - um - was looking for somebody."

"Uh-huh. Nurse can do that for you, too. Something I can help you with?"

"I - uh - " Steve opened the other eye carefully. Jesse split in two, like a movie special effect, then coalesced into one again. Steve blinked, frowned. "Just wanted somebody to tell me what happened."

"Ah," Jesse reached for the wrist that clung to the bed rail, expertly counting his pulse. "What happened. You mean before or after you got yourself clocked into next week?"

Steve squinted at him. "Both, I guess. Where's my Dad?"

"With the police. He'll be back over here when they're done with him." And, seeing Steve's blank expression, "You really don't remember?"

Steve started to shake his head, stopped abruptly. Ouch.

"Hm," Jesse's tone became brisk, professional. "What's the last thing you DO remember?"

Steve breathed out a sigh. "Um…two eggs, sunny side up, toast, coffee…" he stopped again, swallowing hard. Okay, so no shaking his head, no leaning over the bed, no talking about food. Important things to keep in mind. "I think…Cheryl and I were driving at some point, but that's fuzzy…"

"Right…" Jesse reached down and rested a hand on his head, fingers probing.

"Ouch! Jess, that hurts!"

"Uh huh…" Jesse seemed unperturbed, a fact that simultaneously annoyed Steve and eased his mind. He tried to pull away as he felt Jesse's hand slide under his chin and tilt his face up to him, but Jesse had anticipated his move and had a good grip. "Yeah," Jesse peered into his eyes. "You got yourself a good one this time. She must be a lot stronger than she looks."

"She," Steve sank back against the pillows as Jesse let go, glaring to show his displeasure. "She who?"

"Madge Fuller. You must remember her?"

Steve closed his eyes, concentrating hard. "Kind of," he decided at last. "Yeah. Her husband was killed. Cheryl and I were…okay. Yeah."

"Good boy." Jesse patted his shoulder. "Well, she is now in jail, so you just rest easy. If you're really good, I may be able to arrange to keep you here until after Cheryl's completed all the paperwork."

Steve snorted a laugh, then sobered. Something wasn't…"Madge Fuller?" he repeated. "Why's she in jail?"

"For killing her husband. Your Dad put it all together. Pretty amazing bit of deductive reasoning, I gotta say. That's why he's with the police now. They wanted to take his statement earlier, but he wouldn't budge until we'd run a CT scan and a few other tests on you and were sure there was no serious damage. No more than the usual, anyway."

"Ha ha." Steve's response was automatic, and half-hearted. Madge Fuller? That didn't make any…"It can't be Madge Fuller."

"'Fraid it is, buddy. Why don't you just lie back now, and I'll have Mark stop by and tell you all about it as soon as he gets here? Bet Cheryl'll be stopping by to check on you, too, to admire the new bump. She can put it all in police-ese for you."

"Jesse…" Steve tried to push himself into sitting position. Whoa. He immediately thought better of it, grabbing for his good friend the bed rail again. "Jesse, it's not Madge Fuller. I know the spouse is usually the first one under suspicion in a case like this, but we cleared her, because…" He paused. Well, damn. He flicked a look at Jesse. "Because…um…well, I can't - I can't remember why just this second, but Cheryl will remember. It was important. It's not her, Jess."

Jesse sighed, pushing the bed rail out of the way on the other side of the bed and perching on the mattress. "Steve. I know you guys had cleared her, but Mark figured out that she was guilty anyway. Cheryl agreed. She arrested Mrs. Fuller and she'll be arraigned in a couple of days. I know it's a lot to take in, especially with an aching head, but if you can wait until your Dad gets here, I'm sure he'll explain everything. For right now I think maybe you should just try getting a little more rest."

Steve frowned, studying his expression. Or trying to anyway - it was hard to get a clear reading when Jesse had three eyes where he was accustomed to seeing only two. "Can I see my case notes?" he asked at last.

Jesse sighed more deeply. "I don't know, Steve - you can ask Cheryl, but she may need them to finish her report. And right now, frankly, no, as your doctor I don't want you reading through case files or even motorcycle magazines, at least until your eyes stop crossing. If you can just hang on until Mark gets here, I don't think you'll be needing them anyway. So, would you like a little jello or a little water, or do you just want to take a nap?"

Steve squinted at him, then closed his eyes. "I wish you'd stop doing that," he grumbled.

Jesse smiled a little. "Sorry, big guy. Nothing but the facts."

"Not that. I mean that swaying thing. Making me dizzy."

Jesse paused. "Is, huh?" Steve heard some rustling about, then felt Jesse's hand on his forehead again. "Open your eyes for me for a second, Steve - I wanna look."

Steve half-opened his eyes, closed them again instinctively when a bright light assaulted them. "Ouch."

"Come on - open up. I just wanna check." Steve pried his eyes open, tried not to flinch at the small, intense light Jesse flicked at first one, then the other. "Okay."

Steve closed his eyes again, trying to rid himself of the after image the light left on his retina. He heard another voice, female this time, and Jesse's soft, murmured thanks. He opened his eyes carefully again, suspicious, just in time to see Jesse slide a syringe into his IV line. "What's that?" he croaked.

"Just a little something to stop me swaying."

Steve wanted to ask how injecting him with something could stop Jesse from swaying, but the question got lost someplace between his brain and his lips. Besides, he had more important things to worry about. He had to…to…the world fuzzed again, like a badly out of focus camera, and he closed his eyes again hastily. Damn. Whatever Jesse had put in there, it sure worked fast. "Jess - " he reached out blindly, managed to grab a hold of Jesse's fingers. "Not - Madge Fuller - "

He felt Jesse squeeze his fingers lightly. "Steve," he answered gently, "She confessed, okay? Now, I don't think you're quite firing on all cylinders right now, but I think if you get a little rest it's all going to make sense. I promise. You'll see. Your Dad will explain. It's complicated, but it's really clever."

Steve sighed, feeling his fingers loosen their grip, his mind now as fuzzy as his vision. He knew something was wrong, but he didn't know how to explain - didn't even know how he knew - just knew…he knew…"Too clever…" he muttered, then the grey edging his thoughts turned to charcoal, then was swallowed in a sea of black.

*

Jesse stayed half-sitting on the bed for a moment, patting Steve's hand absently, his face creased into a frown. Too clever. Now, what on earth had Steve meant by that? Of course it was clever - Mark had a way of seeing past the obvious, of finding insight into the way people ticked and putting it all together, collecting all the tangled threads and assembling them into a clear picture. It was his clever, sometimes hard to follow, leaps of deductive reasoning that so often made the difference where ordinary police procedures failed. There weren't many criminals who were clever enough to outwit Mark. Maybe that's what Steve had meant? He patted the hand under his again automatically, studying the face now quiet in drugged repose.

He had often envied Steve his father - often thought how lucky he was to have a parent who loved him so completely, understood him so thoroughly - had even wondered what it must be like to start life out with such support behind you. On the other hand…he had never spent much time thinking about the flip side of that coin.

??????????????? Now he wondered idly what it would be like to have his father standing behind him as he examined a patient, leaping ahead to the diagnosis before he had finished collecting his data; or following him into the operating room, offering suggestions on his chosen procedure, pointing out potential alternate incisions and better ways to tie his knots. How would he feel about it? He honestly couldn't say.

He had always felt that Steve was very lucky to have a father like Mark, but for the first time he found himself thinking that maybe Mark was very lucky to have a son like Steve, too. For all his grumbling, Steve showed a lot of forbearance at their meddling in his job, and always seemed so ungrudging, even proud, of his father's triumphs. But maybe it bothered him just a little - just sometimes? Too clever. He grimaced.

"How's the patient?"

Jesse looked up, rattled out of his thoughts. "Oh. He'll be okay. Not too frisky for a while, but no permanent damage."

"Good." Amanda peered over the railing on the other side of the bed, touched Steve's cheek lightly. "He's still out?"

"Came around for a few minutes. Was pretty disoriented, though - tried to climb out of the bed. I put him back under for his own protection. Heard anything from Mark?"

Amanda smiled, letting her hand rest on Steve's shoulder. "Poor guy. No, nothing from Mark yet. I'm sure he'll be by as soon as he's finished at the precinct though. They had a lot of details to go over."

"Yeah." Jesse squirmed a little in his seat on the bed, looked back at Steve's quiescent face. "Say, Amanda. Did you ever think…?"

When he left the sentence dangling, Amanda glanced up at him. "Yes, Jesse," she rejoined dryly. "Every chance I get. You ought to try it. Why do you ask?"

Jesse made a face at her. "I hadn't finished. Do ever think that…maybe…Steve would appreciate it if we…you know. Stayed out of his job and just let him do it?"

Amanda tilted her head at him. "I'm a Medical Examiner, Jesse. I can't stay out of Steve's job. It's my job, too."

"Okay, okay," Jesse conceded, running a hand over his hair. "I guess I meant me and Mark. Though you get a whole lot more involved than the average medical examiner, Amanda, admit it."

"Well, I take my job responsibilities very seriously." She studied him. "We've always helped Steve out, Jesse. What makes you ask all of a sudden?"

Jesse felt himself flush. "I don't know…" He noticed he still had his hand resting on Steve's and fidgeted, picking Steve's lax hand up and putting it on top of his chest, out of the way. "Just got to thinking that maybe we were…cramping his style or something. You know Steve says Madge Fuller didn't do it."

"Well, since he was out cold, Steve missed Mark's summation - of course he thinks that."

Jesse shook his head. "No, I told him. But he still says she didn't do it. Sounds pretty positive."

Amanda gave him a look. "We're talking about the man with twelve stitches in his scalp and a concussion who you described as disoriented, correct?"

Jesse felt his flush deepen. "Yeah…"

Amanda nodded briskly. "Jesse, I don't know what's gotten into you, but I can sit with Steve for a while if you want to take a break and get something to eat."

Jesse nodded sheepishly. "Thanks." He got up off of the bed, his eyes drifting back to Steve. Amanda was right, of course. Steve's brain had received a good jangling and nothing he said could be taken too seriously right now. He was probably reading too much into it anyway. Still…he made a quick note about the medication he'd administered on Steve's chart and scrawled his signature next to it. Next time Steve woke up, maybe he'd tell him what a good cop he thought he was. Just in case. Just so he knew.

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Chapter 2

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He had been dreaming, a vivid dream that shook him awake; but the images were fading now, disappearing even before he opened his eyes. They slipped through his mentally grasping fingers even as he snatched at them, dissolving like mist. By the time he did open his eyes, the details had all disappeared, leaving him with an unsettled feeling, but no information.

"Well, hello."

He turned his head automatically toward the familiar voice, wincing a little at the stiffness that had settled in his neck. "Hey." His voice sounded raspy, even to his own ears, so he wasn't surprised when a straw appeared, seemingly floating by itself, in front of his mouth. He drank deeply and tried again. "Thanks." Better. He noticed now that the room was dark and the noises from the hall comparatively quiet and that the figure by his bed was lit only by the moonlight coming through the one window, touching hair and mustache with silver. He frowned. "Looks late. Shouldn't you be home?"

"I'm going soon. Just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing."

"I'm doing fine. But you won't be, if you don't get some sleep."

"I was thinking of crashing on the couch in my office."

"Dad…" He tried to shift himself to get a better look, but his muscles seemed lead-weighted and stayed stubbornly where they were. What the heck had Jesse pumped into him? Frustrated, he stopped struggling. "I'm not at death's door. Go home. Get some sleep." He could just make out the flash of his father's puckish grin in the dark.

"Actually, that couch is very comfortable." Mark leaned in closer, his gaze intent, and Steve stayed still and tried to look healthy. "How does your head feel?"

"Feels like somebody…" he paused. "What did somebody do, anyway? Or did I fall…? Jesse said you'd tell me."

"Baseball bat."

Steve's hand went instinctively to the side of his head. "Ouch."

"To say the least."

Steve fingered the gauze delicately, aware of it for the first time, a suspicion creeping through the pounding that had started deep behind his eyes. "Is - did Jesse shave my hair?"

"Just a little. Around the gash."

Steve groaned, pinching his fingers into his eyelids. "I hate it when he does that."

He could hear the smile in his father's voice. "Well, he didn't actually do it himself. And it had to be done - you needed stitches."

Steve sighed, letting his hand fall from his eyes. That pounding seemed to be here to stay. "David Fuller," he said suddenly.

"What about him?"

"Baseball bat. That's how he was killed."

"That's right. And your assailant was about the same height as his and also appeared to swing as a leftie. Only difference is that you were hit in a different spot - which is probably why you are here under Jesse's care instead of being down the hall under Amanda's, like David Fuller."

Something in his tone plucked at Steve's heart and he fought the dark and his uncertain vision for a glimpse of his father's face. "Dad. I'm fine." Mark made a noncommittal sound in his throat. "I am," he repeated insistently. "Just missing a little hair, a couple of memories, a little blood…"

"A lot of blood," Mark corrected him. "Believe me, it was everywhere."

"Bet you've replaced it all by now, good as new."

"Transfusions are not - " Mark broke off. "You still don't remember?"

Steve tried not to smile. Ha. Mission distraction a success. "Not everything. Not exactly."

Mark reached over and felt along his scalp much as Jesse had done earlier. Steve bit back a protest. His father was in doctor mode now; it wouldn't do to send him back into worried father mode. "Jesse said he wasn't sure whether you were just still disoriented or were suffering from a touch of retrograde amnesia…"

"Amnesia?" Steve grinned weakly, despite the thumping that had now spread from his eyes to encompass his temples. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh, now, soap operas have given amnesia a bad name. It's rarely as dramatic as they make it out to be on television, but it's really not unusual to have some memory loss following a head trauma - especially one that injures the temporal lobe."

The thumping had made inroads into his cheekbones now, and Steve couldn't suppress a sigh this time. "Wanna put that in laymen's terms?"

"You don't remember everything that happened."

"Funny, I thought that's what I said." If somebody would just turn down the volume in his skull, odds were he'd be able to remember everything well enough. He rubbed automatically at his eyes again. "Same bat?"

"What's that?"

"The bat. You said David Fuller and I were both…"

"Oh. We don't know for sure. Haven't recovered either one yet. But forensic evidence shows that it's likely." Mark rose and retrieved something from the end of the bed.

Steve took advantage of his lapse in attention to let his eyes close for a minute. If Madge Fuller was the one who hit him, how could she get rid of the bat? It just didn't make any…

"Just as I thought." Steve opened his eyes quickly and tried to look alert. "Time for your meds. No wonder you're so uncomfortable."

"I didn't say - "

"No, of course you didn't. I'm going to check with the nurse - tell her I'll administer them so you don't have to wait any longer."

"Dad - "

"Why don't you just rest your eyes for a minute? I'll be right back."

Steve tried to protest, but Mark was already out the door. He sank back into the bed. His eyes seemed to be closing of their own accord anyway. This was ridiculous - he'd just woken up - how could he be going back to sleep already? He tried to picture those last minutes at Madge Fuller's house in his mind, came up blank, tried to focus on the events of the earlier part of the day instead. He didn't realize he'd fallen half-asleep until he was startled by his father's light touch on his forehead. He struggled to open his eyes. "Dad - "

"We can talk later. Why don't you get a little sleep? I'm going to give you something that will help you feel better."

His eyes seemed to be glued shut. "Not too much," he mumbled. "Strong. Can hardly…move…"

He heard his father's soft chuckle. "I don't think that's the medication, son. I'll stay until you're asleep."

He wanted to protest. He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted to explain that he was fine and send his father home to bed. But his mutinous body wanted otherwise, and before he could even form his wants into words, he was asleep.

***

"You can leave that." Jesse smiled reassuringly at the candy striper.

The young girl glanced uncertainly from the doctor to the room she was exiting. "But doctor," she lowered her voice. "He's still asleep."

"I'm awake."

Jesse grinned at the drowsy tone coming from the bed. "Good. Good timing. Was just stopping by to check a couple of things out." His grin broadened as Steve groaned. "Be a good boy and cooperate and breakfast will be your reward." He saw Steve's eyes flicker over the tray he had confiscated from the candy striper and then wince away, and he lost some of his smile. "Or not," he conceded. "Still queasy this morning?" He put the tray aside and plucked the chart from the end of the bed.

"Little."

"Uh-huh. How'd you sleep?"

"Fine. A lot. My Dad finally go home?"

"So, you remember him being here?"

"Of course I do."

Jesse smirked at the biting tone. "Good. No anterograde then, maybe a little retrograde. That's good."

"Jesse, I do not have amnesia!"

"Hm. A little delusional though…" He scribbled on the chart and smiled sweetly in answer to Steve's quizzical look. "A hit to the head and now you think you've got a medical degree."

Steve made a face. "Very funny."

"Well, I think you should leave the medical conclusions to the doctors, buddy. Doctors. That's me - " he pulled at his lapel. "That's why I get to wear the white coat. It's not just a fashion statement." That brought to mind what he had been thinking about yesterday, though, and he sobered a little, peering speculatively at Steve over the chart. He fumbled for the light in his pocket, trying to think of a way to work what he wanted to say into the conversation. "You remember anything more?"

"I remember you flashing that thing in my eyes about a half dozen times yesterday."

"Good. I like being memorable." He took Steve's chin firmly in his hand and examined one eye, then the next. "How about before you got hit on the head? Remember anything more about that?" He watched Steve's reaction carefully without seeming to, read the answer in his crestfallen expression before he even spoke.

"No."

Jesse shrugged sympathetically.

Steve ground a fist in his eyes to get rid of the aftereffects of the light. "You aren't going to ask me the name of the president and the year now, are you?"

"No, I already know the answers to those questions. I'm going to take a look at your stitches, and then a nice nurse will be along to bandage you back up."

Steve was surprisingly quiet as Jesse clipped away his bandages, so much so that Jesse lost himself in examining his own handiwork and was a little startled when he finally did speak.

"So they think Madge Fuller hit me with a baseball bat?"

"Hm?" It took Jesse a second to catch up with the change in topic. "Oh. Yeah. Same as her husband."

"Why?"

"Why?" Scalp looked a little inflamed and that was a mother of a bruise, but nothing to be alarmed about…probably healing as well as could be expected. "Why what? Why did she hit you? I don't know. Lots of people seem to hit you. Must be your personality or something."

Steve gave him a look. "Why Madge Fuller. Did somebody see her do it?"

"Besides, presumably, you? No. But she was the only one in the room with you when Cheryl broke in through the back way, so who else could it be? Besides, forensics shows that the assailant was somewhere between 5'7" and 5'9" and left handed. Like Madge Fuller."

"Then where did the bat go?"

"To jail, for now."

Steve's long hand came up and wrapped around Jesse's fingers, firmly interrupting his careful examination. "The baseball bat, Jesse."

"Oh." Jesse dropped his hands. "Nobody knows. It'll turn up, I guess."

"I don't see how anybody could suddenly dispose of something the size of a baseball bat before Cheryl could get there."

Jesse avoided his eyes. "This looks pretty good, considering. I'm going to let a nurse clean it up and rebandage you."

Steve's look told him he had not missed the change of subject. "Then I can go home?"

Jesse hesitated. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Jess, you said it's just a concussion!"

"Well, it is, but it's kind of a nasty one and I'd like to keep you on the IV at least until you've kept something down for a few hours. Besides, I can't send you home without somebody to stay with you and I know for a fact that your Dad is booked solid today and so am I."

Steve frowned. "I don't need somebody to stay with me."

Jesse smiled a little. "Actually, you do." He tugged on his white jacket again. "Doctor, remember? There are private duty nurses, of course, but it's kind of short notice for one of them, so you might just as well lie back and enjoy the nurses here. Got some pretty cute ones on the next shift."

"Jesse…"

"Steve, you may feel pretty good lying down, but try to get up and negotiate your way to, say, the bathroom and I think you'll be surprised to find out how far off your balance is. If you wait until tomorrow, I might even be able to let you go home and be on your own." Steve sighed, but Jesse knew reluctant acquiescence when he heard it and grinned. "Sure you don't want to try a little breakfast?"

Steve eyed the tray wistfully, but shook his head carefully. He glanced around, trying to pull himself further up into sitting position.

Jesse eyed him suspiciously. "What are you looking for?"

"Just the phone. I want to ask Cheryl to drop off my case notes."

"So you can…what? Read them?"

"No, so I can hold them. Of course so I can read them."

"I don't think your doctor has cleared you to do any reading."

"Jesse - "

"How many fingers am I holding up?" He watched as Steve stared hard at his upraised hand, his expression changing slowly from impatience, to puzzlement, to faint alarm. He dropped the hand. "Right. No reading."

Steve's confidence seemed a little shaken, but he persisted. "So what am I supposed to do? Just lie here and not eat and not read and not watch television?"

"If you add sleep to that list, I'd say you've got yourself an agenda."

"Jess, I'll lose my mind!"

He sounded so truly distressed that Jesse's heart melted some. "I'll stop by and play cards with you on my break," he offered. "Just try to let me win one hand."

Steve smiled slightly. "Thanks." He paused. "Can I at least talk to Cheryl?"

Jesse threw up his hands. "Yeah - I guess - but Steve - you know the case is closed, right? There was an arrest. There was a confession. There will soon be an arraignment."

"I just don't think - "

"Steve." Jesse hooked a chair with his foot, sat down in it and scooched it close to the bed. "You know I think you're a great cop, right? You know that. I do. You do a terrific job."

"Jesse, what - ?"

"I do. I just want you to know that."

Steve eyed him for a minute. "You said this was just a concussion."

"It is! What - ?"

"Because if there's something more wrong, I'd like to know about it."

"Of course there's nothing else wrong! As your doctor and your friend, don't you think I'd tell you?"

"I don't know. I just know this whole thing is starting to cue up to sound like a eulogy. In memory of Steve Sloan, he was a good cop, a good friend, he went too young, but he'll never be forgotten…"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Jesse ran a hand over his hair. "That's not what I - I just think you're like a record stuck in a groove about this case! It's closed and it's over and you just keep picking at it! I know it must get old sometimes to have your Dad always barging in and solving things while you lie on the floor bleeding from a scalp wound, but he does, and he did, and it's over, Steve, and you've just got to let it go!" Jesse heard his own words hanging in the air and almost groaned out loud. That was not the delicate, tactful way he had meant to approach this sensitive subject - somehow his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain. He peered at Steve warily, wincing apologetically, but Steve's face was still. He hadn't a clue what he might be thinking.

"Well," said Steve slowly, after a weighty pause, "I do get a little tired of the scalp wound part."

Jesse shifted in his chair. "Steve - I didn't mean - "

"It's okay, Jess."

"Steve - "

"Jesse - " Steve tried to pull himself up again, gave it up and let his head fall back against the pillow.

"Listen to me. I don't mind when my Dad solves cases, but this time I happen to believe he's wrong. I know something that proves that Madge Fuller didn't do it."

"Well," said Steve slowly, after a weighty pause, "I do get a little tired of the scalp wound part."

Jesse shifted in his chair. "Steve - I didn't mean - "

"It's okay, Jess."

"Steve - "

"Jesse - " Steve tried to pull himself up again, gave it up and let his head fall back against the pillow. "Listen to me. I don't mind when my Dad solves cases, but this time I happen to believe he's wrong. I know something that proves that Madge Fuller didn't do it."

Jesse eyed him doubtfully. "Okay. What's that?"

Steve squirmed. "I - don't remember. But I know there's something…if I can just go over the case and figure out what it is."

Jesse's brows pinched together in an inverted "v". "Steve, she confessed. Why would she do that if she wasn't guilty?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "I just know something isn't right."

Jesse cleared his throat, studying his shoes with sudden interest. "Steve - you know your brain is a little scrambled right now, right?"

"What I know is that I'm missing a few pieces, but if I can retrace my steps, maybe I can get them back. I need to talk to Cheryl."

Jesse rose reluctantly from the chair. "Okay. I've got to finish my rounds." He moved to the door, hesitated. "Steve, you know that if you want to talk about this, I'm here, okay?"

Steve opened his mouth, closed it again. "Yeah, Jess," he said resignedly at last. "Thanks."

Jesse nodded, lingering in the doorway, unsure of what else to say. "I'll send in a nurse to bandage your head," he managed finally. "Get some rest, huh?"

Steve half-smiled and raised a hand slightly in farewell. Jesse tried to smile back, heading slowly down the corridor toward his next patient. He couldn't really say how, but somehow or other, he felt like he'd made things worse.

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Chapter 3

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The feeling was still hovering around the edges of his mind a couple of hours later when he stopped by the doctor's lounge for coffee.

Amanda was already there, adding cream to her cup. She smiled at him as he entered. "Good morning - whoa. What's wrong with you? You look like you've lost your best friend."

??????????????? Jesse sighed gustily. "Funny you should say that."

??????????????? Amanda twinkled. "Don't tell me. You broke the news to Steve that he won't be going home today."

??????????????? "Well, yeah, but - he actually took that better than I expected."

??????????????? "Then why the long face?"

??????????????? Jesse poured coffee into his favorite mug and shrugged. "I don't know. I think maybe I said something I shouldn't have."

??????????????? "You? That's hard to believe."

??????????????? Jesse shot her a look at her dry tone and dropped himself into a chair at the table. "This isn't funny, Amanda."

??????????????? "I'm sorry." She pulled up a chair next to his and rested a hand on his arm. "Why don't you tell me about it. Maybe it's not as bad as it seems."

??????????????? Jesse took a sip of his coffee, peeking up at her from under his fringe of bangs. "Well, I - you know how Steve is so hung up on this Fuller case, right?"

??????????????? "Hung up in what way? I mean, it's solved."

??????????????? Jesse threw his arms wide. "That's what I said!"

??????????????? "And that made Steve angry?"

??????????????? "No, no - not that. It's just he keeps saying how Madge Fuller didn't do it, and I keep telling him how she confessed and everything…"

??????????????? "And he said…?"

??????????????? "He said she didn't do it. That somebody else did."

??????????????? "Well, who?"

??????????????? "He doesn't know."

??????????????? "Then what makes him think it wasn't Madge Fuller?"

??????????????? "He says he doesn't remember - he just knows it wasn't."

??????????????? Amanda raised her brows, stirring absently at her coffee. "He took a pretty hard hit to the head, Jesse. Maybe he's just not thinking very clearly."

??????????????? Jesse nodded enthusiastically. "That's what I said, too!"

??????????????? "And that made Steve mad."

??????????????? "No. No, I don't think that made him mad. Not really. I mean, he's not."

??????????????? Amanda took a deep breath. "All right then. So you told Steve Madge Fuller was the killer and that he wasn't thinking very clearly and he said…?"

??????????????? "That he wanted to read his case notes over. That they might jog his memory."

??????????????? Amanda waited, then nudged his arm. "And - ?"

??????????????? "Well, and I told him he couldn't read yet. He can hardly see, really. He shouldn't be trying to do any close work."

??????????????? "And that made him mad."

??????????????? Jesse shook his head. "Naw…well, for a minute maybe. Until he realized he couldn't tell me how many fingers I was holding up."

??????????????? "And so?"

??????????????? "Well, so I said I'd stop by on my break and play cards with him. Since he can't do much else."

??????????????? Amanda leaned back in her chair and stared at him. "Well, I find it hard to believe that that made him mad."

??????????????? "Oh. No," Jesse took another sip of coffee. "No, he thanked me for that."

??????????????? "Jesse!" Jesse looked up in surprise at her exasperated tone. "Then what on earth makes you think Steve is mad at you? What did you say?"

??????????????? "Oh." Jesse felt his ears grow red all over again. "Um…I think I said something about…about how he must get tired of…his Dad always rushing in and solving his cases while he…" he cleared his throat. "…while he lies unconscious on the floor," he finished in a rush. Amanda stared at him. "It just came out!" he defended himself desperately. "I meant - I meant to put it a lot better than that."

??????????????? "I see." Amanda turned discreetly forward, drinking her own coffee to fill the awkward pause. "And, um, what did Steve say to…that?"

??????????????? Jesse cleared his throat. "He said he…did…get tired of the unconscious part. Well, not exactly that. Something like that. I - I told him I was sorry."

??????????????? "And?"

??????????????? "And he said it was okay."

??????????????? "Well, then," Amanda looked relieved. "Then he's not mad."

??????????????? "No…" Jesse wrapped his hands around his cup and hunched over it. "Not mad, he just…"

??????????????? "Jesse," Amanda's tone became brisk. "If Steve said it was all right…"

??????????????? Jesse made a face. "It - wasn't what he said. It was - I don't know - something in his eyes." He poked at his coffee with his spoon. "I think I hurt his feelings. You know I'd never hurt him on purpose, Amanda."

??????????????? "Of course I know that." Amanda patted him briskly on the back. "And Steve knows that, too.? Why don't you talk to him?"

?

*

?

??????????????? Sometimes those two are worse than CJ and Dion, Amanda thought as she made her way down the hospital corridor away from the Path Lab, cradling a fat file in her arms. Still, it never hurt for a friend to stop by and pour oil on troubled waters, and if Steve was troubled by the Fuller case then maybe she could put his mind at rest. It was better to keep these things down to earth and dispassionate sometimes - stick to the facts. Steve liked the facts, and the facts were her specialty - one reason they worked so well together. As she approached the room she heard the familiar sounds of good-natured arguing and smiled to herself. Sounded like things were back to normal. Figured. Neither one was really any good at staying mad. She shook her head. Just like CJ and Dion…and pushed her way into the room.

??????????????? "Sounds like a battle in here," she remarked cheerfully.

??????????????? Steve turned his head from Jesse and broke into a smile. "Hi."

??????????????? "Hi yourself. You're looking better. Jesse's looking a little grim though."

??????????????? "That's because I lost four out of five hands. I think he cheats."

??????????????? "You're just a sore loser. Want us to deal you in, Amanda?"

??????????????? "Uh-uh," Jesse held up his hands. "You're not taking any more of even my imaginary money."

??????????????? "And I - " Amanda indicated the file with a flourish. "Brought you something I think you're going to find more interesting. David Fuller's autopsy report."

??????????????? Steve brightened and reached for the file, but Jesse plucked it neatly from in front of him. "I'm sure Amanda was planning on reading this to you herself."

??????????????? Steve's jaw set. "Jesse - "

??????????????? Jesse forestalled him with a shake of his head. "I told you no reading yet and I meant it. You try and I promise you, you'll end up with a headache that will make the worst hangover you've ever had seem like a picnic. Your vision is still all over the place. The only reason I won that one hand is because you thought that six was an eight."

??????????????? Steve started to protest, then paused. "That was a six?"

??????????????? Jesse nodded.

??????????????? "And you didn't tell me?"

??????????????? Jesse looked innocent. "Did I forget to tell you that?"

??????????????? Steve stared at him. "I can't believe you took advantage of my condition - "

??????????????? "Fine! You can have your imaginary money back! Does that make us even?"

"Boys, boys…" Amanda pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. "Do you want to talk about this autopsy report or not?"

"I think I remember most of it," Steve said thoughtfully, immediately forgetting the cards. "But I'd like to see if there's anything I overlooked."

"'See' being metaphorical, of course."

Steve glared. "I think you're exaggerating that. I see just fine now. Except," he admitted reluctantly, "for the cards."

"Ah-ah-ah! Remember - " Jesse tugged significantly at his white coat.

"I know - you're the doctor. Some doctor. The only doctors I've ever heard give a diagnosis of amnesia are hawking household detergents afternoons and making personal appearances at shopping malls."

Jesse smiled serenely. "Amnesia is a perfectly valid medical phenomenon. Television doctors have to get their information from someplace." He made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed. "And I - " his eyes caught on something in the doorway. "Oh, hi, Cheryl."

Cheryl was leaning against the door lintel, a grin growing on her face. "Amnesia?" She stepped into the room. "Amnesia, Sloan?"

Steve's glare deepened. "I do not have amnesia! Real people don't get amnesia! Cheryl, if this gets around at the station, I swear, I'll make you every bit as miserable as they make me."

Cheryl sighed, the grin lingering. "It would almost be worth it. How's the head, partner?"

"I'm fine. I could go home, if they'd cut me loose."

Jesse made a scoffing sound in his throat and Cheryl chuckled. "Behaving as well as ever, I see. Well, I have something to help you pass the time."

Jesse neatly intercepted the file she proffered before Steve could grab it. "Thanks," he said brightly. "One of us will read it to him."

Steve didn't even bother to protest this time, just skewered Jesse with a glower that would have been very effective if his eyes had managed to focus simultaneously. He gave up and turned back to Cheryl. "Jesse tells me that you arrested Madge Fuller."

"That's right. Got a full confession."

Steve shook his head doubtfully. "Any other grounds?"

"All of them. Means, motive, opportunity."

Steve closed his eyes for a minute, groping through his memory. "Opportunity? But she didn't. That was one reason we eliminated her. She was running her High School homeroom at the time of the murder - had all kinds of witnesses."

Cheryl shrugged. "Given that we only have a time frame for the murder and not an exact time, your Dad managed to prove that it was possible for her to commit the murder and still be at her homeroom on time. It's tight, but it's not impossible."

Steve hesitated. "I don't know," he objected at last. "In L.A. traffic? And what about clean up? If she clubbed somebody with a baseball bat, she'd catch a lot of spatter. She'd have to clean up before anybody saw her."

"There's a copy of the potential timeline in the folder I gave y - er - Jesse."

Steve nodded distractedly. "Means? They find the bat?"

"No," Cheryl admitted.? "But she was a softball champ, an ex-coach of her son's little league team and her son now plays varsity. There were bats all around that house. Be the easiest thing in the world to grab one."

Steve sighed. "What about motive? I know we hadn't been able to find one."

"Well, that information came through while we were at the Fullers - seems David Fuller had quietly withdrawn a very large sum of money and hidden it. We think he was paying for a mistress."

"And they think Madge Fuller found about this?"

"That's right."

"But they don't know. Any idea where the money went for sure?"

"Nope. All dead ends so far. But we're still digging."

Steve kneaded absently at his eyebrows. "All circumstantial, then."

"Except for the confession, but the confession makes a big difference. Prosecutor thinks he can make a strong case."

"Yeah," Steve leaned back into his pillows. "Be better to have a little concrete evidence, though."

"Well, that's one of the reasons I'm here." Cheryl smiled. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened in the time between you ringing the Fuller front doorbell and me breaking in the back door and finding you on the floor." Cheryl flipped open her notebook. "Okay - so you rang the doorbell and I went around to cover the back. Then what?"

Steve reddened.

Cheryl looked at him questioningly. "Steve?"

"Um…" Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well…uh…"Cheryl lowered her pencil in surprise, looking from Steve to Amanda to Jesse. The red flush spread from Steve's cheekbones to his ears. "I - don't remember all the details. Exactly," he confessed.

Jesse nodded knowingly and mouthed the word "amnesia", pointing to Steve behind his back.

"I saw that," Steve warned, without looking.

Cheryl stared. "You weren't kidding about this amnesia thing."

"I do NOT have amnesia. I'm just having trouble…remembering a couple of things." He closed his eyes; whether to shut them out or collect his thoughts was hard to tell.

Cheryl looked past Steve to Jesse this time, read in his hand gestures to go easy.

"I saw that too," Steve interjected, without opening his eyes.

"Okay," Cheryl perched on the end of the bed, the smile fading from her face. "Why don't you just tell me what you do remember, then."

"Well - " Steve opened his eyes again and shot an embarrassed glance from one to the other. "I think - we had lunch, right?"

"But you don't remember?"

"Why, was it memorable?" Steve retorted, frustrated. "And I think I remember the ride to the Fuller house. Sort of. I guess it could be any of a dozen rides like that we've taken, though, because - well - I don't honestly remember anything specific about it."

Cheryl raised her eyebrows at Jesse.

Jesse cleared his throat. "It could come back. Most times it comes back - in reverse, usually - the event of the actual injury last. Of course, the actual event - the injury itself, I mean - he may never remember that."

"What?" Steve tried to turn his head to meet his eyes.

Jesse moved to position himself so he was more comfortably in Steve's line of vision. "You might. But a lot of times, that part is gone for good. We don't know why - the bruising, or just the mind's way of protecting itself. The rest you'll probably remember, given some rest and time."

Steve stared at him, then dropped his eyes to the cards spread out on the tray in front of him.

Cheryl quietly put her notebook away. "Okay. That was the part I was interested in, but it's not crucial. Like I say, the DA's office feels pretty confident."

"I may NEVER remember?"

Jesse grimaced. "Maybe not," and, at the sight of his face, "It's a few seconds of your life, Steve, and probably painful ones. Would it really be so bad not to remember?"

"I don't know…" admitted Steve slowly. "It's just…a shock."

"Because they always get their memories back on soap operas."

Despite himself, Steve smiled a little. "Cheryl, maybe if you tell me what happened in detail it will jog something loose."

"Good idea," Jesse nodded. "Evening visiting hours start at six, Cheryl, if you want to come back then."

Steve stopped absently massaging his temple. "Jesse, she's here right now!"

"Yep. But she's leaving. Visiting hours are over and you need a break."

"She's not visiting, she's on official police business and I feel fine!"

"Mm hm. That's the third time you've rubbed your head and the second time you've closed your eyes. The nurse will be around with your meds soon, then you can get some sleep." He placed the two files on a side table just out of Steve's reach. "I'll leave those there for someone to read to you when you wake up."

Steve arranged his face into his most reasonable, compliant expression. "Look, let Cheryl go over the case with me, and then I promise I'll sleep. In fact, I'll rest much better without that on my mind."

Jesse smiled. "Oh, you'll sleep just fine once you get those meds, believe me. Sorry, bud, but…" he tugged meaningfully at his jacket again.

Steve smiled bitterly. "Oh, I haven't forgotten. Think I'll get myself a white jacket - seems they give those out to just about anybody."

Jesse grinned. "You know what your problem is? No gratitude. You think all my patients get this kind of tender loving care?"

"No, no - " Steve drawled. "I'm sure you save this treatment just for me." He turned to look hopefully at Amanda, but she was already standing up.

"Sorry, Steve - I was just going to suggest the same thing. You're showing definite signs of fatigue."

"How can I have signs of fatigue when I haven't even gotten out of bed?" Steve argued.

Cheryl started gathering her things. "If it makes you guys feel any better, he is every bit this recalcitrant at work." She patted the foot under the blanket near her. "Get some rest, partner. I'll be back and we'll go over everything."

"Recalcitrant?" Steve shifted carefully, annoyed to find that his eyes were indeed aching with heaviness. "When have I ever been - ?"

Amanda kissed his cheek lightly. "You'll feel better after a little sleep."

"I feel f - "

"See you later." Cheryl raised a hand in farewell.

Steve stared after her, blinked when her image fuzzed, then divided into two. He swallowed. Only Jesse remained. "How'd you get everybody on your side?" he grumbled.

"Personal charm." Jesse was scratching something on his chart. "I think you'll be out in about two minutes, but if you want I'll give you the remote for a little background noise."

Since Jesse was suddenly triplets, Steve bobbed a short nod and closed his eyes again. Jesse clicked the set on and handed him the remote.

"Thanks," Steve curled his hand around it, turning his head into the pillow in spite of himself. "You know, you owe me for that fifth hand…" he muttered sleepily.

"Right," Jesse's voice seemed to be floating above him now. "Put it on my imaginary bill."

Steve was still trying to think of a smart answer when Jesse seemed to fade away all together.

?

*

?

Chapter 4

?

His most delicate operation all day. Mark sharpened his focus, keeping his grip light but firm, tugged gently. The remote slid forward, but unexpectedly Steve's hand tightened around it again, pulled it back.

"What're ya doing?"

Mark smiled at the sleep-slurred voice. Shades of Steve's High School days. "Well, I was trying to take the remote so that you wouldn't drop it and wake yourself. But I guess I've already done that."

"Oh." Steve buried his face more deeply in the pillow. His eyes remained sealed shut. "'Mwatching."

"Mm hm." Mark gave up on the remote as it disappeared under the blankets in Steve's grip. "Through your eyelids, I see. How are you feeling?"

"Mmph."

Mark waited, vigilant for signs of life. "Steve?" The heavy, even sigh of his son's breathing told him that was the best answer he was going to get. He sighed, patting the bandaged head snuggled into the pillow lightly. Oh, well. Sleep was the best thing for him, of course. He reached for the chart at the end of the bed, took a peek.

"How's he doin'?"

Mark glanced up from his perusal of the chart. "Well, from what you've written here, I'd say fine - sort of wish I could catch him awake for a change, though. Anything not on here you want to tell me about?"

Jesse shook his head, running his eyes over Steve, then studying the chart over Mark's shoulder. "Naw, he's doin' all right. Kept down a little jello and broth at lunch. If he keeps something down at dinner, I'll remove the IV."

"Good." Mark read the notations over a second time to be sure he hadn't missed anything. "If you want to send him home tomorrow, I can clear my calendar without too much trouble."

"Yeah, I'm thinking about it, depending on how he is in the morning. I don't think he's ready to be alone, but if you were there it might be all right. Might want to put him in the guest room for a couple of days. Don't want him getting any bright ideas about the stairs."

"Mm." Mark replaced the chart. "Maybe we'll be able to exchange more than a half dozen coherent words, then. What are these?" He saw the files on the side table and picked them up. "Thought you didn't want him reading?"

"I don't. Cheryl stopped by - she wanted to ask Steve a couple of questions. She's coming back after work to go over the case with him. She can do the reading, or one of us, if we're available."

"Dotting all his Is and crossing all his Ts, hm?"

Jesse smiled non-committaly. He felt like he'd put his foot in it when he'd talked to Steve about his Dad's involvement in his cases - he wasn't planning on repeating the performance by telling Mark that his son was questioning his conclusions about this case. "Cheryl's coming back around six. You could stop by if you want to talk to him about it. He'll probably be awake then."

Mark made a face. "Wish I could. But I have to sit in on that Board Meeting at six."

"Yeah, I forgot. It's a wonder you get a chance to practice any medicine. You think I'll ever find myself bogged down in all that hospital bureaucracy?"

"Probably."

Jesse didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling. "Bite your tongue."

Mark patted him lightly on the shoulder. "All part of the downside of being a doctor." He glanced over at the bed and sighed again. "Oh, well. Guess you have everything under control here. I should get back to work."

Jesse nodded. "Anything you want me to tell him if I catch him awake first?"

Mark hesitated, smiling slightly at the sight of the blanket rising and falling gently over his son's huddled shoulders. With his face buried in the pillow, he looked just like he had at seventeen, when Mark used to wake him up for early morning football practice. "No," he said, a little ruefully. "I'll wait."

?

*

There were no traces of dreams this time - it was more like crawling up out of a black, dark well, where time had no meaning. He lay still with his eyes closed, trying to orient himself. The hospital sounds filtered back in slowly. Oh, yeah. He remembered now. Too bad hospitals didn't offer some kind of frequent flyer type program - he'd be set for life.

He experimented with some careful stretching. He was so stiff. How long had he been asleep anyway? It felt like forever. He reached up to rub at his head, let out a small cry as he whacked his tender forehead with something. He pried his eyes apart for a peek. Oh. The remote. He sort of remembered Jesse giving him that. And of course, Jesse had been right - he'd fallen asleep before he could actually watch anything. Shifting clumsily, he twisted to look for the side table to slide the remote back onto it.

The first thing he saw was the clock sitting on top of the table. It had large, digital numbers, and by narrowing his eyes and focusing hard, he could read the time. He let out a low whistle. He'd been asleep for hours. The second thing he saw were the files, now within inches of his end of the table. He had some memory of Jesse setting them down on the opposite side of the table, out of his reach, but now they were very close. Really, if he sat up and stretched just a little, he could probably snag them.

He stared at them, debating. Cheryl would be here in just over an hour and their discussion would be a lot more productive if he could refresh his memory on some of the details of the case. Of course, Jesse had forbidden him to read, but if he'd moved the files within reach, then maybe he was trying to tell him that it was all right now? He made a face. Okay, he didn't really believe that, but it wouldn't take him much effort to grab them and he wouldn't read them, really - he'd just sort of skim - pick up the high points. He stared at them some more. If he started skimming and it made his head hurt, he could always stop - no harm done. And as long as there was no harm done, then nobody had to be any the wiser. Satisfied with his logic, he pushed himself into a half-sitting position. Whoa. He grabbed at the bed rail again, lowered himself hastily back to the pillows, closing his eyes for a second. Wow.

Okay, so no sitting up. That was okay - he could just sort of inch his way closer to the table while staying flat on his back and reach the files that way. He could even read - no, skim, really - lying down.

??????????????? Thinking how pleased his Dad and Jesse would be about how sensible he was being, he maneuvered his body carefully until it was closer to the table side of the bed. It was harder than he'd expected - left him a little breathless, even - his body seemed to weigh a ton. He'd have to ask Jesse to go easy on whatever it was he was giving him - he felt like he was made of cement. He extended his arm. His fingertips just brushed the folders. And they were pretty fat files, so that wasn't going to be good enough. On his right hand side, too. Figured. He stuck out his lip. Hm.

??????????????? Well, maybe if he rolled over instead of sitting up he could get closer and use his stronger hand too, all without disturbing his head. He eased himself onto his side. Yeah. Okay. That wasn't so bad. Happy with his progress, he pushed himself up on his elbow and bent in the direction of the table.

Damn! The room tilted abruptly sideways and he grabbed for the table to stop himself from being thrown out of the bed and into oblivion. His hand slapped against the top file, catching the corner. It flew into the air and whapped him roundly in the face before landing on his chest, papers sliding in every direction.

No leaning, no leaning! How could he have forgotten that…? He heard the second file hit the floor and splatter its contents, but he was busy trying to restabilize his equilibrium and didn't look to see where it had gone. Ouch. Damn it. He reached up to cradle his head and hit himself in the forehead with the remote again.

For a minute the world buzzed and scrambled like a TV with poor reception and he lay very still, afraid to move or touch anything. Then he carefully released his hold on the remote with one hand and rested the other gingerly on the file folder on his chest and groaned.

"Um…something I can help you out with?"

He groaned again, hoping that if he didn't open his eyes, this would all be a figment of his imagination and go away. "You're early," he offered thinly at last.

He heard Cheryl move into the room and didn't have to look at her to confirm the amused half-smile she would be wearing. "Yeah, since it's police business Jesse said I could circumvent visiting hours, provided you were awake. Looks like I got here just in time." He opened his eyes to slits to see her bend over and pick up the one file from the floor, retrieving its scattered contents. "I thought you weren't supposed to be reading."

"I wasn't. They just - fell."

"Uh-huh."

Steve smiled a little and opened his eyes further. At least the room was settling down from its buck and wing. "I was going to - sort of - skim. Just to prepare before you got here. I wasn't actually going to read." He checked his hands this time, just to be sure they were empty, and rubbed cautiously at his forehead. "Then they went wild and attacked me."

Cheryl laughed, neatly arranging the file in her hands and placing it on the table, then reaching for the contents of the file spilled all over the bed. "This really just isn't your week, is it? You'd better hope this stuff is still in order, or Amanda's going to do worse than that to you - you know how fussy she is about her files." Steve groaned again, rubbing his whole face this time. Cheryl finished reconstructing the other file and settled on the end of the bed. "Oh, don't worry - I won't give you away. Now, do you still feel up to this after your little adventure?"

Steve dropped his hands from his face. "Of course I do. I feel - " Cheryl tilted her head at him and he colored. "I do seem to be a little - woozy," he admitted reluctantly at last. "But I'll be fine. Just tell me what happened yesterday. What made you break in the back way at the Fullers, anyway?"

"I heard Mrs. Fuller screaming and kicked in the door."

"Screaming?" Steve wrinkled his forehead, felt a twinge there and wondered if he had a new bruise. "Now, why would she be screaming if she'd just clubbed me with a baseball bat?"

Cheryl shrugged. "Maybe the shock. You should've seen all the blood."

"Shock. If she just did the same thing to her husband recently? She must have known what to expect."

"Then maybe she knew you wouldn't be alone and wanted to throw suspicion from herself. Make it seem like somebody broke in and did it."

Steve frowned. "I know I didn't go there to arrest her."

"No, just questioning."

"Then why hit me at all?"

"Maybe she panicked."

"And just happened to have the same baseball bat at the ready and hit me with it. I don't know, Cheryl…does this really work for you?"

"Not the same bat," Cheryl corrected, "The same KIND of bat. And like I said, there were all kinds of bats around that house. Maybe she figured it had done such a good job of getting rid of her husband that she'd try it on you, too."

"I still don't see why. Sounds weak." He gestured to the file in her hands. "They take spatter photos? Got any reports on that?"

"Yes, from both scenes. We're still waiting on reports and analysis from the second one, though. And you're not allowed to read them anyway."

"Jesse didn't say anything about looking at pictures. They have Madge Fuller's clothing?"

"Not from the murder, but they have it from her attack on you. Analysis should be ready about the same time as the other blood spatter material."

"Which is?"

Cheryl sighed heavily and shook her head at him. "Tomorrow or the next day. You're going to expect me to bring it to you, right?"

Steve gave her his brightest smile. "That would be great. Thanks." He held out his hand for the file.

??????????????? Cheryl smiled sweetly. "Don't push your luck. Tell me what you're interested in and I'll read it to you."

Steve looked disgruntled, but subsided. "Tell me what happened next."

Cheryl raised her brows. "I kicked in the door and called 'Police, police'. Made my way through the kitchen to the living room with my gun drawn. Mrs. Fuller was just standing there screaming and you were lying on the floor, bleeding. I dialed for an ambulance and back up. Your Dad and Jesse and Amanda were all waiting outside in a car because we were going to pow wow together at Bob's afterwards and they must have heard the screaming, because your father came in the front door with them in tow, saw what had happened, and started giving you first aid. You know, I know he's a consultant and all, but he really shouldn't do that - rush into an unsecured crime scene, unarmed, without knowing the situation."

Steve sighed deeply. "I'll talk to him. Go on."

"Well, then everything seemed to happen at once - I cuffed Mrs. Fuller, got the call about the funds missing from David Fuller's account, the black and whites showed up, and your father got that funny look on his face - you know the one - and said he thought he had it figured out. He told us how Madge Fuller could have killed her husband and still made it to her Homeroom on time, what her motive could be - the whole bit. Mrs. Fuller didn't say anything at the time and then the ambulance arrived so your Dad went with them, but by the time we got Madge Fuller to the station, she was offering to confess. Seemed relieved. Then I went to the hospital to check on you and to ask your Dad to come back to the station to give a full statement, with all the details."

Steve was silent for a moment. "You have a copy of the statement?"

"In the file."

"Read it to me?"

Cheryl hesitated. "Steve, why don't you just ask your Dad about this?"

"I'd like to, but I keep missing him."

Cheryl gave him an odd look, but obediently shuffled through the file for a copy of the statement. She read it carefully from beginning to end, peering at Steve over the top as she finished, trying to gauge his reaction. He was picking absently at his blanket. "You gotta admit," she ventured at last, "it fits. It's neat."

"Yeah…" Steve looked unconvinced. "Almost - too neat."

"And you have a problem with that?"

"I don't know." He stared through her, as if watching something she couldn't see. "What happened to that bat? How could she get rid of it so fast?"

"She had a couple of seconds while I made my way through the kitchen."

"To hide it, yeah, but to make it disappear completely?" He shook his head.

"Well, it's a whole lot easier to believe that than it is to believe that a whole other person made themselves disappear, between me breaking in the back and your Dad coming in through the front."

"True." He itched at the area around his IV. "Just a domestic quarrel gone bad, then?"

"Looks like. Too bad. They seemed like a nice family."

"Yeah. I know." Steve remembered all too well the framed photographs scattered around the living room. One set had especially stuck with him - a grouping of baseball shots - pictures of the mother and son in action on the field with a nice close up of the whole family in the center - mother and son in uniform and the father with his arms proudly around them. Add a little blonde girl and it could almost be his own family. Maybe that's why he was having so much trouble with this one. He frowned. Speaking of that… "Where's the kid, anyway? Human Services?"

"Staying with family friends, for the time being. They see to it that he gets to school and to his after school job - it's temporary, but a little less disruptive."

"Anybody talk to him?"

Cheryl looked exasperated. "About what? He was at school for both incidents."

"About general family atmosphere. Might shake something loose."

"Sloan, he's a minor!"

"You can bet the defense team will be talking to him. Better to know what they know and not be surprised."

Cheryl closed her eyes. Steve could almost see her counting silently. "Steve, we have a full confession. Is there really any reason to put a sixteen year old boy through that?"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I don't know. Could be."

This time Cheryl took a deep breath. "Steve, why don't you tell me exactly what's bothering you here? Usually when your father comes up with a solution you don't question it, you just applaud. Why is this one different?"

"Because this time I think he's wrong. Something doesn't fit."

"What doesn't fit?"

Steve shifted. "I don't know," he confessed feebly. "I don't remember. But - there's something - "

Cheryl looked at him for a long time. "And you're sure that's the problem?"

"As sure as I can be." He saw her look and his jaw tightened. "Why? What are you thinking?"

Cheryl cleared her throat. "I'm - just wondering - if a combination of - that hit you took to the head, and - " She let it hang.

Steve narrowed his eyes. "And…?" he echoed with a faint edge to his voice.

Cheryl put down the file and rested a hand on the blanket over his leg. "Look, Steve, it would be perfectly understandable if you…if it rankled…just a little bit…to have your Dad sweep in and tie up a case that you'd been working on for weeks. Heck, sometimes I'd like to beat him to it - I can imagine how you must feel."

Steve's eyes narrowed further. "Have you been talking to Jesse?"

"Jesse?" Cheryl leaned back, surprised. "No more than usual. Why?"

"Because he was insinuating something very similar. Look, I don't get you two - I've never made a fuss about my Dad being involved in my cases - why all this all of a sudden?"

"Because all of a sudden you seem to be grasping at straws that don't make any sense!"

Steve looked away, then looked back again. "Cheryl, I'm a cop. I have been for a long time. I've developed instincts - and those instincts tell me that something here is not right." Cheryl didn't answer and he softened his expression. "Cheryl, how many cases have we worked together? Can't you trust me just a little?" Cheryl winced, but remained silent. "Look, if I'm wrong I'll gladly admit it and no harm done - but what could be hurt by making sure we've covered all the bases? Come on, you know I can't do leg work myself right now - help me out."

Cheryl groaned out loud. "Oh, no - not the puppy eyes. Do not give me the puppy eyes!" She stood up and dropped the file on top of the one already on the table, blowing her breath out in a gusty sigh. "All right, all right - I'll - keep you in touch with any developments and do a little extra leg work. On one condition."

Steve brightened. "Anything."

She folded her arms. "You do what Jesse says you need to do to get better. No cheating."

Steve looked shocked. "Would I do that?"

Cheryl rolled her eyes. "Right." She hesitated at the doorway. "And Steve. Just - give what I said a little thought. I mean, if it occurred to both me and Jesse - well…" she shrugged.

Steve lost his smile. "Cheryl, that is NOT the problem."

"Okay. But if you're asking me to keep an open mind - "

"Fine! But I know - if I could just - remember - "

"Uh huh. So take it easy, follow Jesse's orders, and get over that amnesia."

"I do NOT have amnesia!"

Cheryl waved as she turned and passed through the door. "I'll be in touch with you tomorrow!" floated back over her shoulder.

Steve opened his mouth to retort, then lay back and fumed, as she was obviously out of earshot. "I don't," he mumbled rebelliously.

He noticed the TV was still running but with the mute button on, and fumbled through the sheets for the remote. A woman and a man walking around the screen - didn't look very interesting, but maybe there was a game on somewhere. He found the remote and hit the mute button to restore the sound, then went hunting for the controls to adjust the head of his bed. Why did they have to hide everything around here…?

"We were so happy…you were my heaven on earth…" the television bleated. Steve made a face, but got his hand on the bed controls. "Why can't you just trust me? It can't have changed you that much…" Steve rolled his eyes. Did people really watch this junk? "It's not my fault…you know it's not…I wish I could give you what you want…" Well, what I want is to change the channel, just as soon as I…the head of the bed started to rise gently. Okay. That was better. Not too high… "I only have your word for what went before. It has no meaning for me. I don't remember…" Steve paused and squinted suspiciously at the television. "You will remember. I know you will. And we'll be as happy as we ever were…" Oh, you've got to be kid…"You want to believe that. But you don't know. No one knows. Even the doctors. Amnesia is not predictable…" Steve grabbed for the remote and pushed savagely on the "off" button. The picture swallowed itself from the screen with a faint beep and the remote went sailing across the room to clatter against the wall. Steve glared after it, seething, unsure of what else he wanted to do to relieve his pent up emotions. He finally rolled over on his side, turning a cold shoulder to the television and glaring intently at the wall opposite.

That left the files right in his line of vision. Hm. If he was really careful, and didn't do any leaning…he tentatively reached out again, with his left hand this time.

?

?

Chapter 5

?

He didn't know how much time had passed when the sound of a throat being cleared made him jump. He glanced up apprehensively, automatically slamming the file closed.

Amanda stood in the doorway, wearing her best 'mother face'. "I thought you weren't supposed to be doing that."

Steve looked a little embarrassed, and tried to smile innocently. "I'm not reading anything. I'm just looking at David Fuller's autopsy photos."

"Oh, that's much better," Amanda entered and stood where she could look over his shoulder. "The letter of the law, but not the spirit. I'm surprised at you, Steve. And here I was bringing you such a nice surprise."

"I'll bet. What kind of a surprise?" Amanda laughed at his suspicious tone and he explained, "So far, whenever anybody brings me a surprise it's got a needle attached. I'd kinda like to pass on the next one."

"Nothing like that." She reached in her pocket and pulled out a small hand-held tape recorder. "I thought of it while I was doing an autopsy. Figured I could loan you my spare."

"That's nice." Steve eyed it cautiously. "Um - what for?"

She rolled her eyes at his apparent dimness. "To spare you trying to read. Every time one of us reads you something from the file, you can run the tape recorder. That way, if you want to go over something, you can replay it whenever you want - "

Steve broke into a grin. "Amanda, you're a genius!"

"Well, since I know how patient you are, I thought it would save you waiting for someone to read it to you again, or - " She stared meaningfully at the file in his hands.

"I swear, I just looked at the pictures. Maybe you can tell me exactly what I'm looking at? Since I can't read the notes."

Amanda made herself comfortable on the bed next to him and took the photos from his hand, spreading them out across his tray table. She tapped one with her finger. "Okay, here's point of impact - the depth of the wound at different points combined with the blood spatter evidence indicates that the killer swung in this sort of an arc - " she gestured with her hand, "leaving us to deduce that she - or he - was left handed. Height and angle of the blow, combined with the depth, seems to indicate someone of between 5'7" and 5'9" - probably muscular. Made a good impact. You've seen these before. Do you remember them at all?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"All right - what in particular interests you?"

"What I'd really like is to compare them to my x-rays. See how they're different. Are those available?"

Amanda frowned. "I suppose so. There's really no rule against a patient seeing his own x-rays. What are you trying to find out?"

Steve ran his eyes over the row of photos and shook his head. "I'm not sure. Just want to see if there's anything different. Everybody seems so sure it was the same person swinging the bat both times."

"And you don't think so."

"I don't know what I think. That's what I'm trying to find out."

Amanda raised her eyebrows and reached for the telephone. She pressed a couple of numbers, then pinned on her professional smile. "Hello, this is Dr. Bentley. Could you send patient Steven M. Sloan's x-rays to room 428? Thank you." She returned the phone crisply to its cradle.

Steve studied her. "You don't think I'm crazy."

Amanda's lips stretched into an affectionate smile. "Steve, I know you're crazy. I've accepted it. I also accept that you will never settle down about this until your curiosity is satisfied."

"Well, thank you. I think." He lined up the blood spatter photos over the autopsy photos. "Now, I think I remember what I have here - these show that the murderer entered from the hall behind the victim."

"That's right - and swung the bat into the back of his skull."

"We won't have the photos from the scene where I was hit until - " he broke off, reaching out to steady himself on the tray table. "Whoa. Guess maybe that's enough of looking at those. I think my eyes are adding some brand new spatters."

Amanda swept up the blood spatter photos and shuffled them into a neat pile. "What did Jesse tell you? These are almost worse than reading." She placed a cool hand against his cheek. "You're clammy. Are you going to be sick?"

Steve leaned back into the pillows and pressed his palms over his face. "No - just - give me a minute - feels - almost like - motion sickness."

"Because the same thing causes it." Amanda wet the washcloth sitting on the night table in water from the bedside pitcher and slid it behind his neck. "Take deep breaths."

Steve complied, and after a minute he dropped his hands. "Better," he admitted. "Okay. So, if - "

"Steve!"

Steve halted in surprise.

Amanda blew out her breath in exasperation. "If you're not feeling well, don't you think you'd better stop for now? I mean, I know it's an extraordinary concept for you, but when people are hospitalized, they're actually just supposed to lie in bed and rest and get better."

"I have been lying in bed," Steve pointed out.

"Then maybe you should try the resting part."

"I have been. I've never slept so much in my life. In fact, I wanted to ask Jesse to lighten up on the meds - I can hardly keep my eyes open."

Amanda folded her arms. "Mm. You'd almost think you were concussed or something."

"I've had concussions before, Amanda."

"Yes, and if you'd ever stayed in bed for one instead of staggering out to ride off on your white horse, you'd find they make you uncommonly sleepy. It's your brain's way of healing."

"Well, I can't sleep all the time. And I was fine with the autopsy photos - it's just the blood spatter ones that got to me…all those little dots. Um…" he gave her a sideways glance. "There were a whole lot of little dots, right?"

"Yes, there were." Amanda's rebuking frown turned to a smile as an orderly poked his head in the open door. She stood to take the grey x-ray envelope from him. "Thanks, Rocky." Her foot kicked something and it skidded across the floor. She looked down and raised her brows. "Lose your TV remote?"

Steve chuckled self-consciously. "Guess I dropped it."

Amanda bent down to pick it up. "Made good distance." She gave him a knowing look as she dropped it on the table and slid the x-rays out of the envelope.

Steve craned his neck to see. "Do they look different from Fuller's?"

"Well, yes, of course they do…" She held one up to the light to see it better. "Fuller suffered skull fracture - a lot of crushed bone pushed into his brain. You don't have any fracture. The placement is different, too."

"What would account for the difference?"

Amanda shrugged, holding up the next x-ray to look. "A number of things. Your height difference, for one thing. Fuller was 5'9 1/2"…" She paused, studying the x-ray more closely.

Steve hid a smile. He always enjoyed Amanda's meticulous attention to detail.

"…and you're, what? 6'2"? 6'3"?"

Steve nodded.

"So, if the killer is between 5'7" and 5'9", you're a much more awkward reach. You're point of impact is also on the side of your head, not the back. From the angle you might even have been turning, or trying to deflect the blow - the damage is significantly less severe. Not that it's not bad enough…this is really ugly, Steve."

"You should feel it."

"I'm sure. All the more reason you should be taking it easy."

"I am. All I'm doing is lying here."

"No, you're lying there trying to work on a case. A closed case. You should be lying there with your eyes shut, dozing. Or zoning in front of some really bad TV." She offered him the remote.

Steve sighed. "I've tried that. Not only am I bored out of my skull, but the case won't leave me alone. Madge Fuller is going to be arraigned any day, Amanda. What if she's innocent?"

Amanda looked at him for a minute, then sat on the bed next to him again. "What makes you think she is?"

Steve grimaced, shook his head at the row of pictures in front of him. "I don't know. That's the problem. I keep thinking that if I look at all the evidence and go over the case it will come back to me, but so far, nothing."

"Steve," Amanda touched his hand. "Is it possible that you're just sort of - well, stuck at the point when you were hit in the head? That you think Madge Fuller is innocent because that's what you thought at that moment, and you're just having trouble moving on because you're missing that chunk of time? Amnesia can be very disconcerting."

"I don't have amnesia," Steve answered automatically, but he was obviously thinking of something else. "At least you didn't ask me if I was tired of my Dad solving my cases."

"Look, Steve, I don't really think that the reason is important. I think that what's important is that you have a lot of competent people making sure this case goes all right, and you have a bad head injury that you really need to take care of."

Steve was quiet a moment. "What if it's something only I know that I've forgotten?"

"You mean if there's anything at all? Then the more you rest and follow doctor's orders, the more likely it is that you'll remember. Honestly, Steve."

Steve sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I guess my head does hurt a little."

"I wouldn't be surprised. And it's almost dinner time. You want to make sure you're feeling well enough to eat."

Steve nodded glumly. "Is my Dad around?"

"I'm sorry. He has a Board Meeting right now. I'm sure he'll be by later."

"Right."

Amanda rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. "I need to get home to the boys. Anything you need before I go?"

"No. Well - " he hesitated.

"Go ahead," Amanda coaxed.

"If you have a couple of minutes, could you read my Dad's statement into the tape recorder for me? I'd like to listen to it."

Now it was Amanda's turn to hesitate. "If I do, will you promise to close your eyes and rest while you listen to it?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine…I just hope my brain doesn't atrophy with all this rest."

Amanda's mouth quirked. "Somehow, I don't think that's going to happen. Why don't you close your eyes while I read it? It will help you concentrate."

Steve rolled his eyes again, but obediently closed them, too. "There. Satisfied?"

"Mm hm." She shuffled through the file for the statement she wanted and thumbed the button on the tape recorder.

"Bet C.J. and Dion don't stand a chance," Steve mumbled.

Amanda smiled smugly and began to read.

*

Steve pressed the button on the small tape recorder and listened dreamily to the faint humming as it rewound, then started up again.

A thin, tinny version of Amanda's voice dribbled from the tiny speaker and he turned slightly toward it, not bothering to open his eyes. "If Mrs. Fuller left the house sometime between 7am and 7:30…" When did Homeroom start again? 7:30 or 8:00? He'd ask Cheryl. She'd know. Had Mrs. Fuller been there for the whole thing? She'd taken attendance - that must mean something…He swallowed a yawn, only half-listening as his thoughts kept pace with Amanda's words. He knew it almost by heart by now anyway. "David Fuller's frequent absences, allegedly for business…" Well, at least SOME had to be for business, it was that kind of job. On the other hand, he wouldn't be the first man to mix business with pleasure…"…consistent with the theory of alienation of affection…" Yeah, maybe - but surely a divorce was an easier means of separation than a baseball bat? Crime of passion, then? And, of course, even the best divorce settlement wasn't as lucrative as an inheritance. Especially if there was a life insurance policy involved. And if some of the money was starting to mysteriously find its way elsewhere… Had there been an insurance policy? He'd ask Cheryl…or his Dad. That was the sort of thing his Dad would never overlook.

He was startled by a familiar touch on his forehead and fought to pry his eyes apart. "Hi. I'm awake."

His father was taking his time easing into focus, but he could hear the smile in his voice. "That's funny. You looked just like somebody asleep."

"Just resting my eyes." He tried to pull himself up into sitting position. "And concentrating."

"So I see."

He ground his fingers into his eyelids to try and clear his vision, saw his father pick up the tape recorder.

"What's this?"

"Your statement. Amanda recorded it for me."

"That's nice." Mark turned it over in his palm. "But I don't think you're going to have to be worrying about any court dates for a while. Trying to catch up?"

"And remember. Put the pieces back together."

Mark nodded, pulling up a chair. "Hear that you and your dinner didn't get along too well."

Steve made a face. "My own fault. Got looking at some blood spatter photos…."

Mark pursed his lips and winced sympathetically. "Oooo…bad idea. All those little dots."

"Tell me about it. Guess I wasn't missing much anyway. Just some dry toast with jelly and applesauce. I'll wait for the real food."

"Well, I'm afraid that until you manage to make peace with a little toast and jelly, there won't be anything more substantial. Are you hungry? Would you like to try something? The kitchen is still open."

"No thanks. My last battle with food is still a little too vivid to make it sound appealing."

"Mm. Nothing worse than vomiting when you have a head injury. Am I keeping you up? Did you want to take a nap?"

"No, I thought I'd take a five or ten minute break between naps, just to see what was going on in the conscious world."

"Well, it really wouldn't have surprised me if you'd slept straight through the first twenty-four hours. Rest is crucial when you have a concussion."

"You sound just like Jesse. And Amanda."

Mark grinned. "Maybe the fact that we're all doctors has something to do with that."

"So I hear. You aren't going to tug on your lab coat now, are you?"

Mark looked perplexed. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Steve shook his head. "Never mind. Dad - " he hesitated. What is my problem? Just ask!

Mark waited. "Son?" he finally rejoined playfully.

Steve shifted uncomfortably. Was he really having trouble questioning his Dad about his conclusions on this case? They always questioned each other! It was just how they worked. He would point out to his Dad what he had overlooked. His Dad would point out to him the holes in his logic. Back and forth, until they had fought their way through the problem. Nobody's feelings ever got hurt - it was just like working on a puzzle together.

He saw his father's eyes resting pleasantly, but questioningly, on him, and felt his color rise. Oh, this was ridiculous! He hadn't felt this self conscious in front of his father since the first time he'd been caught necking with a girl! Just because both Jesse and Cheryl had made the same passing remark…he dropped his eyes to the standard hospital blanket and studied it as though there was something interesting about it.

On the other hand…both Jesse and Cheryl were pretty perceptive. Especially, he admitted reluctantly to himself, when it came to him. Was it possible that they'd noticed something he wasn't even aware of himself? He cleared his throat and shot his Dad an embarrassed look. He felt confused, and obscurely disloyal. Maybe it really was the head injury. At the very least it probably wouldn't hurt to hold off on expressing his doubts until he was more sure of his own motivations.

He noticed his father eyeing him intently and flushed more deeply.

Mark leaned forward to touch his face again. "You know, I don't like your color. Do you have a fever?"

Steve pulled away, feeling foolish. "No, Dad, of course not."

"You feel pretty warm."

Well, his face did feel warm, but that wasn't why! "Was there an insurance policy?" he blurted at last. Mark looked hard at him; that 'I can see right through you and I know that's not what you started to ask' look. Steve dropped his eyes again. "It didn't say anything about one in your statement, and I'm not allowed to read the file. I remember we were still trying to track one down when…" he trailed off, feeling awkward and ridiculous.

Mark looked at him for a moment longer, then seemed to decide to let him off the hook. "Have a little of this," he instructed, handing him a tall plastic cup with a lid. He watched as Steve meekly took an obedient sip from the straw. "Yes, there was one. A big one."

Steve looked curiously at the cup. "This isn't water."

"No, apple juice over ice. It should be easy on your stomach, but give you some nutrients outside of the IV."

"Apple juice?" Steve's face split into a rueful grin. No one could make him feel four years old quite like his father could. He took another sip. Actually, it tasted pretty good. "How much? The policy, I mean?"

"Two million."

Steve choked on the straw. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Plus a $500,000 accidental death and dismemberment rider."

Steve whistled. "Nice take. She take it out? Or him?"

"David Fuller took it out on himself - a lot of traveling businessmen did that after 9/11. Probably wanted to make sure his family wouldn't lose the house and that his son could still go to college if anything happened to him."

Steve lost interest in his apple juice. "Poor kid. Father dead, mother in jail. How do you survive something like that?"

"With a lot of help." Mark eased the plastic cup out of his hand, removed the lid and added more juice from a small bottle on the side table. He handed it back to Steve and waited pointedly.

After a minute, Steve sighed and took another sip. "Any signs of him trying to change the policy at any point? Include a mistress? Change beneficiary? Anything like that?"

"Not so far. Though Cheryl has a few people digging into the financials." Mark picked up the remote from the side table and hit the button. "There's a Pacers game on, you know. Feel like watching? I'll spot you points."

Steve breathed a laugh. "Yeah, okay, I get the message." He relaxed into his pillows. "What about you? Have you had any dinner?"

"Oh, yes. The Board Meeting had it catered in, since it was so late in the day."

"Bet that wasn't applesauce."

Mark patted the lump his knee made under the blanket. "No, but it wasn't hospital food either."

Steve chuckled, trying to pick out the different teams on the screen. "Sure you want to stay? Remember, you're stuck with me all day tomorrow."

Mark cleared his throat, his eyes intent on the screen. "Look at that. Pacers are already up six points!"

Steve turned his head to look at him. "Dad?"

"If you're going to choose your point spread, you'd better do it soon. Or it'll be a foregone conclusion."

"Dad. I am going home tomorrow."

"What? Oh, yeah. Probably. I mean, eventually."

"Eventually. What does that mean exactly? Aren't you taking me home tomorrow morning?"

Mark made a face. "Probably not in the morning." Steve started to protest and he continued, "Well, you didn't keep down your dinner. You lost a lot of blood and Jesse is a little worried about your hydration levels. Doesn't want to remove the IV until he's sure you can keep down two meals in a row."

Steve blew out his breath slowly. "Guess I did that to myself, huh. Breakfast and lunch?"

"If you keep down breakfast and lunch and everything looks all right, he'll probably let you go home."

There was a subdued crowd roar from the set and Steve looked up just in time to see a tall player slam dunk a basket. "Hey! Look at that! How many points you taking?"

Mark squinted at the screen. "I'll take twelve."

"Good. Make mine twenty." He folded his arms across his chest and got comfortable. "Between you and Jesse, at least my hospital stay will be profitable."

?

?

Chapter 6?

?

"Reflexes a little slow, but not bad. Considering." Jesse picked up his ubiquitous flashlight and shone it in first one eye, then the other. "Eyes not all there yet. Better, though. Try and follow my finger." Steve gripped the edge of the mattress in each hand and tried to follow Jesse's finger, struggling to appear patient. "Hm." Jesse dropped his finger and wrote something down. "Any dizziness? How's the nausea? Says here you managed okay with both breakfast and lunch."

"If you can call them that."

"Now, now - if those went all right you can try a little chicken for dinner. And maybe some fruit. Stay away from citrus though for a couple more days - anything acidic. You didn't answer about the dizziness."

"If I move too fast, sometimes."

"Not moving fast should be a priority. How'd the walk go?"

"Let's just say I won't be trying any jogging any time soon." The truth was that a modest stroll down the hospital corridor had left Steve shocked at his skewed sense of balance. He listed badly to one side and had a surprising amount of difficulty maintaining a straight line. By the time he was back in his room, he had been more than happy to crawl back into bed, drained and heavy-headed. "How long will that last?"

"Probably not long. You're already a lot better. You want to keep the physical activity light for at least a week, then we'll take another look. By light I mean no running, no surfing - you can try a gentle beach stroll in a couple of days."

"Are you saying I can go home?"

"As long as Mark can be there for the next couple of days to ride herd on you, yeah."

"I don't need anybody to baby sit me. What is it you think I'm going to do? I can hardly walk upright."

"Hm. Let's see." Jesse perched on the arm of the visitor's chair. "I seem to remember a time when you had a concussion, smoke inhalation and second degree burns on your hands, but none of that stopped you from trying to drive to PCH in the middle of a fire."

"That was because my Dad was in danger. That doesn't count."

"And," Jesse continued unperturbedly, "I also remember a time when you had three broken ribs but you actually pulled the IV out of your arm and got up and got dressed and went out looking for some bad guys."

Steve sighed. "Because Carol was in danger. That doesn't count either - what else was I supposed to do?"

"And," Jesse continued, "I remember a time you ripped out your nasal canula, ripped off your blood pressure cuff AND removed your IV to throw yourself on top of a murderer. Didn't do your damaged spleen any good, as I recall." He held up his hands as Steve opened his mouth to protest. "I know. You did that to save me and, believe me, I'm not saying that I don't appreciate it. But I could go on. So what I am saying is that you're a good cop, Steve. And a good son and brother and friend. But you're a lousy patient. You seem to think that you can just sort of shove your body's needs aside until it's more convenient, and someday you're gonna do yourself some real harm that way. So I am gonna send you home, but I've got a nice, long list of instructions for you. Starting with 'no rescues'."

"Well, luckily, nobody needs my rescuing."

"Yeah, you say that now. I mean it. No adventures. No derring-do. A little sedate progress between the bed and the sofa - maybe a nice relaxing doze on the deck - lots of naps, regular but bland meals. I'll be by tonight to check on you."

Steve snorted. "To eat dinner, you mean."

Jesse beamed his biggest smile. "If that's an invitation, I accept. I'll even bring the beer."

Steve grinned a little. "Now you're just being cruel. You know I can't drink yet."

"I'll find something nice and non-alcoholic for you."

Steve groaned. "I can hardly wait."

Jesse pushed to his feet and gave Steve's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "I'll send a nurse in to help you dress."

"I don't suppose Mike is on duty?"

"I can check, but uh - " Jesse paused with his hand on the door. "Some of the female nurses are going to be mighty disappointed." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Steve looked around for something to throw, but Jesse was too quick for him. He watched the door swing shut and eased himself back on the bed to wait for a nurse - with any luck, a male one. He picked up the TV remote to help pass the time and flicked rapidly through the channels. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing…boy, would he ever be glad to get back to his Pay Per View. He picked up the tape recorder instead and pressed "play".

??????????????? His father had patiently recorded a lot of Amanda's autopsy notes for him after the game last night. He must have drifted off about halfway through himself, but he had found the tape recorder all cued up and a brief recorded greeting from his father when he woke up this morning. He smiled as he listened. His Dad. One in a million. Though it was kind of funny to hear the autopsy report in his voice and his statement in Amanda's voice.

??????????????? He yawned. Nope, none of that - no more sleeping. He was bored, that was the problem. Once he was home and had something to do he'd stop falling asleep all the time. He turned the tape recorder up a little louder. His father's pleasantly bright voice, warm even on the little tape, sounded incongruous reciting the gruesome details of the autopsy. He closed his eyes tight to listen.

He should have just told his father he didn't think Madge Fuller was the killer. What was he thinking? Maybe Dad could have helped him to work out whatever was bothering him - helped him come to some conclusion on the case.

On the other hand, his dad had already come to a conclusion on the case - one that had resulted in a full confession. So no doubt he'd just start making noises about Steve's head injury and how it might be affecting his judgment. Or worse, he'd think what everybody else seemed to be thinking and worry that Steve just plain didn't want him working on his cases any more - that he was in the way. Which, to be honest, he was sometimes, but...well, it wouldn't be quite the same without him underfoot, with his offbeat and uncanny way of looking at things.

Worse still, he might think he had compromised his son's considerable pride. Which he hadn't. Had he? Somewhere deep, deep down inside, did he secretly wish his father would just back off and let him do his job? He grimaced. Sometimes, maybe. Certainly every time he found his father in danger he deeply wished he'd just take himself back to the safety of the hospital. And the other times…?

He sighed and reached up to rub at his forehead. Damn. He really wasn't sure. And this was making his head ache. Maybe he should just take everybody's advice and drop the whole thing. Spend the next few days lounging on the sofa, watching sports and drinking a cold…he grinned to himself. Well, if his dad had his way, a cold apple juice.

The grin faded into a frown. But whenever he thought of Madge Fuller in prison, some kind of alarm bell went off in his head - much too loud to ignore. He cupped a hand over his eyes and tried hard to think back to that day, to what had happened. He remembered breakfast. Then what? He sort of remembered leaving for the station, not clearly, but he did that by rote anyway, he might not be able to remember that clearly on any given day. He must have gotten coffee, talked to Cheryl. About the case, probably. Could he remember anything specific at all - the shirt he had been wearing, snatches of chit chat, their plan of action for questioning Mrs. Fuller? He clenched his eyes even tighter shut and concentrated until his temples throbbed. Nothing. Not even a wisp of a memory.

"Lt. Sloan?" The light touch on his shoulder broke his concentration and actually made him jump. "Dr. Travis said you needed some help dressing?"

He blinked his eyes open. Oh, great, Jesse - did you have to send the youngest nurse on the floor? I bet I've got shoes older than this kid! He tried to smile. "Hi. Um - just need help getting this top off over my head. I think I can manage the rest myself."

He levered himself carefully into sitting position, taking it slow like Jesse had instructed, careful not to lean forward. If he were to overbalance himself this time it didn't look as though this twig of a girl would be able to stop his downward drop to the floor. The room bounced once or twice, but then settled. Better. He really must be improving.

"All right. Are you able to put your arms up?"

Steve tentatively raised his arms, swallowing a covert smile. He couldn't decide whether he felt more like a toddler or one of his own perps. The nurse's efficient, clinical attention relaxed him some, and she slipped the sleeveless top over his head without dislodging the bandage or causing any undue pain. "Thanks," his smile was his genuine one this time. "I'm still having some balance problems - don't think I could have managed on my own."

"Well, there's no need for you to," she answered brightly, reaching for the shirt sitting neatly folded on a nearby chair, on top of the stack of clothes his father had brought him. She shook the shirt out and unbuttoned the buttons.

"I can do that myself," Steve protested. "It's just the over the head that I couldn't…"

"Don't be silly," she was already maneuvering one sleeve over his left arm and arranging the fabric so that he could easily slip his right into the other sleeve. "That's what I'm here for."

"I can get the buttons - really." Steve tried to take over buttoning the shirt, but she was determinedly and expertly fastening them as though she didn't hear him.

"Now, we can't have your father thinking that we didn't take proper care of you, can we?"

"I - don't think he could ever get that impression," Steve murmured, a little dazzled by the speed with which she had managed the task.

"Oh, do you watch this too? I just love it!"

"What's that?" Steve glanced up from his study of his miraculously buttoned buttons, followed her eyes to the television set. Had he left that on? This concussion sure was making him forgetful. He tried to focus on the pictures on the set. 'Perhaps I will remember in time…' Oh, God. Not this again. "Oh. No, I - "

The little nurse seemed to lose some of her brisk efficiency and become more natural and girlish. "It's so sad, isn't it? I mean, he loves her so much, and she can't remember any of it."

"Yeah, that's got to be inconvenient all right," Steve agreed dryly.

"Their whole life together - like it never happened."

"Imagine." Steve tried not to sound sarcastic.

The nurse stared raptly at the set. "I think she'll remember in time though, don't you? I mean, they've tried everything to help her."

"I sure hope so." Steve was trying to catch a glimpse of the hallway, wondering what could be keeping his dad, but that suddenly pulled him up short. "Like what?"

"Hm?" The nurse dragged her eyes from the set as though she'd almost forgotten him, smiled, her expression a little embarrassed.

"Like what? You said they'd tried…"

"Oh!" She brightened eagerly. "Well, like hypnosis. They've had some luck with that, but not much."

??????????????? Hypnosis, huh? Probably he couldn't focus well enough for that right now…

"And taking her to places that might jog her memory - that part was so romantic. He took her to the place where they first made love and he cried…"

Steve stared thoughtfully at her. Now that was an idea. Maybe if he could go back to the Fullers…maybe his Dad would take him. Or Cheryl. He made a face, just imagining their reaction to that request. Okay, not today, of course, but maybe tomorrow? He couldn't believe he was thinking of borrowing solutions from a soap opera, but on the other hand, Jesse HAD said that television doctors got their information from real sources…and nothing else seemed to be helping.

A noise from the corridor made the nurse jump and she looked around guiltily. "I'm sorry - I should be helping you dress." She picked up his jeans from the chair and shook them out. "Do you want help pulling off your sweat pants?"

Steve stared at her. "No," he said definitively. "Thank you."

"I think I'd better. You shouldn't be bending over."

Steve bared his teeth in a smile. "I don't need any help with that. Really. Thanks for everything."

The nurse hovered dubiously. "But Lt. Sloan, if you're checking out…"

Steve instinctively inched back as she moved toward him. "I've - decided to wear my sweat pants home." His smile grew more fixed and determined. "Much more comfortable. Thanks anyway."

"That's all right, Kayley. I'll take care of anything he needs."

Steve barely suppressed a gasp of relief at the sound of his father's voice.

Nurse Kayley looked flustered. "Oh! Dr. Sloan! I was just - I was trying - "

"To help me change. You did a great job. Thanks." Steve gave her a reassuring smile and she smiled back tentatively, relieved.

Mark's eyes held a subdued twinkle as he entered, pushing an empty wheelchair. "You can get back to work, Kayley. I can handle things here."

"Of course." The efficient nurse demeanor returned. "I hope you're feeling better, Lt. Sloan."

Steve nodded politely as she bustled her way out the door. He gave his father a speaking look.

Mark chuckled. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long. What was that all about?"

"Nothing. I'm just not prepared to have some eighteen year old pull my pants on and off for me."

"Oh. Well. She is a professional, son. And Kayley is an LPN - she has to be at least twenty."

"Oh, that makes it much better. Can we get out of here while I still have a few shreds of dignity intact?"

"Certainly." Mark steered the wheel chair next to the bed and glanced at the jeans laid out on the chair. "Uh - would you like some help with those?"

"No. I think I will stay in my sweats."

"It's not like you have anything I haven't seen before. I did change your diapers."

"Don't push, Dad. Um…"

Mark was tucking the tape recorder into Steve's overnight bag and checking for any other personal items. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Steve colored. "You, um - haven't seen my shoes anywhere around here, have you?"

"I put them right over here. I have socks for you, too, and a jacket. It's chilly out there today."

Steve watched him unroll a pair of socks and bend down to tug them up and over first one long, lean foot, then the other. "I can't believe I can't put on my own socks."

Mark smiled faintly. "You're mother used to say the same thing in about her eighth month of carrying you." Steve's expression softened, and Mark fitted a shoe neatly over each of his feet. "Now, jacket - " Mark lifted the jacket from the back of the chair with a flourish and held it out for him.

"Dad, I really think I can put on a jacket without help." Mark obediently let go of the jacket and watched without comment as he carefully shrugged his way into it. "Am I all checked out?"

"All set. I have the car pulled up right out front. Just board your chariot and we can go."

Steve nodded cautiously, carefully climbing onto his feet and standing for a minute to get his balance. He grabbed the far arm of the wheelchair and sat down with a graceless bump that sent a spike of pain up his spine and into his aching head, but he was smiling anyway. A little bit of independence. Not much, but it was a beginning. He almost started an automatic protest about the wheelchair, but stopped in time. To be honest, he'd never make it the length of the corridor, into the elevator and out of the exit, all without falling on his face. In fact, he was kind of regretting that the wheelchair didn't have a headrest.

Almost as if his father had read his mind, he felt a strong hand pat his shoulder. "Ready? Home?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Home."

*

"Steve. Steve, wake up, son." Morning? Already? "Steve. We're home. Let's go inside. You can sleep in there."

He turned his head toward the voice. The air felt fresh and soft against his face. "'Kay."

There was a pause, then the gentle, insistent shaking at his shoulder continued, a little more forcefully. "Steve."

He took a deep breath and tried to open his eyes. Mm. Nice.

He must have said it aloud, because the voice that went with the shaking asked, "What's that?"

"Ocean." He breathed deeply again. "Smells nice. Sounds nice, too."

Another pause. "You know, you can hear it even better from inside. Why don't you stand up and we'll go in there?"

He wasn't standing up? Guess not. No, he did still seem to be sitting. "'Kay." He felt hands fussing with his seatbelt, turning his legs so that the soles of his loafers slapped against the pavement. An arm snaked around his back, a shoulder nudged its way under his arm.

"You know, son, you're well past the size where I can carry you in by myself. You really need to help me here."

"Sorry." He tried to push his way to his feet, felt a hasty hand on his head, cushioning and guiding.

"Careful, careful - you, uh, really don't need to knock that on the car. That's better. All right?"

"Yeah." He managed to unglue his eyelids, blinking about. He was really standing up now, realized he was leaning very heavily on his father and tried to shift to take more of his own weight, swayed.

"Easy." A hand on his chest steadied him. "Just a short walk now. Think you can make it?"

"Yeah." He took another deep breath of the ocean air. It cleared his head a little. "I fell asleep again, huh? What has Jesse got me on?"

The arm around his back gently nudged him into forward motion. "Since the last twenty-four hours, nothing stronger than acetaminophen, I'm afraid."

He let the term sift through his brain, mindlessly lifting his foot to accommodate a stair in response to his father's cues. "Tylenol???"

"Well, prescription strength, but essentially, yes. We like to keep medication to a minimum with a head injury like yours." He was jarred as the stairs unexpectedly ended and his foot landed hard. He let out a soft hiss of pain before he could stop himself, felt himself positioned carefully with a solid surface at his back. "We'll have you inside and in bed in just a minute."

"'Sokay. 'M waking up now…can't wait to feel m' own bed again, though."

There was a brief silence under the sound of the door opening, an arm, gentle but firm, ushered him forward. "You know, I've always considered the guest room bed to have the most comfortable mattress in the house?"

Even in his wavering haze he recognized that overly genial tone in his father's voice. He half-opened his eyes to try to study the guileless face, groaning in disappointment. "Not even my own bed?" he queried plaintively.

"Now, son - step up here - you wouldn't want your old man running up and down those stairs every time you needed something, would you?"

Steve braced himself against the wall with one hand, a smile creasing his cheeks in spite of himself. "Gotta hand it to you. You're good. Guest room then. I'm okay now. I can manage. Just sleep so…hard…"

"Uh-huh. You're doing great. Give me a second - okay, why don't you have a seat right here?"

"Maybe…just for a second…" He felt the gentle give of a mattress underneath him, one with crisp, fresh sheets that didn't smell of antiseptic. Without thinking, he slid forward and buried his face in the pillow.

"Steve? Wouldn't you be more comfortable on your back?" Wasn't he on his back? Listen to that ocean…"Steve…?" He sensed the shoes being yanked from his feet, felt the cozy weight of a comforter around his shoulders. It was so quiet. Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a minute - just to think about the case. It took him a bit to realize that his eyes weren't open anyway. He felt someone pat him lightly in the middle of his back, then someone lifted his hand - it must have been dangling off the bed - and tucked it under the covers, too.

"Thanks," he muttered into the pillow. "I'm gonna get up in just a minute…"

"That's right…" his father's voice sounded both soothing and amused.

"I am," he insisted muzzily. "I just need to…I just…" His dad must have cracked the window, because the sound of the ocean grew more pronounced and a fresh sea breeze wafted in. He sighed deeply. Better than a lullaby. "I'm…" He turned his head a little on the pillow. "…glad I'm…home…"

The steady roar of the ocean was rocking him gently now, but he thought a hand rested on the back of his neck for a moment and someone breathed, barely audibly, "Me too, son. Me too."

?

?

Chapter 7

?

It was his own gasp that woke him this time. He lay tense and poised for a moment, trying to orient himself, noticed he had one hand raised as if to ward something off, let it drop to his chest. The line between the world he had just come from and the one that he suddenly found himself in was so fractured that he couldn't quite get his bearings and he took a deep breath, trying to settle the heart that was knocking violently against his chest wall as though trying to burst free. A dream? God. It had seemed so real.

The heartbeat thundered in his ears, throbbing in time with the wound on his scalp. He pressed his hands over his face, trying to focus himself, found the skin there chill with a thin film of sweat. Surprised, he let his hands fall to his sides, realized that his top was soaked through, too. That must have been some dream. Be nice if he could remember what it was about. Or…maybe not.

His breathing a little more normal, he pushed himself carefully into sitting position and let his legs dangle over the side of the bed, waiting for the familiar vertigo to pass, blotting his face with the damp tail of his shirt. His stomach turned within him and he groaned aloud, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. No, no - not that again. He thought he was past that. Teetering carefully onto his feet, he made his way to the bathroom, tilting along his angled trajectory, leading with one arm so he could carom off the walls and furniture whose proximity he misjudged with minimal damage. When he reached the bathroom door he paused to catch his breath, resting his head against the lintel for a moment.

Interesting route, Sloan. Would almost be funny, if I didn't feel so rotten.

Using the wall as a guide, he staggered into the bathroom and twisted the cold water faucet to "on", clinging to the edge of the sink while the water got cold. He let go with one hand to splash water onto his face. It felt heavenly. After a minute his stomach subsided and he fumbled for a towel. Daringly, he let go of the sink with his other hand and rubbed the towel over his face, exhaling carefully. Yeah. Better.

He lowered the towel, caught an unexpected glimpse of himself in the mirror. He paused. Ouch. Well, that explained why everybody was hovering. He'd zipped body bags around cadavers who looked better than he did. He fingered the bruising under the eye on the same side as the head wound. Well. Could be worse. At least it wasn't swollen shut. Funny how a man with a tan could be so pale.

He realized he was shivering and fumbled to unbutton his damp shirt. It proved surprisingly difficult. Where was Nurse Kayley when you needed her? He felt a couple of buttons give way, heard them bounce off the tile floor with a soft click. Swearing under his breath, he shook the shirt from his arms and let it fall to the floor. Well, he'd never liked that shirt much anyway.

Feeling a little steadier on his feet, he retraced his reeling route back to the bed. Sinking down onto the edge, he rested for a minute. Yeah, okay, for a man who was an athlete it was pretty pathetic, but it was the best he'd done so far. And he was damned if he was going back to sleep.

He noticed his robe lain carefully across the foot of the bed and smiled. Dad must have fetched it for him. There was also a pair of slippers placed carefully at the side of the bed - the kind he could shuffle into without bending over. He breathed a laugh. God bless Dad.

*

Mark glanced up at the ghostly figure that lurched its way into the kitchen. "Steve!" he protested, rising to help him, then hesitating as Steve held up a hand to show he was all right. "What are you doing up? I could have brought you anything you need."

Steve seated himself somewhat heavily on one of the kitchen stools, pausing to catch his breath. "I wanted to move around a little."

Mark waffled, torn. "Can I - get you anything?"

"Coffee would be great."

Mark made a face. "Coffee…might be a little hard on your stomach still. How about a nice cup of peppermint tea?"

"Sure. Thanks." Steve's eyes drifted to the panoramic view of the ocean through the large plate glass windows and he smiled faintly. "I forgot to tell you - Jesse's coming to dinner."

"I know. He told me when he called to see how you'd settled in."

"Should've known."

"Jesse is a very responsible doctor - he's just doing his job. I thought you'd sleep longer." Steve glanced at him, glanced quickly away. Mark furrowed his brows. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just - " Steve shrugged apologetically. "Bad dream."

Mark turned the burner on under the teakettle and rummaged in the cupboard for cups, watching Steve's face without seeming to. "What about?"

Steve's mouth twisted into a rueful smile. "Don't remember." He shrugged again, trying to smile more lightly. "At least I'm consistent."

Mark shot him a commiserative look. "You don't remember any of it?"

Steve let his eyes drift back to the window. "Kind of - had my hand up when I woke up. Like I was - stopping something." He watched the steady roll of the surf. "You know, Amanda said the way I was hit - that maybe I'd warded it off." He looked thoughtfully at his palms, but they were unmarked and unbruised.

"Lucky thing. I don't want to think about what would have happened if you hadn't. " Mark turned off the heat under the whistling kettle, poured a stream of steaming water into a teapot. "So even though you don't remember, you think it may have been a memory dream?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Would like to think I'm starting to remember something. I don't suppose you'd like to take me to Fullers'? That might jog something loose."

Mark looked hard at him. "I hope you don't mean today."

"No, no," Steve held up his hands placatingly, then smiled innocently. "How about tomorrow?"

"We'll talk about THAT tomorrow." Mark checked the tea, then tipped the teapot over a tall mug. "When we see how you're feeling. It's still a crime scene, you know. Are you supposed to be near it?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "This, from you. And it's my case."

Mark set the mug down in front of him. "That didn't change when you went from investigating officer to assault victim?"

Steve winced. "Not - technically. Cheryl's bringing by some information for me."

Mark frowned. "Today? Steve, don't you think you're overdoing it a little for your first day out of the hospital?"

"Could be tomorrow. Depends on when the reports are ready." Mark just looked at him and he picked up the mug and sipped to avoid his gaze. "Good tea. Thanks."

Mark continued to study at him for a minute, then went to the counter and came back, twisting the lid from a prescription bottle. He shook two pills into his palm and placed them wordlessly in front of Steve. Steve eyed them resignedly, then tossed them back quickly, following them with a swallow of tea. He looked up at Mark and smiled a tentative, hopeful smile.

Mark's expression softened in spite of himself. "We'll see what your doctor has to say about it."

Steve dropped his head with a dispirited groan. "Dad, you know how he is!"

Mark replaced the prescription bottle and poured some tea for himself. "He's your doctor, son. He's in charge of your health, not me. What he says, goes."

"Great." Steve took another sip of tea. "I'll probably be in bed for the rest of my life."

"Not the rest of your life. Just until you're well."

"Close enough."

Mark couldn't quite suppress a smile. "Why don't you take that in the other room and stretch out on the couch? You could watch a little TV."

"You mean fall asleep again."

"That wouldn't be a bad idea either."

Steve used the counter to help ease himself to his feet. "It can't be healthy to sleep this much. If there's nothing narcotic in that medicine, why I am I so groggy?"

"You underestimate how much work your brain has to do every second - blinking your eyes, translating what you see and hear, telling your body how to move, processing information - right now all that's a lot harder for it and so it tires out quickly - wants to take a little break."

Steve trailed his arm along the counter for balance. "Well, I'm not seeing or hearing much these days and I'm sure not moving around, so I don't know what it's making such a fuss about." He reached for his tea, but Mark intercepted it.

"Why don't I carry that? Don't want you to spill and burn yourself."

Steve nodded resignedly.

Mark watched his laborious progress, fighting the urge to offer assistance. Finally he burst out, "Are you sure I can't…?" Steve lifted his hand to decline help. Mark bit his bottom lip. "Well, as long as you're - sure…" He picked up the mug of tea and followed, just far enough behind to look casual, but close enough to intercept any stumbles. Well, or cushion the fall anyway. Steve was a little big for him to catch with any grace.

Steve reached the couch and grabbed the back to lower himself carefully onto the cushions. He glanced up to see his father right behind him and his mouth quirked into a knowing, affectionate smile. "Safe landing," he pointed out dryly.

Mark opened his eyes artlessly. "I was just bringing your tea."

"Mm." Steve nodded, his eyes twinkling faintly. "Thanks."

Mark placed the tea within easy reach. "Would you like an afghan?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine."

"Really? You know, it's a little chilly in here now that the sun's going down."

"Dad - " Steve ran a hand over his face. "If I take an afghan, will it get you out of Florence Nightingale mode and back to the kitchen?"

Mark considered, then smiled confidingly. "You know, I think it might?"

Steve nodded. "I'll take an afghan."

Mark picked up an afghan from a nearby chair and started to shake it out.

Steve reached out and took it unceremoniously from his hands. "I've got it - thanks."

"I'll get you the remote."

"I think I have enough remaining strength to lift the remote for myself, thanks."

Mark lingered. "Well. If you're sure."

"I'm sure. I'm just going to lie here on the couch and watch television and go into delicate decline, like Beth in Little Women."

"I think that sounds like a good, safe plan." Mark patted his shoulder lightly. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. You sure I can't fix that afghan - ?"

"Dad!"

"Right. I'll - " he gestured vaguely. " - the kitchen."

Steve watched him go, a bubble of silent laughter in his chest, torn between amusement and exasperation. He watched until Mark was safely out of the room, then threw the afghan to the foot of the couch and reached for the remote.

?

?

Chapter 8

?

"Don't get up! Just us!" Jesse's voice caroled through the living room in accompaniment to the sound of the front door opening and closing. "And we brought snacks!"

Steve opened his eyes and thumbed the mute button on the television remote, pushing himself into a more erect, decorous sitting position. "As long as you didn't bring that little flashlight," he called back.

Jesse topped the stairs with a bounce to enter the living room. "Not me - it's my night off. We didn't wake you up, did we?"

"I wasn't asleep. Just semi-comatose with inactivity."

"That's what I like to hear. I'll just drop these in the kitchen…"

Steve straightened his robe and pulled the belt tight at the sight of the figure shadowing Jesse. "I didn't know you were coming, Amanda."

Amanda paused to hang up her jacket, then came over to the couch to drop a light kiss on his cheek. "Well, the boys are camping with Colin and I figured it was an opportunity for a meal other than Lean Cuisine. Don't get up. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I - "

Amanda spotted the afghan and lifted it from the end of the couch and shook it out briskly. "You look a little better." She spread the afghan expertly over his legs and tucked it around him.

Steve stared at it, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it firmly and summoned a smile. "Uh - thanks."

"Well, it gets chilly in here once the sun goes down."

"So I'm told."

"You just relax and I'll help Mark in the kitchen. MARK…?"

Steve winced a little at her raised voice, watched her disappear into the kitchen, then let his head fall back against the sofa and closed his eyes.

"Hey!" Jesse's voice sounded in his ear almost immediately and the couch cushions sank and shifted.

Steve pushed his lids back open and struggled back into a more upright position.

"Whatter you watching?"

"News."

Jesse made himself comfortable on the couch, settled a bowl of taco chips in his lap and helped himself to a handful, deftly knocking Steve's hand away. "Nope - you're not ready for that yet. Too much grease. But don't worry, I didn't forget you…" He proffered a square, wax paper wrapped tube.

Steve took it from him, eyed it warily, peeled open the top and peeked in. "Saltines," he observed, without enthusiasm.

"Yup. Salt's something you could really use. Eat up."

"Gee, thanks." Steve coaxed a cracker out of the tube and bit it experimentally, shrugged. Better than nothing.

"Mmph - " Jesse swallowed a mouthful of chips, jumping up again. "Almost forgot our drinks! Hang on - "

Steve watched as he vanished around the corner into the kitchen again, feeling slightly dazed. Why is it he had never noticed before how quickly Jesse moved? Well, he probably had to, to be an emergency room doctor. He closed his eyes again and hit the mute button to restore sound to the news.

"Here we go."

The cushions next to him shifted again and he blinked his eyes back open. Jesse was proudly offering him a large wine goblet. He had another clasped in his other hand.

"What is it?" Steve reached to take it from him. "I'm guessing not wine."

"Well, mine is. Yours is grape juice. Lotsa sugar. Do you good."

Steve swallowed a mouthful, choked and made a face. "Wow, Jesse - that's really sweet."

"Yeah, that's the point. You wanna go a little easy on it, though - can give you a heck of a purple mustache. I brought vids, too, for when the news is over."

Steve eyed his glass. "Add a little ginger ale and you'd have that play wine my mom used to give Carol and me on special occasions. Whatja bring?"

Well…" Jesse emptied a bag on the couch between them. "Moulin Rouge. Lethal Weapon 2. The Natural. Something for everybody."

Steve bit another saltine. "Amanda's never gonna sit through Lethal Weapon 2."

"I know. I got it before I knew she was coming. Still…" Jesse's eyes drifted hopefully to the TV screen. "We could probably fast forward and watch some of the good parts before she gets out here and requests something a little more artistic. If you're done with the news."

"Be my guest." Steve handed over the remote. "Local news is over anyway. I was only watching to see if they mentioned the Fuller case. Guess Madge Fuller is being arraigned tomorrow." He watched Jesse set up the necessary channels and insert the video. "Cheryl promised she'd stop by and fill me in when it was over." When Jesse didn't comment he continued casually, "Thought maybe we could swing by the crime scene afterward - see if it triggers any memories."

Jesse's focus was on the tape and he didn't glance up, but if Steve thought he wasn't paying attention, he was disappointed. "Tomorrow? You? No way."

Steve took another sip of grape juice, grimaced and set it aside. "I'm not talking about walking there, Jess - just a short little car ride, a few minutes at the crime scene - "

Jesse snorted a laugh. "Yeah, when have you ever spent only a few minutes at a crime scene? And a car ride is more wearing than you think. How did you feel after your car ride today?"

Steve hesitated. "Um - a little…tired," he admitted carefully.

Jesse reseated himself on the couch next to him, grabbed a fistful of chips, and started the tape rolling. "A little tired, huh? I hear you were zonked."

Steve sighed through his nose. "Is that the official medical term?"

Jesse grinned. "No, the official medical term is 'wiped out'. We also like to say 'wasted'. Want me to fast forward to the scene with the car crash and the surfboard?"

Steve fumbled for another saltine and nodded. "Sounds great." They watched the blurred images flash by. "What if I stayed in bed all morning, didn't move off the couch when Cheryl got here, and then went to Fullers?"

"Was expecting you to do that anyway. Sorry - too early for a road trip, first day out."

"I thought today was my first day out."

"First full day. You've only actually been out of the hospital a few hours - wait, wait - I love this part - " Jesse punched the play button and they gave the screen their mutual rapt attention. Jesse sighed as the scene ended and hit the fast forward button again. "What is it about a woman with an accent anyway?"

"I don't know, but there sure is something."

Jesse downed a mouthful of wine. "Hey, maybe it works the other way round, too. Maybe we should try developing accents." He cleared his throat. "Bonjour, mademoiselle, je m'appelle Jesse…"

One corner of Steve's mouth curled up. "You sound like Pepe Le Pu."

"Very funny. So maybe French isn't my language, but I still think it's a good idea. Attract a whole new class of women."

"Or, in my case, a whole new class of psychos. No thanks. Hold on - I think you passed it. Back the tape up."

Jesse freed his hands by shoving chips in his mouth and scrabbled for the remote. "How's the vision?" he managed off-handedly around the chips.

Steve shrugged. "Better." And, when Jesse glanced at him shrewdly, "…most of the time. Things still sort of become duplicate now and then."

"When you're tired?"

"I guess. Wait - I think that's it."

Jesse hit 'play' to have a look. "Naw - this is a good scene, though. Love it when the whole cantilever of the house goes down. Let's watch." They fixed their eyes on the screen again as Mel Gibson rammed the tower of glass and steel and it collapsed slowly into the sand and sea. Jesse cackled in admiration. "Wow."

"Yeah." Steve absently dunked a saltine in his grape juice. "Too bad real cops can't get away with that. That'd be coming out of my salary for the rest of my life."

"I know what you mean," Jesse cued up the tape to watch the collapse one more time, this time in slow motion. "Can never figure out how television doctors can even get anyone to give them malpractice coverage with some of the things they do. Okay - car crash/surfboard scene, coming right up…"

Steve stared at the pictures whizzing past without really seeing. "How about the next day?"

"Hm?" Jesse stopped the tape to check, backed up a little more. "How about what? Oh…" He chewed a chip and shrugged. "Maybe. Tell you what - " he stopped the tape again. "You do everything you're supposed to tomorrow, and the next day I'll stop by and check you out after my shift. If everything looks okay, I'll take you myself."

Steve's forehead creased. "You don't have to do that. Not right after you work a shift."

"Not a problem. And that way I can make sure that 'a few minutes at the crime scene' doesn't turn into 'two hours crawling around on the floor, looking for latent clues'."

Steve gave him a look. "I'm only going to see if I can remember anything."

"Yeah. Tell it to somebody who doesn't know you. Okay - " he thumbed the play button. "Here we go."

"Back it up a little more, I don't wanna miss the set up."

Jesse adjusted the tape and leaned back to enjoy it.

"Hey, Jess?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

Jesse grinned. They were silent with anticipation as the vehicles neared each other, then collided, setting off a chain reaction. When the surfboard flew from the roof of one vehicle through the windshield of the other and decapitated the driver, Jesse and Steve whooped in unison.

"Wow," Jesse hit the rewind button to watch again. "Amazing. How can she say this isn't artistic?"

"Beats me." Steve bit a saltine in two. "Women."

?

*

"…out. Need help…him to bed?"

"No, no. We did fine earl…"

It was like being underwater - swimming and coming up intermittently for air, alternating between a shushing, roaring in his ears and scrambled bits of broken sound, the world rushing in and out of reach.

"…tomorrow…?"

"…check in. I think…afternoon…"

He shifted his head some, trying to get more comfortable, trying to latch onto one reality or the other. A soft, pliable surface pushed against his cheek, sticking a little.

"…couch?"

"…no…not…really rest…"

He sighed inwardly, trying to block out the chatter that refused to coalesce into real sentences. It retreated to a steady rumble, punctuated with faint splashing and clinking. Better.

"You ready?" Cheryl? What are you doing here? Cheryl didn't answer though; in fact, she didn't even seem to hear his question.

"Yeah, I'm with you." Him? He was watching himself? Oh…dream, probably. He relaxed. He looked better in his dream, actually. Could walk a straight line and everything. Might as well enjoy it while he could.

A louder clatter of china made him jump and the buzz of indistinct voices returned. He groaned and tried to push himself fully upright. He should get up and…

"So, how you wanna do this?" Cheryl back? That was nice. Though it seemed funny for her to be here so late at night…was it late?…no, no, wait…dreaming. He had been dreaming. She was…

"Why don't I go in and you cover the back?" Funny. To see himself looking so…normal. Not at all like his glimpse in the mirror today.

"Mm. Think she'll talk to you?" Cheryl. Ever the skeptic.

"It's just a few, routine questions. I just don't want her to bolt."

"If it's so routine, why you think she's gonna bolt?"

"Just following procedure."

"Sudden stickler, aren't you? That why your entourage is waiting in the car?"

"Never mind. Let's just do this, shall we?"

A persistent, nagging ache threaded through his shoulder, drawing his attention, and he tried to twist and take the pressure off it. His arm had gone numb, though, and it took a moment of struggle before he could slide onto his back and relieve the cramp. He caught his breath at the awkward jarring, lay for a moment, breathing carefully. Awake. He should get up…his hand skidded along leather and he belatedly labeled it "couch" in his mind. Get up and go to bed…no point in sleeping out here…He realized after a minute, though, that he was still lying there, immobile; swallowed, trying to take an interest in sitting up. Maybe sleeping here wouldn't be so bad…no, no, he had to…he turned his head into the cushion, felt the darkness behind his eyelids deepen.

"Lt. Sloan?"

Madge Fuller? Madge Fuller hadn't been arraigned yet, so how…? What would she being doing in his father's living room anyway? She looked so natural, though, sitting comfortably on the arm of the sofa, looking down at him. Had he offered her anything? He should offer her something to drink, or…

"You know the truth, Lt. Sloan."

He felt his heart begin a slow, steady thunder in his chest. He opened his mouth to ask her something, but the words log-jammed in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry.

Her gaze grew more intent. "You know the truth. You know you do. Only you, Lt. Sloan." She leaned far over, looking directly into his eyes now. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The truth," she hissed. "Only you…"

"…drive safe. It's late, you know."

He swallowed his breath in a rush at the different, louder voice suddenly so close by.

"Yeah - my shift's not till eleven. I can sleep late."

"Well, good. Thanks for the help with the dishes…"

He lay very still and quiet, his eyes shut tight, ran one hand down the sofa, then wrapped it around the cushion and held on with all his might, as if that would give him a solid grip on this world.

The voices grew a little more distant, a door opened and closed; he heard his father's familiar tread on the stairs. Carefully, sipping in long, shallow breaths, he pulled himself into sitting position. He gave an involuntary glance at the far arm of the couch, shivered. Nobody there.

Of course there was nobody there, he scolded himself. You're being ridiculous. He let his face rest in his hands for a minute, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his palms. Damn. That was…damn.

"You're awake." The suddenness of his father's voice made his heart skitter around inside his chest once more.

"Yeah," he agreed faintly.

He heard, rather than saw, his father approach. "Jesse and I didn't wake you, did we? You were sleeping so soundly, we forgot to be quiet."

"…no…"He could actually feel the slight shift in his father's demeanor, even without looking - the gaze narrowing keenly to get a better glimpse of him in the darkened room, the relaxed posture stiffening into a professional pose - and he struggled to sound more casual. "I didn't say goodbye to Amanda or Jesse, huh? Some party pooper." He sensed the posture relax again.

"No, but I don't think either of them took it personally. Need a hand getting to bed?"

Quickly, "No. I'm fine." Nice, Steve. That sounded real convincing. He could sense the return of that stiffer posture, of the poised alertness under the veneer of casualness, and tried to sound more natural. "I'm going right now." Standing up, of course, would make that claim a lot more believable…he grimaced. "You don't have to wait for me, Dad - I can tuck myself in."

"Well, why don't I walk you there - just to be companionable?"

Yeah. He should have known that wasn't going to work. He sighed resignedly, using the back of the couch to push himself painfully to his feet. "Sure."

His father slung a careless arm over his shoulders, but Steve knew the real intention was to help steady him. They had only gone a few steps before Mark paused, turning to look at him more closely. "You're shivering."

"A little. You know how it is when you first wake up."

Mark didn't budge. Steve could feel "the look" lasering into him and sighed silently.

"Is your hair wet?"

His hand went automatically to his hair. "A little damp, I guess."

Mark's grip became more definite, propelling him toward the guest room. "Let's get you to bed. I want to check for fever. You know, you could be developing an infection in that cut of yours…"

This time, Steve sighed out loud. "Dad, I don't have a fever. I just - " He set his teeth hard. He did NOT want to talk about this…"I - just had a dream. It's over now."

"A dream?" Mark forced him gently but firmly down on the edge of the bed, resting the back of one hand against his cheek. "Same one as this afternoon?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, you're right - you're definitely not feverish."

"I do know a few things. My dad's a doctor, remember?"

Mark smiled and disappeared into the guest bath. He returned carrying a couple of towels and tossed one lightly to Steve, who caught it and blotted gratefully at his face. Mark applied the other one to Steve's hair, working his way around the bandage. "What is it you're dreaming about that's leaving you in a cold sweat?"

Steve shook his head and stared at the towel in his hands. "I don't know. You know how it is with dreams - it's all mixed up. I kept sort of hearing you and Jesse, then I'd be dreaming again…" He wiped his palms absently on the towel. "Ever have a dream that's not really real, but seems like more than a dream, too? Oh, I'm not making any sense."

Mark smiled, maneuvering the towel expertly around the head wound. "I used to have a dream like that right after your mom died. I'd wake up at night - or thought I did, anyway - and see her there - just sitting. Smiling at me. It wasn't really real, exactly, but…well, it seemed like a lot more than my imagination. Went on for the whole first month. Then I'd see her maybe once a week, then once a month, then it stopped altogether. Still think it was more than a dream. Sometimes I wish it would come back."

Steve met his eyes, felt some of the tension drain out of him. He fidgeted with the towel.

Mark patted his shoulder. "Let me change your bandage, then we'll both get some sleep."

"Dad, it's late. You worked all day and then made dinner and did the dishes. Why don't you go to bed? It'll keep until tomorrow."

Mark shook his head. "The bandage is wet through - not good for your stitches. I want a dry one on it tonight. It'll only take a minute."

Steve nodded tiredly. Arguing would only keep them both up later. He closed his eyes while Mark neatly clipped away the current bandage, bit his lip as he massaged antiseptic ointment into the stitched gash. One of these days he was going to have to take a look at it. No rush - felt like something you'd find on Frankenstein.

"There you go."

Steve opened his eyes again.

His father handed him a glass of water and two pills.

"You know, if you ever get tired of being a doctor, you'd make a heck of a nurse."

"Me? No - requires much too much patience. I know my limits. You need anything else?"

"No. Thanks, Dad."

"All right." Mark removed the damp towel from his loose grasp. "Sleep tight, then."

"Yeah, you too."

Mark paused at the door. "Better get plenty of rest. I'm planning on wiping up the floor with you in a game of Gin Rummy tomorrow."

Steve dimpled slyly. "That'd be a first."

"Don't get smart. You'll see."

"Right. Night, Dad."

Mark pulled the door almost closed, his hand hovering over the light switch. "Uh - want me to…?"

"Sure. Thanks."

Mark hit the switch and the room was cloaked in shadow. Steve lay back and closed his eyes. "Sweet dreams, son," filtered through the door.

Steve's eyes sprang open.

There was a pause, then the door inched inward. His father's face appeared in the opening, and Steve didn't need the light to picture his sheepish expression. "Um…ahem. What I meant was…"

Steve swallowed a chuckle. "Yeah, Dad. I know. Good night."

"See you in the morning." The door swung closed and shut with a click.

Steve stretched out, staring into the blackness. Somehow, sleep suddenly seemed far away, the world behind his eyelids full of threatening possibilities. He folded one arm under his head and gazed at the outline that represented a window, softly backlit by the moon around the edge of the curtains. A breeze stirred them, sending shadows dancing over the walls. He shivered.

"I'd rather dream about you, Mom," he breathed to himself.

?

?

Chapter 9

?

"Well, look at you - a gentleman of leisure."

Steve dragged his eyes from the view of the surf stretching out before him, smiled at the sight of his partner standing just outside of the door leading to the deck. "Hey. Got anything for me?"

"Hm…hello, Cheryl. Nice of you to stop by, Cheryl. You're looking lovely today, Cheryl."

Steve's smile broadened. "Hello, Cheryl," he parroted obediently. "Nice of you to stop by, Cheryl. You're looking lovely today, Cheryl. Might not want to let that last one go to your head, though. I'm just guessing. My vision's still not up to snuff."

"It's the thought that counts." Cheryl sat herself sideways on a lawn chair next to his and tilted her head at him. "You're looking more like my partner, less like something we usually draw a chalk outline around."

"Thanks. Iced tea?" He gestured to a frosty pitcher and a couple of glasses on a table by his elbow.

"Sounds good. The Captain sends his best."

Steve carefully aimed the pitcher at one glass, then the other. "No kidding. What did he have to say?"

Cheryl tipped her head back and considered. "I think his exact words were: 'Tell Sloan that if I see his sorry butt anywhere near this precinct before he has official permission to return to work, then I'll personally kick it all the way back to Malibu.'"

Steve blinked, glancing at her to see if she was joking. "Touching."

??????????????? "Hey, that IS his best."

"Yeah, he's a sentimental fool all right." He handed her a glass. "So, have we covered the small talk?"

Cheryl sighed, turning to stretch out in her lawn chair. "A man with a one track mind."

Steve clinked his own glass against hers in a toast. "Part of my charm."

"Well, let's see…" Cheryl opened the file in her lap. "I have lots of stuff for you…want to start with blood spatter photos?"

Steve hesitated. "Maybe you'd better tell me about those. I had - a little bad luck with them the other day." He fumbled in his front pocket and pulled out the tape recorder

Cheryl stared. "You're taping me?"

Steve cued up the tape. "It was Amanda's idea. So I could listen instead of trying to read the file."

Cheryl raised her brows. "Pretty smooth." She fanned the photos out in her lap. "Okay. Madge Fuller's clothing. It is a little funky, and they're still working on the sim tape to get a sense of just where she was standing when she did this. She didn't catch a whole lot of spatter, considering."

"So you're saying the spatter evidence is inconsistent with her committing the assault?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying it's inconclusive. You might have been turning your head, so she might have avoided a lot of the blood that way. They're still playing with it to try and recreate exactly what went on."

"But it shows that it's possible that it's not her."

Cheryl stared at him. "Did I mention the one track mind?"

"You might have. What about the walls? Can they tell us where she was standing?"

"That's only semi-helpful. Looks like you were turning toward the hallway when it happened, so most of the spatter is in the entryway, some on the floor, some in the hall - hard to get a clear sense of where she was. But they're working on it."

Steve frowned. "What else?"

"Well, you're not going to be wanting your clothes back."

"Very funny. What do they tell us?"

"Not much we didn't know. Where you got hit, that the assailant was shorter than you, that you were in motion at the time…"

"Turning?"

"Looks like."

Steve shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "If I was questioning her, why would I be turning?"

"Maybe the phone rang. Maybe you were ready to go. Maybe you saw something that attracted your attention - might have been just the distraction she needed."

"Maybe." Steve took a long draught of iced tea. "Wish I remembered."

Cheryl stirred her own tea. "Oh, that would ruin all the fun for the forensics team."

Steve smiled. "What else did they have to say?"

"They expect to have the sim tape in a couple of days. They've marked the things they can't quite account for on the photos - I'll leave them with you. If they jog any more memories, we’ll let them know right away."

Steve lowered his glass in surprise. "I get my own set of photos?"

Cheryl fluttered her eyelashes. "Oh, my, yes. With best wishes for a speedy recovery. With only the smallest encouragement, I'm sure they would have been hand delivered - and I don't mean by me. I think someone in forensics has a little crush on our Lt. Sloan."

Steve grinned in surprise. "Really? Who?"

Cheryl smirked. "Finally got your mind to jump the track for a second, hm? What's the new one's name - Candy?"

Steve's eyes lit up. "The redhead?"

"Yes, the redhead - oh, don't tell me I'm going to get trapped in the middle of some nasty flirtation every time we have to go to forensics now."

Steve turned back to his tea. "I don't even know her."

"I can see THAT changing pretty quick. Didn't you want to know about the crime scene?"

"Of course. Any weapon yet?"

"No sign of one. We could really use it, too."

"So we're still strictly circumstantial."

"Looks like."

"Footprints? With all that blood, seems like there should have been some."

"Don't think she had time. And like I said, I found her screaming and hysterical - pretty much rooted to the floor."

Steve put down his glass and rubbed at his forehead, trying to think.

"You staying for lunch, Cheryl?"

Cheryl twisted in her chair to look over her shoulder at Mark, standing behind her with a plate of cookies. She picked one up and bit it. "I'd love to - thanks. She picked one up and bit it. "Though I probably shouldn't be having this first."

Mark smiled. "It will take me a while to prepare it. These will stave off hunger until then."

"Well, they're wonderful. Aren't you having any, Steve?"

Steve gave her a long-suffering smile. "I'm pretty sure there's something nice and bland on the menu for me."

Mark twinkled at him. "I brought you some lovely graham crackers."

"That's what I figured. You're just getting even because I trounced you at Gin Rummy."

"All part of my strategy, my friend - to lull you into a false sense of security and then beat the socks off of you tonight."

"Yeah - in your dreams."

"You'll see. Wait until tonight."

Cheryl swallowed her cookie with a chuckle. "Can I help get lunch ready?"

"No, no - sit here and talk about the case. If you can keep Steve occupied, that'll be a big help."

Steve's eyes widened indignantly. "Dad!"

Mark smiled sweetly and returned to the house.

Steve shook his head.

Cheryl grinned. "Always gets the last word, doesn't he?"

"Sure seems to."

"How are your graham crackers?"

"Oh, shut up."

Cheryl's grin broadened and she reached for another cookie.

"How'd the arraignment go?"

Cheryl stopped chewing, then shrugged with assumed casualness. "You know. The usual."

"Madge Fuller out on bail?"

Cheryl focused intently on her iced tea. "Um - no. The judge refused bail."

"Refused bail?" Steve turned to her, eyebrows raised. "She's still in jail?"

"For the time being. Her lawyer's fighting it."

"Why? I mean, why no bail?"

Cheryl shrugged. "Judge felt she was a flight risk."

"A flight risk? She has a sixteen year old son, for God's sake - where does he think she's going to go?"

Cheryl hesitated.

Steve gave her a sharp glance. "What?" Cheryl shifted uncomfortably and he pressed, "Cheryl, what aren't you telling me?"

Cheryl sighed and set her iced tea aside. "Look - it's probably just a temporary glitch, so I didn't think you'd have to know this…"

Steve's gaze narrowed. "Know what?"

"The kid - is missing."

"Missing?" Steve stared painfully at her. "What do you mean, missing?"

"Well…" Cheryl brushed cookie crumbs from her fingertips. "Seems he didn't come home to the family he's staying with last night. They thought he was just working late, but it got to be long after the store should have closed and they started to worry. They called his boss, and turns out he'd called in sick to work that night - nobody's seen him since his last class in school yesterday."

"Which was?"

"Over at 2:30pm. We've got an APB out on him."

"Stake out the jail where his Mom is?"

"Yup."

Steve paused. "So he's a runaway? Where the heck can a kid that age disappear to?"

Cheryl snorted. "Well, it's clear you've never worked Vice."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. He on foot? Bike? Car?"

"Car. Crown Victoria four door sedan."

Steve wrinkled his forehead. "Kind of an odd choice for a kid that age, isn't it?"

"Apparently Mr. Fuller's first priority in a car for his son was a strong crash frame and a sober appearance. He thought sporty models encouraged young drivers to do reckless things."

"He's right."

"Oh, I'm sure. And what were you driving at that age? Some souped up speed machine, I'll bet."

Steve grinned. "How do you think I know they make young drivers do reckless things? No sign of the car either?"

"Not yet. I've got word to his teachers and his coach and his boss to notify me right away if he shows up, but until then…"

Steve picked up his iced tea and sighed into it. "Almost twenty-four hours. But he made his last class? Anybody talk to his teacher - find out if he was acting in any way out of the usual?"

Cheryl looked uncomfortable. "Well, that's the other problem." Steve waited. "The teacher had him on his attendance sheet, but he didn't have any clear memory of actually seeing him there. Assumed he was, because the morning homeroom report didn't show him as absent."

"Didn't he take attendance himself?"

"He's supposed to, so I don't think he's going to admit to not doing it and risk getting in trouble, but I suspect he relies pretty heavily on the homeroom report."

"So he might not have been there at all. What about the other teachers?"

"No one seems to specifically remember seeing him, but only one marked him as absent from class."

"Great. Where were these teachers when I was going to school? I could never get away with cutting class like that."

"Well, it's a pretty demanding job. Evidently they all rely pretty heavily on that homeroom report."

"But the homeroom teacher saw him anyway."

Cheryl hesitated.

Steve frowned at her. "You're kidding."

"She was a substitute. I don't know how it was at your school, but at mine we used to switch seats and answer to the wrong name, so it was pretty hard for a substitute teacher to know anything for sure."

Steve put down his glass with a bump. "So we don't really know anything. For all we know, he may have been missing for nearly two days."

Cheryl nodded reluctantly. "Looks like."

"And nobody's talked to this kid? So we don't know if he's just afraid of going into foster care or if there's something more to it?"

"Well, we're guessing it's foster care - remember, he wasn't around when either incident took place."

"Or so we believe. Maybe his homeroom teacher was a substitute that day too."

"No, she wasn't."

Steve relaxed a little. "You checked that out?"

"Oh, yeah."

"And somebody talked to her? Or him?"

Cheryl cleared her throat and studied the feet stretched out in front of her with sudden interest.

Steve pushed his brows together, puzzled, then understanding dawned. "Oh, no. Don't tell me." Cheryl's mouth twisted into a rueful grimace. Steve pressed a hand over his eyes. "His homeroom teacher is Madge Fuller?" Cheryl nodded wordlessly. "Oh, God." He dropped his hand. "How did we miss that? We've bollixed this one from the beginning. Between that and me getting clubbed - "

"Oh, come on - that could've happened to anybody. If it was anybody's fault, then it was mine. I was supposed to be your back up."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Good. Then it wasn't anybody's."

"So for all we know he's an eye witness and Madge Fuller marked him as present in homeroom to protect him."

"Or protect herself, if he saw her kill his father."

Steve shuddered involuntarily. He's gotta be so scared. And confused. He shifted restlessly. "I can not afford to be sitting around here."

Cheryl closed her eyes and inhaled. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. You don't have any choice, Steve, so let's not even go there." Steve didn't answer, so she added, "I don't know what you think you could do that a whole fleet of black and whites can't do better and faster anyway."

"I don't know either," he admitted at last. "But it would sure make me feel better."

"Maybe. Until you keeled over. Let's not have any keeling over, okay?"

"Definitely not in my plans."

"Never is. Did you talk to your Dad?"

Steve crumbled a graham cracker to powder. "About?"

"You know what about. Or have you finally decided Madge Fuller was the killer after all."

Steve paused. "I have his statement and I've listened to it about a hundred times. What more do I need?"

Cheryl lifted her brows. "That was evasive."

Steve gave her a half smile. "I feel like I'm in the Interrogation Room."

Cheryl studied him keenly. "You still don't think she did it."

Steve looked away, letting his eyes skim over the patio rail and come to rest on the silver roll of the surf below. "Bet lunch is ready," he said at last. "Let's go in and save Dad a trip out. I can show off how well I'm getting around. Just try to be polite and pretend you don't notice that I walk at sort of an angle." He gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I get where I'm going eventually."

?

?

?Chapter 10

?

??????????????? Steve threw the stack of photos aside and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. Had to go a little easy on those blood spatter shots - if he tossed another meal, he'd never hear the end of it. He'd tried skimming the notes, but the words still jumped and blurred together. Jesse was right - still too soon for close work. He picked up the television remote and thumbed it on to give his vision a change of pace. Nothing, nothing…afternoon television really was a vast wasteland. Suddenly he paused, glanced at the clock. Hm. Maybe…he listened carefully for any sign of his father, who was returning some calls to the hospital, but all was silent. Must still be busy. Good. He didn't need anybody to catch him doing this…cautiously, he flicked through the stations, searching. He found what he wanted and settled back to watch.

Oh, my love, if only you could remember our much longed for children…Yeah, yeah, yeah - get to the good part. Like what you're going to do about it.

Perhaps Dr. Adams can help, with his miracle drug. Oh, come on - if you're going to be ridiculous, then just forget it. What else you got?

But the tests show I have a very rare blood type and it would be dangerous for me to try…

Steve groaned out loud. Oh, please. Like we couldn't see that one coming…so much for Jesse and his theory that television doctors get their information from real life. He reached for the remote.

But wait…perhaps…there is something I could do…

The music reached a dramatic crescendo and the picture faded to a commercial. Steve hesitated. Probably they were going to suggest a brain transplant or something, but…he turned on the closed captions, turned down the sound, and picked up his photos again. But it wouldn't hurt to hear what they had to say.

He looked at the photo on top. A long sea fan of blood swept across the wall in a slight arc. Must have happened while he was turning…he closed his eyes and tried to picture the Fullers' entryway. He'd been there a couple of times before that last visit - at least twice to visit the David Fuller murder scene, one other time when the crime scene tape had come down - he could see it pretty clearly in his mind's eye. If someone swung from the left and caught here…he touched the bandage over his ear lightly…that would cause a spray like that, if he was trying to turn away and had been facing away from the front door. He flipped to the next photo. Spatter got lighter here, more elongated…he studied the area the forensic team had circled. A break in the spatter there, so something had been in the way. Furniture, possibly, but why would somebody move it? And who would even have the chance? So, another person? Maybe Brian Fuller? But wouldn't he have seen him if he were there? He grimaced. Maybe he had. If only he could remember…

He glanced back at the television. Some blonde woman he didn't recognize was weeping to an older woman that she was pregnant. He returned to his photos. There was something in here somewhere, if he could only figure out what it was…The next photo showed the floor, a dark puddle stretching across the flagstones of the entryway, soaking the living room carpet. He felt a funny frisson down his spine. His. You know, it was one thing to look at crime scene photos, it was another to know…he set the photos aside a little hastily, leaning back and closing his eyes again, taking slow breaths. So that was what his father had walked in on. Nice. Except that he had still been lying there then, and…oh, damn. He rubbed at his temples.

If anyone needed this thing to be over and behind him, it was his Dad. There was no way he could keep dredging it up for him, make him relive it again and again. If he had his own doubts, well, then that was his problem to take care of and nobody else's. Besides, he probably was just a guy whose whole perspective had been skewed by a whack to the head. Madge Fuller could just as easily be haunting him because she was guilty as because she wasn't. Except…he let his hands drop. That he didn't believe for a minute that she was.

He opened his eyes. What he needed was to remember. What they had said to each other. Who was there. Who had hit him. He needed details. Or if he was on the wrong track, if his mind was playing tricks on him, then he needed to know that too. He needed to be sure.

He noticed his fellow amnesiac was back on the television screen and pushed the mute button to restore sound.

…Oh, Eric…you know how I yearn to remember…Yeah - you and me both, lady. But it is out of my hands! You need to be patient!

How can I be patient when you hold all my happiness in your hands? You tell her, Eric. When I can't even begin my life again until you have recovered yours? I know just how you feel.

You know I am doing everything I can! My life is on hold as well! I have heard that a second blow to the head can sometimes restore memory…Oh, please. Even I know that doesn't work. My dad could give you a whole lecture on that theory.

I will not let you risk such a thing, Miranda. Good choice, Eric. Could mean brain damage or even death. We will just continue as we are, the best we can. I will take you tomorrow to where we were wed and we will see if that helps restore your memory. In the meantime, we will…wait.

And pray, Eric. And pray.

Steve sighed. Well, good luck, Miranda. Hope you make out better than I am.

"What are you watching?"

Steve started, then fumbled hastily to stuff the photos of the bloody entryway back in the file. He really wished his father would wear noisier shoes…"Um - nothing." He punched the off button on the remote, but not, he was sure, before his Dad had gotten a look at the screen, if the faint smile that twitched upward under his mustache was any indication.

"Really bored?" he asked sympathetically, seating himself on the coffee table opposite. "We could have that rematch game of Gin Rummy."

"Sure." Steve discreetly tucked the file out of the way.

Mark rose to fetch a deck of cards. "Why don't we play at the table? So you don't have to lean forward."

Steve hefted himself to his feet and managed to negotiate the coffee table without barking his shins. Feeling a little more confident, he maneuvered his way to the table with only a couple of casual gropings for support on the furniture and walls. "But I'm doing a lot better with the leaning. Doesn't send me straight to the floor any more."

"Well, that's good, but no reason to push it. Want a soda?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Mark plunked a frosty glass in front of him, then picked up the deck and shuffled briskly. "And now, my friend," he added with a smile, "you will get your comeuppance." He started dealing. "Cheryl have any news?"

"Yeah. All bad. Brian Fuller's missing."

Mark paused his dealing. "The son?"

"Uh huh. Didn't show up at his after school job. They have an APB out on him."

"Now, where on earth would he…never mind. If you knew that - "

"He wouldn't be missing." Steve finished with him. "Right. Judge denied bail."

"Well, he'd almost have to, wouldn't he? Does he think she knows where he is? That they were planning to flee?"

Steve shrugged moodily. "I don't know. I'm busy nursing my boo boo. I don't know much of anything."

Mark eyed him sharply, then picked up his cards, arranging them meticulously. "You were seriously hurt, you know."

Steve glanced at him quickly, felt his color rise. Oh, damn. Just what he hadn't wanted to remind him about. "I know…"

"Injured in the line of duty. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know, Dad…"

"No different than being shot, really. And a police officer who isn't fully fit is a danger to himself and everyone around him."

"Dad - " Steve put a hand on his father's cards to get his attention. "I know. I'm sorry. I just - " he grimaced apologetically. "I hate being sidelined, that's all."

Mark's face relaxed into a smile. "Always did - even as a little boy. Just couldn't stand to sit the bench."

"Well, some things never change, I guess."

"You know, son, I really think you can trust Cheryl to take care of things for you. Just like you'd do for her."

"I know that too. I just - " Steve fanned out his cards, then pushed them back into a stack.

Mark glanced at him over his glasses. "You must have some matches in there."

"Hm? Oh. Yeah." Steve fanned his hand again and stared at the cards.

"You think you could have done something differently."

"Well, I think if I HAD done something differently then a sixteen year old kid might not be God only knows where doing God only knows what."

"Uh huh. Like what?"

Steve folded his cards back into a stack. "I don't know - I'm working on that."

Mark picked through his own cards, arranging sets. "Maybe you can't think of anything because there isn't anything." Steve was silent. "Steve, sometimes you do everything right and things still go wrong. There's no point in beating yourself up about it."

"Maybe not, but you can at least do everything you can to make it right again."

"And what is it that you think you can do? That the rest of the police force can't manage without you? You need to pick a card - I dealt."

"Oh." Steve drew a card and put it in his hand with the others. "Now you sound like Cheryl."

"Always liked that girl. Discard."

"Hm?"

"You took a card. You need to - "

"Oh. Right." Steve tossed down a card.

Mark looked at him more closely. "Are you sure you're not just tired out? That could be making you blue. Maybe you need a nap."

Yeah, great - then maybe Brian Fuller can visit me in my sleep, too. "Dad, I think I've gotten enough sleep over the last couple of days that I shouldn't need to close my eyes again for about two years."

Mark selected a card and studied his hand, smiling slightly. "If only it worked that way." He discarded, then waited. "Steve," he said finally. Steve looked up, surprised. "It's your turn."

"Oh." Steve looked at the cards in his hand as if he wondered how they had gotten there.

"You need to pick a card?" Mark suggested patiently.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Steve picked up a card and added it to his hand.

Mark waited. "And discard."

"Oh." Steve selected a card at random and threw it down.

Mark nodded. "Okay. That does it." He tugged the cards out of Steve's hand and swept them together with the rest of the deck.

Steve stared in surprise. "I thought you wanted to play."

Mark thumped the deck on the table to tuck all the cards together. "It will be no fun beating you if aren't even paying attention to the game. What do you say we have dinner instead? Maybe that will settle your mind down."

Steve scrubbed at his forehead. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"No, no - we'll play later." Mark got up to put the cards away. "What would you like for supper?"

"Ribs and a beer."

Mark chuckled. "Those will taste good for about the first five minutes."

"Am I allowed anything that doesn't taste like cardboard?"

"Well, there's a reason they call it a bland diet, but I'll see what I can do."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Well, let's see. When's the last time you took your medication?"

"I meant to get dinner ready. And I'm only supposed to take it as needed."

"Mm hm. Why don't you take some now?"

"Because I don't need it now."

Mark set the bottle in front of him. "Humor me. Then you can set the table."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, stopped himself. After a second he popped off the safety top and shook two pills into his palm, swallowing them with a chaser of soda. He pushed himself to his feet and took a moment to be sure of his balance. "Just plates and silverware?"

"That would be perfect. I could get them out of the cupboard for you."

"No, I'll do it." Steve made his cautious way to the cupboards, pleased to see he was managing better. "As long as nobody's in a hurry."

"We await your convenience."

Steve slid two plates out of the cupboard and opened a drawer to forage for silverware.

"Anything you wanted to talk about?"

Steve looked up in surprise.

Mark smiled mildly. "Just seems like you have something on your mind. If you wanted to talk about it."

Yes. No. "I'm - just thinking about the Fuller case."

"And Brian Fuller."

Steve nodded, easing his way back to the table with his burdens.

"Anything specific?"

Steve hesitated, keenly aware of the laser-like blue gaze upon him, feeling uncomfortably transparent.

"Because something really does seem to be eating at you."

Steve's hesitation was longer this time. He had never been any good at keeping anything from his father. Then his eyes fell on the prescription bottle and he remembered the crime scene photo of the entryway. On the other hand, there were some things it was better not to dredge up…he centered a plate on each place mat. "Nothing special," he managed finally, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the table. "Just in general."

"All right." He felt his father turn away, knew with certainty that he hadn't in any way convinced him. "But you know I'm here if you want to talk."

That was almost Steve's undoing. "Yeah. I know. Thanks, Dad." He distributed silverware, straightened, suddenly noticing something. "Hey, you know what? I think my head must have been hurting - I do feel better."

Mark chuckled. "I know. You always get that little crease between your eyebrows when you have a headache."

"I do?" Steve rubbed automatically between his brows, frowning suddenly. "What else do I do that I don't know about?"

Mark added water to a pot on the stove. "Oh, no. I can't give away all my secrets."

Steve gave him a small smile. "Just have to keep the upper hand, don't you?"

"Yup. It's part of the father's rule book."

"Table's set. Need help with anything else?"

"Why don't you just have a seat? It should be ready shortly. Because with all due respect, son of mine, I will decline your help with cooking dinner."

"Very funny." Steve re-seated himself at the table. "I took first place in the chili cook off two years in a row, I'll have you know."

"And the next time we have chili, I will leave it in your very capable hands."

"Mm." Steve picked absently at a place mat. "Sixteen's just a really bad age to lose a parent, you know?" he blurted suddenly.

Mark glanced over his shoulder at him. "I'm not sure there are any good ages for that," he suggested gently.

"Yeah." Steve returned to his contemplation of the place mat, but he was really seeing the playful baseball photographs decorating the walls of the Fuller living room, surrounding the warm family portrait. He blew out his breath softly. "Yeah."

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Chapter 11

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"I'm not happy about this."

"Dad - what's the big deal? So you're gone for a few hours. I'll be fine. I'm feeling much better."

"Hm." Mark fussed with his tie. "That's what worries me. The minute you start feeling better, you think everything's back to normal, and that you can return to doing what you always do."

"Believe me, I know I can't do everything I always do. Besides, I have Jesse's handy list of dos and don'ts, and I have every intention of following it. I'm hoping that'll make you feel comfortable with letting me move back downstairs tonight."

Mark turned away from adjusting his tie in the mirror and studied him closely. "You do look better," he admitted at last.

"Because I am better," Steve insisted. "Not a hundred percent, maybe, but I'm getting there." He could see Mark vacillate, and he pushed. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, Cheryl is stopping by in a few minutes to go over some new information with me and I'm sure that if I try to do anything strenuous like turning on the TV by myself or pouring my own drink, she'll stop me before I get hurt."

Mark gave him a stern look, but his eyes held a discreet twinkle. "I have not been that bad," he objected.

??????????????? "Of course not," Steve agreed, with mock sincerity.

"And for a little while there you couldn't even pour a drink without missing the glass more than half the time, so that was just self defense. I was tired of cleaning up the spills."

"Touché."

Mark paused, torn. "Jesse really gave you a list?"

Steve held up a piece of paper. "Written extra large, so I could read it."

Mark took the list from Steve's hand and glanced down its contents. His mouth curled into a smile as he read.

Steve watched him and couldn't suppress a smile himself. "Yeah, I know - I bet he thinks he's pretty funny."

Mark chuckled. "I told you - he's a very thorough doctor."

"I can see that - I think he accounted for everything but famine and pestilence. So go on and see to your patient, or else you'll be moping around here all day worrying and I'll feel guilty."

Mark smoothed his lapels absently. "I suppose you're right - Cheryl's really stopping by again?"

"Any minute. We're trying to come up with some real physical evidence."

"What about the blood spatters?"

Steve shrugged. "Inconclusive."

"The prosecutor doesn't think the confession's enough?"

Steve avoided his eyes, taking Jesse's list back and folding it precisely. "Always better to have real evidence. C'mon - you get going. Your patient's waiting."

Mark nodded. "All right. I won't be more than a few hours."

"Jesse's coming over after his shift, too, so even if you are, I'll have plenty of company."

"You boys going to watch something on Pay Per View?"

"No - he's going to check me out and hopefully we're making a trip to the Fullers'."

Mark tugged down his cuffs and grabbed his car keys. "Well, I'll certainly try to be home for that. I wouldn't mind going myself." He gave Steve's arm a light squeeze as he passed by. "You take it easy. Follow Jesse's instructions. And give Cheryl my best."

"Don't worry about me - the worst thing that could happen to me here is that I die of boredom."

Mark was halfway out the door, but he turned to point emphatically at him. "No dying! Of anything!"

Steve laughed. "I don't think that will be problem."

He watched the door close behind him and his smile faded some. This was getting ridiculous. He wasn't exactly lying to his father, but he felt like he was - prevaricating was almost the same thing, wasn't it? He made his way slowly, but fairly steadily, to the couch and sprawled on it, picking up a pillow and kneading it moodily. He only meant to protect him, but was he just kidding himself about that? Maybe it was time to come clean with his feelings, vague as they were. All he had to say was, "Dad, I know you have a strong circumstantial case and a signed confession, but I still don't think Madge Fuller is the killer." And then his father could say, "Well, who do you think the killer is, son?" and he could answer with utter confidence, "I have no idea." He spun the pillow between his palms, frowning.

And then his father could ask, "Then why do you think it's not Madge Fuller?" And he could pull out his trump card and tell him, "A funny feeling and some crazy dreams." And then maybe his Dad could press his point and ask if he had any actual evidence…he groaned out loud in frustration. And with that kind of powerful reasoning to go by, no doubt he'd work his way right back to the idea that Steve was just being stubborn. Or resentful. Or needed to have his own way. Or was foggy because of the head injury or the medication or…he mangled the sofa pillow and tossed it aside. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He reached for the files and the tape recorder sitting on the end table and hit the rewind button. Maybe Cheryl would have something that would help. He was resting his eyes while he listened to the tape again - all right, admit it, dozing, really - what was he ever going to do when he could no longer take seventeen naps a day? - when he heard the front door open. He yawned widely, listening for his father's familiar step. "Forget something, Dad?" he called.

"No, it's me. I rudely let myself in." Cheryl's elegant face appeared in front of him. "Thought I'd save you getting up."

"Oh." Steve sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes and trying to look more alert. "Thanks. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

"No, it's me that comes bearing gifts - " she looked at him more closely. "You look kind of tired for a man on sick leave. Is there something I can get you?"

Steve shifted his shoulders uncomfortably under her scrutiny. "Naw - just didn't sleep that well last night. What you got?" Cheryl pulled her hand from behind her back to reveal a plastic tape case, tied with a huge red bow. Steve raised his eyebrows. "The sim tape?" Cheryl nodded. "How'd they get it done so fast?"

Cheryl smiled sweetly. "Well, when Lt. Sloan wants something, then of course Candy pulls out all the stops…"

Steve made a face. "And of course the fact that Brian Fuller's disappeared had absolutely nothing to do with them picking up the pace."

Cheryl's smile broadened. "Oh, probably, but there's nothing to tease you about in that."

Steve shook his head and took the tape from her outstretched hand. "You seen it?"

"Oh, yeah. They walked me through."

"Anything new?"

Cheryl pursed her lips. "Not really. Just gives us a more graphic way to study it. Say, you sure you want to see this? I mean, considering that Mr. Sim represents you? Might be sort of disturbing."

Steve popped open the plastic case. "You mean bring back unpleasant memories? I can only hope."

Cheryl shrugged and sat down next to him while he set up the VCR. They watched in silence the first time through, then Steve rewound to watch it frame by frame. He studied the actual attack, then stopped the tape at the point where Mr. Sim was collapsed on the floor and Mrs. Sim was standing against the living room wall. He delineated the wall behind her by tracing along the screen with his finger. "This is where she was when you walked in?"

Cheryl nodded. Steve backed up the tape just a little and watched again. "So she was over here when she hit me, and crossed behind me to this spot and then seemed rooted to the floor when you came in? Why?"

"Maybe to get rid of the bat. Maybe she was going to make a run for it. Maybe she just panicked."

"And she moved fast enough to block spatter from the wall here - " he tapped the wall lightly with his finger. "But not here." He indicated the area of wall leading from the hall to the unspattered spot. "How do they explain that?"

"Well, it's unusual, but not impossible. They can't explain everything necessarily, Steve, you know that. They just recreate the best they can with what they've got."

"All that blood, and she made it from this point to that without leaving any bloody footprints?" He shook his head. "I don't know…" He rewound to watch again, smiled a little when Detective Sim entered with her gun drawn. "You look good in sim. Very tough."

"Ha ha ha." Cheryl took the remote from his hand and turned off the tape. Steve looked at her questioningly. She made a face. "It may not be bringing back any bad memories for you, but it is for me, so I guess I'm not so tough after all. I know - pretty embarrassing for a veteran cop to have to admit, but you didn't have to see it live! Let's just take a little break from watching you bleed."

Steve firmly re-possessed the remote. "Oh, come on," he teased gently. "Look at that - doesn't look a thing like me. I may not look my best these days, but I know I still have a face. Still have hair, except for that little bit Jesse shaved off…"

Cheryl reluctantly studied the screen, couldn't help smiling. "But you're saying that does look like me?" she drawled dryly, nodding to indicate the tiny figure representing the police officer.

"Heck, yeah. See how Detective Sim has that same little sashay you've got in your walk…?"

"Give me that." Cheryl snatched the remote back, trying not to grin. She firmly thumbed the button to "off". "Anything else come to you?"

Steve sobered, shaking his head. "Nope. A big, blank canvas. Any word on Brian Fuller?"

"Nothing. Madge Fuller's attorney has petitioned to get her bail - also made a motion to have her confession thrown out. Claims it was given under duress."

Steve raised his brows. "What kind of duress?"

"His theory seems to be that the arresting officer - that would be me - was so enraged when she found her partner - that would be you - down, that she bullied a confession out of Mrs. Fuller, just to have a scapegoat."

Steve rumpled his forehead. "That's ridiculous."

"So true. Anyone who knows me knows that I like to take my revenge in small ways, after the fact. I would never be so unsubtle."

Steve smiled ruefully. "Don't I know it. He can't really make trouble for you, can he?"

Cheryl shrugged philosophically. "Not really. Only witnesses are the officers from the black and white and they back my side of the story. Of, course, he'll claim that that's just typical police policy and that our boys and girls in blue always stand together. But he hasn't got anything he can make stick. Probably just hoping to create enough doubt in the judge's mind to get the confession thrown out, provided he can convince Mrs. Fuller to recant. In the meantime, he is claiming there is a mysterious third party responsible for the killing - not his client."

Steve laughed shortly. "Well, it's nice that somebody agrees with me. Why doesn't that make me feel better?"

"Because you know it's just a big bunch of lawyer-angling bunk?"

"Yeah, I guess so." He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "He have any suggestions on a suspect?"

"I'm sure he'll opt for a mysterious drifter, robbery gone bad, something like that."

"For both me and David Fuller?"

"Look, he doesn't have to make a lot of sense, just enough to confuse a jury."

"Right." Steve studied the floor, thinking. He cleared his throat self-consciously. "What about Brian Fuller?"

Cheryl cocked her head. "You mean as a suspect?"

Steve shrugged.

"He wasn't there for either crime."

"That's what we thought. If Madge Fuller was the one to mark him present in homeroom, I'd say that suddenly becomes a less-than-airtight alibi."

"True…" Cheryl chewed her lower lip, scanning information in her memory, then shook her head. "Uh-uh. Right handed."

Steve sighed. "Figures." He tossed the remote aside. "Can't really be sorry, though - wasn't an image I really wanted to wrap my head around. Of course, if that confession gets thrown out, that means - "

"That we got nothing." Cheryl finished for him. "Believe me, that's crossed my mind." Her cell phone shrilled and she jumped to grab it, glancing at the ID screen. "Banks," she told the receiver. She listened for a minute, then raised her brows at Steve. "Yeah," she told the phone, "Yeah - let me write that down…" She pulled out her pen and notebook and scrawled something on the small pad. "Thanks. That's great news. No, I'm going right away - thanks." She folded up the phone and tossed Steve a triumphant look. "We are not quite down and out," she informed him with satisfaction. "That was Kelly. They managed to trace David Fuller's missing funds." She read her notebook back to herself. "I'm going to see if this lady will talk to me and give me some of the details…"

Steve automatically reached for his car keys, noticed they weren't at hand. His face fell.

Cheryl smiled in sympathetic understanding. "Sorry, partner - afraid you have to sit this one out. I'll tell you what, though - I'll stop by later and let you know what I find out. Keep the sim tape - I'll pick it up when I come back."

"All right," Steve struggled to smile, trying to accept it gracefully. "Thanks." He stood up to walk her out, but she signaled him back down.

"I know where the door is just fine. You take it easy and I promise I'll let you know everything." She stuffed her phone in her purse. "See you later."

"Yeah. Be careful." Steve watched her make her way to the stairs. Well, it was better than nothing. He picked up the remote again to restart the tape and stared listlessly at the sim images on the TV screen. But not really like being there yourself. After a second he realized he wasn't really watching the tape, and stopped and ejected it. He frowned at the blank screen a moment, then shook himself. Come on, Sloan - no moping. He glanced at the clock, then smiled wanly. Oh, might as well see if Miranda was having any better luck than he was getting her memory back…

He pulled out the tape and found the right station, settling back on the couch. After a lengthy string of commercials, Eric and Miranda appeared, deep in a tearful discussion. Steve yawned. These folks sure cried a lot…

Oh, my love - what shall we do? We cannot continue on this way…Yeah. Tell me about it.

I try and I try to remember…I hear you.

But it is as if nothing went before! I would gladly have the brain surgery for your sake…Let's not get carried away.

Nonsense, Miranda. You tell her, Eric. I would never have you court such a risk for my sake! 'Court such a risk'? Who the hell talks like that?

You know what the doctors said - you just have to be patient! Yeah. Easy for them to say. Steve yawned again, letting his eyes close for just a second. It really had been a restless night…

One day it will all come back to you in a blinding flash…

Steve smiled without opening his eyes. Doctors. They were all alike, on TV and off…

A shrill trill of sound interrupted his train of thought and he groaned. Come on, Miranda - answer the phone…The sound came again, insistently, and his eyes flew open. Not the television…he fumbled awkwardly for the telephone, managed to drag it from its cradle and activate the "on" button.

"Sloan," he growled automatically, blinking at the television and trying to orient himself.

"Is Detective Banks there?"

Steve squinted at the telephone, wondering if it was a wrong number. "No, this is Detective Sloan…" He glanced at the television again, realized another program was now on. How long had he dropped off for?

"I wanted to talk to Detective Banks. Her cell isn't responding and this is one of the numbers she gave me."

"Oh." Steve shook himself, fighting things back into focus. "Right. This is her partner. Detective Banks is out on a call. I do expect her back. Can I give her a message?"

There was a pause. "This is Leo Dubrovnik. I run a deli and catering shop? Brian Fuller works for me part time. I promised Detective Banks that I'd call her if I saw him."

Steve sat up straight. "You saw Brian Fuller?"

"He's here right now. Just showed up for work like it was nothin' out of the ordinary."

Steve felt his pulse pick up a beat. "He's there right now? Can you keep him there? I'll try to reach Detective Banks…"

"Look, detective - I got deliveries to make. I can't stay around here. I'm already behind with him calling in sick the other day."

Steve counted to ten. "Mr. Dubrovnik, I can appreciate your problem, but this is a homicide investigation we're talking about - if you could just make sure Brian Fuller stays there until - "

"Listen - he's supposed to be working the counter anyway while I do my deliveries. Should be here until the end of his shift in four hours."

"He was also supposed to be there the other night and in school yesterday, but he wasn't! He could disappear in a second once you're gone. If you could just - "

"Hey, I'm sorry." Dubrovnik sounded anything but. "I know you got a dead guy on your hands, but some of us are still alive and gotta make a living. Now, I told Detective Banks that I'd let her know if he showed up, and I did. Think I've done my job as a citizen."

"All right - all right - " Steve tried to get a word in before he could hang up. "Where are you located? I'll - get there as fast as I can."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "South Beach strip mall," Dubrovnik offered at last. "I can't wait around - "

"I know where that is." Steve stood up with a little help from the arm of the sofa and waited, testing his equilibrium. "I can be there in twenty minutes. Just try and stall as long as you can before you leave, okay? We can't afford to lose track of this kid again."

"I'll try, but - "

"Succeed," snapped Steve, exasperated. "Or I'll charge you with endangering the welfare of a minor. And anything else I can come up with."

Dubrovnik muttered something about fascist states and hung up.

Steve broke the connection and glanced at the list of numbers posted in the phone. Medical emergency…fire…police…Chinese take out…there it was. Taxi service. He dialed carefully and a little uncertainly - small numbers were still not his strong point - and gave a sigh of relief when a taxi dispatcher picked up the line. He requested his taxi and offered a bonus for punctuality, then hung up and tried Cheryl's cell phone. Dubrovnik was right - she must be out of range or something. So he called and left a message for her at the station instead, telling her where he was going and why, and asking her to meet him there as soon as possible. That settled, he started the journey to the guest room. He did all right, he thought. Was still a little lopsided, and he used the wall for balance once, but a big improvement. Wouldn't get any prizes for speed, of course…

He went to the chair that held the small duffel he had brought home from the hospital, and his leather jacket, slung over the back. Maneuvering awkwardly into the jacket, he turned his attention to rummaging inside the bag. Okay - wallet - he slid that into his back pocket. Badge - he clipped that on his belt. Telephone - he slipped that into one jacket pocket. His keys seemed to still be in the other pocket. Gun - he hesitated. It was never a bad thing to have for show, even if you had no intention of using it, but he had strong opinions about people who carried a weapon they didn't have the ability to use, and let's face it - his aim was going to be a little less than brilliant right now. After a second, he put the gun aside.

He managed the short walk back to the entryway, listening for the cab, paused, feeling a sudden stab of conscience. Oh.

Jesse's list was sitting on the table by the door where he had left it. He had forgotten about that…he picked it up gingerly, frowning at it. He had promised both Jesse and his Dad that he would follow instructions…and, all things being equal, he did hate to worry them. He stared at the paper some more. Of course, this was an emergency, surely they would understand…? He fiddled with the paper.

Well, Jesse was coming tonight to give him a lift to the Fullers, so he was allowed a road trip. If he took that road trip a little earlier than scheduled, it didn't really matter, did it? If it was urgent? It wasn't as if he was driving - even he knew he wasn't up for that.

He had told his Dad he would take it easy, and he had been taking it easy - sleeping, even. And what he was about to do was hardly strenuous - take a short car ride, chat with a potential material witness, keep an eye on him until somebody else could get there. He peeled the folded sheet open, peered at the contents, ran his eyes down the list. He couldn't help smiling again. Jesse sure thought of everything. And absolutely nowhere on this list did it forbid talking to a material witness. So, really, he could go keep an eye on Brian Fuller, ask him some questions, and still keep his promises to take care of himself - no sweat. With any luck, he would be back on the couch and no doubt napping again before either Jesse or his Dad got here. Satisfied with his logic, he folded the paper again and dropped it back on the table.

A cab horn sounded outside. Feeling pleasantly virtuous, he tackled the stairs to meet it.

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Chapter 12?

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It was less than twenty minutes later that the cab pulled up in front of South Beach strip mall. Steve paid the driver and added a generous tip before unfolding his long length from the interior. He stood for a minute as the cab pulled away, making sure he was solid on his feet and looking around. Though he'd heard of it, it wasn't a strip mall he frequented, and now he knew why: not much here to attract his interest. A small pizza parlor, a music store, a store for discounted women's clothing, a maternity shop, a coffee shop - most of Los Angeles felt the same, if the parking lot was any indication - only a scattering of cars. Of course, it was getting close to dinnertime, so maybe that accounted for the sparse business. He spotted the sign for Dubrovnik's Deli-Catering and started toward it, listing only slightly to one side.

He pushed his way through the glass door - gave himself a second for his eyes to adjust to the change in light.

The interior held a couple of tables and chairs and a long counter - mostly self serve - with a cash register at one end. He focused on the figure manning the cash register, studying him. Just like the photos. He looked like his father, he decided. Same coloring, same height - of course, he was only sixteen and his mother was tall, so maybe he still had some growing to do. How old had he himself been when he had suddenly found he was looking down at his father instead of up? Seventeen, maybe?

He moved toward the register at an easy lope that he hoped looked more relaxed and less unsteady. Hope he doesn't get any ideas about running. Not sure I could take him - even if he is just a sixteen year old kid. Oh, face it, Sloan, he mocked himself - you'd have trouble taking a ninety year old grandmother right now. He saw the kid staring at him, his expression unreadable, and he tried to smile reassuringly. Behind the boy stood a man with his arms crossed over the bib of his white butcher's apron, glaring as Steve approached. Must be his good buddy Dubrovnik.

Steve had intended to buy something and check out as a customer as an excuse to start a conversation, but before he could, Brian Fuller said flatly, "I know you." Steve paused, eyeing him questioningly. "I saw your picture in the paper." Yeah, that seemed likely. "You arrested my Mom."

Dubrovnik cleared his throat noisily. "Does this mean I can do my deliveries?" he asked sarcastically.

Steve smiled with exaggerated politeness. "Be my guest." He returned his gaze to Brian. "Technically, I did not arrest your Mom. That was my partner. I was - otherwise occupied at the time."

He saw Brian's eyes dart to the bandage around his head, then look away. "My Mom wouldn't hurt anybody."

"To tell the truth, I think that too." He held out his hand. "Lt. Steve Sloan."

Brian looked at his hand, but didn't take it. "Then why did you arrest her?"

Steve sighed. Clearly, he wasn't getting through. "My partner arrested her because she was found, alone, at the scene of an assault a few days after her husband had been killed in the same way. All the evidence pointed to her, so she had to be arrested. Doesn't mean that she has to be found guilty." Brian looked unconvinced. "What do you say I ask a couple of questions now?" Brian just stared, so he continued lightly, "I hear you play baseball." Brian shrugged. "Me too. What position do you like?"

Almost against his will, Brian blurted, "Short stop."

Steve nodded. "Gotta have strong legs for that."

"I run and stuff. Do the machines. You know."

"Yeah. Training. A good idea. Even out of season?"

"Sure."

"Yeah. Gotta stay in shape. What about the Millers? They let you work out at their place?" Some of the wariness reappeared in Brian's expression and he shrugged again. "Millers were pretty upset when you didn't come home the other night. Feel like telling me where you were?" Brian repeated his signature shrug, and Steve found himself wondering if he had been as uncommunicative himself at sixteen.

"I was around."

"Sure. Around where? Got a girlfriend?"

Brian turned red, then shook his head.

Steve nodded. "Plenty of time for that. You go for a drive?"

"I had some things I wanted to do."

"Millers probably would have let you. Just like to know where you are." Brian didn't answer, so Steve continued, "Look, we need to know where you are, Brian, while we straighten out this thing with your mother. If you keep just wandering off, then we have to send you to Social Services. No baseball there."

Brian slid a glance at him, looked away. "I wanted to see my Mom."

Steve stopped in surprise. If Brian had stopped by the jail, surely somebody would have told them about it? He schooled his expression to mild interest. "Did you see her?"

Brian dropped his head. "Naw. They won't let you visit jail unless you got a adult with you."

"Maybe you should have asked the Millers, then. They'd take you."

Brian shrugged once more. "I wanted to go by myself."

"Oh." Steve hesitated. "Did the guard send you away?"

"Didn't go in."

"You know, Brian, if you need somebody to take you to your Mom, all you need to do is ask. I could even take you, if you want. Just don't disappear."

Brian looked at him again with one of those intent stares that Steve wasn't sure how to read. He tried not to sigh as he placed one hand casually on the tray rack and leaned a little. Funny - his walking was much better, but just standing sure seemed to take a lot out of him. He glanced at the small collection of café tables and chairs longingly.

"Look, why don't we sit down to talk about this? I'll buy you a soda or something."

Brian stuck his lip out. "I'm supposed to be working."

"Sure, but you must get a break sometime. Besides, there's not a customer in sight. Must be your slow time."

Brian shifted his feet. "Catering gets most of the business. Okay, but if somebody comes, I gotta wait on them."

"Fair enough." Relieved, Steve pulled out his wallet. "Pick out something and I'll pay for it."

Brian picked out a can of soda and Steve added one for himself and waited while Brian rang it up. Accepting his change, Steve lead the way to one of the tables and tried not to sit down too abruptly. In spite of himself, he closed his eyes briefly to compensate for the change in elevation. He saw Brian eyeing him curiously and forced a smile, popping the top of his soda and taking a quick sip. That definitely helped.

"So - did your Dad play ball with you?" He knew he was taking a big risk, introducing a topic as volatile as a recently deceased father, but it seemed like the quickest way to get where he needed to go.

Brian seemed more pensive than distraught, though. "Naw, my Dad wasn't into sports. He liked to watch, though. Always came whenever he was in town. He traveled a lot."

"Yeah, I heard that. My Dad isn't much into playing sports, either, but we watch together. Shoot hoops sometimes. Golf." He took a deep mental breath. Now for the big one. "Who told you when it happened? Your Mom?"

Brian's face blanked out like an unplugged light bulb. There was a long, silent pause, where Brian stared his best and emptiest stare. Steve didn't look away. After a seemingly endless stretch of time, Brian dropped his eyes. "I was at school," he mumbled.

Steve pressed a little. "You sure?" he asked gently.

Brian's face grew red. "You can check."

Steve tried to catch his eyes again. "You know, Brian, you won't be hurting anyone if you tell me. You may even be helping your Mom."

Brian glared at him. "My Mom wouldn't hurt anybody."

"Okay. Prove it. Tell me the truth. Were you there?"

Brian got redder. "Why are you pretending you care? You're the one who sent her to jail anyway. You said she was guilty. I remember your name from the paper. Sloan."

Steve blinked, then his brow cleared. "I think you're thinking of my father."

That distracted Brian for a second. "You're father's a cop?"

"No, my father's a doctor." And, at the expression on Brian's face, "He works as a consultant for the police sometimes."

Brian's frown deepened. "He said my Mom's guilty?"

Steve squirmed. "He - it's a theory."

"You don't believe your own Dad?"

Steve kneaded the spot between his eyes viciously. Et tu, Brian? "It's not that I don't - " he sucked air in slowly between his teeth. "I just - don't think the evidence supporting it is all that strong. I don't want to send your mother to prison without better evidence. That's what you want too, right?"

Brian's expression was inscrutable. "Then who do you think did do it?"

"I don't know. But I intend to find out."

Whatever Brian had meant to answer was interrupted by the entrance of a large family - two parents, four children and what looked to be a grandmother. Brian stood up. "I gotta work."

Steve nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. Timing really was everything. "All right. I'll be right back."

He needed to make a phone call and find out if Cheryl was on her way. If she wasn't, he needed to see who else could back him up. He hadn't wanted to ask for backup earlier since he had assumed Cheryl would be along soon and that the sight of a squad car would spook Brian, but maybe there was a plainclothes in the area who could scoot over and give him a hand. He stepped just outside the building entrance and fished his cell phone out of his pocket, bolstering one shoulder against the wall for support. Much as he hated to admit it, he was fading fast. Maybe this road trip had taken a little more of a toll than he had anticipated.

He squinted hard at the tiny numbers on the face of the cell phone and hit "on", then one of the speed dial numbers, and held it to his ear. It was silent. Surprised, he tried again. Nothing. Suspicious, he focused hard on the little display window and groaned out loud. Battery low - oh, damn, of course it was - it had been days since he'd even thought about recharging it. He rolled from his shoulder to his back, letting his eyes drop shut for just a second. Cheryl, I sure hope you're on your way. He probably should have asked her where this woman she was going to see was located, but at the time it hadn't seemed important. He opened his eyes again and skimmed them around the parking lot. There was a pay phone near the middle of the mall, right where the concrete curb met the tarmac. It looked about a thousand miles away, but he didn't see that he really had any other option.

He shot a quick glance over his shoulder into the deli, saw that Brian was still busy at the cash register. The grandmother seemed to be taking a long time to make a decision and, with any luck, she would take a little longer. He nudged himself erect and started the long trudge to the pay phone, smiling the faintest bit. Pretty sad, for a man who jogged a few miles every morning as a general rule. Sloan, you are not the man you were. Because I don't think you thought this one through quite as clearly as you could have, either. Of course, it had been sort of an emergency and it had thrown him, being pulled out of a sound sleep like that…

He could tell the slant in his walk had grown more pronounced again, a sure sign that he was wearing out. So, what did you learn here today, Steve? he jeered himself. Besides that maybe, just maybe, you should have let Jesse check you out before you went anyplace? Didn't get much out of Brian Fuller and probably panicked him in the bargain. Maybe it's time you took yourself off this case - just went peacefully. Even that kid thinks that you should be listening to your father. Is it really worth being so stubborn about?

He reached the pay phone and braced himself against it, releasing an involuntary grunt of relief. Fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a handful of change and scattered it over the metal shelf under the phone. Painstakingly, he picked out twenty-five cents - or hoped he did, because things were showing a funny tendency to go double again. He lifted the receiver and guided the change carefully to the slot, listening as it tumbled into the mechanism, then squinted as hard as he could and mashed the numbers in what he hoped was the right sequence. There was a pause, then a voice came on explaining that that call would cost fifty cents. He heard the twenty-five cents he had dropped in with so much effort tumble merrily back into the coin tray and swore softly but fluently under his breath, dropping the receiver. Oh, great. Now he had to try and get fifty cents in that damned tiny slot that kept splitting into multi-slots? When the hell did a local call get to be fifty cents? It was outrageous. Maybe he should arrest the pay phone for extortion. It would be about the most effective police work he had done recently.

He gave himself a second to catch his breath and tightened his grip on the phone box, waiting for the pavement under his feet to stop its gentle undulating. Not good. If he didn't get horizontal soon, he was going to risk a humiliating collapse in the parking lot - culminating, no doubt, in an ambulance ride to Community General…

The thought of arriving at the Emergency Room on a gurney and having to explain this to both his Dad and Jesse gave him the strength he needed and he picked up the dangling receiver and tried again, scrupulously directing each coin at what he thought was the real slot. The first three clunked reassuringly into the machine, the fourth dropped from his surprisingly unsteady fingers and disappeared somewhere on the tarmac. The receiver slid from his shoulder and bounced against the pay phone stand. Steve swore again, with more fervor this time. Well, at least he knew better than to bend over for it…he poked through his selection of change, grumbling to himself. This, he thought irritably, was what happened in a world where everything was designed for the comfort of right-handers. Everything was set up awkwardly for people like him. It was unreasonable, when you thought about it…he coaxed the quarter into the telephone and heard the solid sound of it making its way through the instrument…because it would take so little to provide a few convenient versions for left-handers. There were certainly enough of them in the world to make it worthwhile - a pretty decent percentage of the population. In fact, there were also plenty of people who…he stopped suddenly, frozen by that thought. Plenty of people who…the idea sounded suddenly loud in his brain. He caught his breath, closing his eyes tightly, letting it settle.

He was distantly aware of James Earl Jones' mellifluous tones in his ear, thanking him for using a Verizon pay phone, just barely heard the mechanical female voice that replaced it, asking him to enter his telephone number. Most of his mind was intent on going back through what he knew of the case, piece by piece, turning every picture over in his brain, seeing it from another angle. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of that before? The pieces fell into place with an almost audible click.

He was so involved with his sudden insight that it took him a moment to become aware of another sound, somewhere not too far off, of a woman screaming. He looked up to see who needed help, spotted a girl standing in front of the discount women's clothing store, her mouth opening and closing in another scream. His eyes followed the direction her arm was pointing. Even then it took him about a heartbeat too long to register the headlights of the Crown Victoria sedan that seemed to be growing very large, very close, very fast.

He lifted his eyes higher just for an instant: just long enough to note the quiet, intent, focused expression on Brian Fuller's face behind the wheel. The same expression he had had in the photos when he was waiting, poised at home plate, for a pitch. The same expression he had had when he had stood in the entryway of the Fuller home and swung a baseball bat at Steve's head.

?

?

Chapter 13

?

"Didn't expect to see you here."

Mark glanced up from the chart he was studying and smiled thinly. "Hi, Jess. Didn't expect to be here, to tell the truth. But I got called in about Doris Claybourne and then - "

Jesse grinned understandingly. "Four patients later you're still here?"

"Five." Mark scrawled something on the chart, then read it again. "However, this is the last one. After I finish here, I am going home."

"Great." Jesse poured himself a cup of coffee, tasted it and made a face. "Why don't I go with you? I promised Steve I'd stop by."

"Yeah, he told me." Mark made another note. "That's nice of you."

"I don't mind. Kind of wanted to see him for myself anyway. How's he doin'?"

Mark's smile deepened. "Just like you'd expect. Restless. Bored. Fretting."

"Well, the restless and the bored I expected - what's he fretting about?"

Mark closed the chart. "Oh, this Fuller case. Sure seems to be intent on it."

"Oh." Jesse became very interested in his coffee. "Well. You know how it is - gotta have a good case before you go to trial. I mean, no point in going to trial unless you have a good…" he trailed off uncomfortably.

Mark glanced up at him in mild surprise. "I know that, Jesse. Did you hear that Brian Fuller has disappeared?"

Jesse stopped trying to memorize the contents of his coffee cup. "No. Really?"

"What's this about Brian Fuller?" Mark turned his attention to the door as Amanda breezed in and went directly to the coffeepot. "I didn't expect to see you here, Mark. How's Steve?"

"Steve is doing fine and Brian Fuller is missing."

"Really." Amanda paused in pouring her coffee. "Since when?"

"They're not exactly sure, but almost forty-eight hours at the least. Steve's taking it kind of personally."

Jesse scrunched up his forehead. "What's he think he could do about it?"

"Oh, you know how he is. Thinks anything that happens on his turf is his responsibility."

Jesse nodded, sipping the coffee again and then reaching for the sugar. "They have any leads on him?"

"I don't know. Cheryl was stopping by to go over things - maybe they'll have a break by the time we get there."

"Wow." Jesse blinked distastefully at his coffee. "Wonder what that means. Maybe Steve's right after all and it wasn't Madge Fuller who did it."

Mark stopped mid-sip, his eyebrows twitching together. "What's that?"

"I said maybe - uh…" Jesse's face grew blank, his mouth frozen at half-mast and thoughts visibly racing behind his eyes as he tried to think of a way to turn the conversation in midstream.

"He said that's an interesting development," Amanda contributed helpfully.

Jesse shot her a grateful glance.

Mark's mouth curled at the corners as he shifted his eyes with amused affection from one to the other. "That's funny - because it sounded just like he said that Steve didn't think that Madge Fuller did it."

"Oh, well - " Jesse pinned on a hopeful smile. "It might have sounded like that, but - um - what I meant - "

"Jesse," Mark's fixed him with a pointed blue gaze. Jesse cleared his throat and winced. Amanda tossed him an exasperated stare. "Steve doesn't think that Madge Fuller is the killer? Why didn't he say anything to me?"

"He didn't say anything to you?" Jesse adjusted his face into an expression of peerless innocence. Mark just looked at him, and Jesse's expression dissolved. He dropped his eyes quickly back to his coffee.

Amanda pulled up a chair between them. "I think he was just a little embarrassed to mention it, Mark," she offered soothingly. "He can't really remember why he feels that way and there's no evidence and he's suffering from a head wound that makes his credibility a little shaky - I think he just wanted to have a few more facts before he said anything."

Mark nodded genially. "And yet he evidently said something to both of you." This time Amanda looked uncomfortable. Mark leaned his forearms on the table. "I don't understand. Obviously, I'm not supposed to know about this, but why? It's not like Steve and I have never disagreed on a suspect. Why the conspiracy of secrecy?" Jesse and Amanda looked at each other, looked away. "Now come on," Mark coaxed, "I know Steve's been troubled about something - if this is it, I'd like to know about it. What exactly has been going on?"

Amanda's face melted. "Mark, it's really nothing - he just has it stuck in his head that it wasn't Madge Fuller and he doesn't really even know why he feels that way himself. He didn't want you to think that he was questioning your conclusions without good reason."

"But why?" Mark was honestly bewildered. "He's never hesitated to question them before."

"Well," Amanda glared meaningfully at Jesse, "I think maybe he got the idea somewhere that he was questioning your conclusions because subconsciously he was tired of you working on his cases."

Jesse's head shot up indignantly. "I told you, I meant to put it a lot better than that!" Mark's face changed, and he looked intently from one to the other. "Mark," Jesse pleaded. "I didn't mean it like that. I just got to thinking what it might be like if my Dad was around all the time - you know - questioning my diagnoses and recommending treatment on my patients, and I thought - I mean, Steve - I just…" he trailed off helplessly, running his hands nervously through his hair.

"I see." Mark leaned slowly back in his chair.

"Don't look like that," Jesse groaned. "Your situation with Steve is entirely different. Not the same thing at all. I just meant - "

"Don't be silly, Jesse. You have nothing to apologize for." Mark forced a troubled smile. "On the contrary, I think I owe you a thank you."

Amanda reached out and touched his arm. "Mark - I'm sure Steve doesn't really feel that way - "

"It's all right Amanda," he patted the hand on his arm pensively. "Jesse makes a very good point. One that I sometimes forget to think about. I think I need to have a talk with my son." He glanced down at the chart he'd finished. "I'm done with this chart if you want to go now, Jesse. What about you, Amanda? Want to come along?"

??????????????? Amanda shook her head. "I have two more hours on shift, and two boys returning with a lot of laundry. I'd better pass."

"All right - Jesse?"

Jesse hesitated. "Look, Mark…you're not mad?"

"Of course not." Mark gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "You were only trying to look out for a friend. I think that's a pretty nice quality to have. And if you'll go now, I promise to make you a lot better coffee than that when we get to the beach house."

Jesse grimaced at the sludge in his cup and obligingly tossed it in the sink. "I'm right behind you. Say, Mark…" Mark stopped by the door and lifted his eyebrows questioningly. "Even if Steve decides he doesn't want you working on his cases any more - " Jesse gave him a brilliant, self-deprecating smile. "Um - he'll still probably let me work on them, don't you think?"

Mark burst out laughing. "Go," he ordered with mock severity. "Now."

?

*

?"No car," Jesse pointed out as they pulled into the driveway. "Cheryl must have come and gone."

Mark glanced at his watch. "Well, I have been gone a little longer than I intended. I suppose she had to get back to work." He led the way to the front door, calling up the stairs as soon as it was open, "Steve? I have Jesse with me - " He mounted the stairs and dropped his keys on the table near the top, looking around. "Probably napping," he murmured to Jesse, lowering his voice. "He'll never admit it, but he falls asleep at the drop of a hat. I'll check the guest room."

"Well, that's good anyway. Sometimes our bodies manage to outsmart us. I'll start the coffee." Jesse cut over to the kitchen and pulled out the coffee canister. He was just measuring it into the coffeemaker when Mark walked in a few minutes later, his face vaguely troubled. Jesse raised his eyebrows at the change of expression. "He okay?"

"He's not there." Mark's eyes drifted out to the deck, scoping from one end to the other. "I can't imagine where he'd be. Unless…" he frowned. "He did say he was hoping to move back downstairs tonight."

"I'll check." Jesse abandoned the coffee and bounded down the stairs two at a time. He returned a short time later, moving much more slowly. Mark had the coffee started. "No sign of him," he said reluctantly in answer to Mark's questioning look. "I'm pretty sure from the look of things that he hasn't been down there since he came home."

Mark sighed. "Well, I didn't think so - he told me he was going to try and persuade me to let him move back down there tonight, but I thought maybe he needed something down there and…" he trailed off, his frown deepening. "You don't suppose he went somewhere with Cheryl, do you?" He pushed a cup of coffee toward Jesse.

Jesse took a grateful sip. "I don't know," he admitted slowly.

"He was determined to follow your directions when I left, though - I really think he meant it."

"Yeah, well, he can be pretty hard headed sometimes - talk himself into thinking he's doing just that. That's why I made such a detailed list."

Despite himself, Mark smiled slightly. "Yeah - I saw." There came the sound of the front door opening and Mark immediately abandoned his coffee and strode toward the entry. "Steve?" he called as he walked. He saw Cheryl's surprised face in the doorway and didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that she was alone.

"I'm sorry - " she apologized as she mounted the stairs. "I've been letting myself in to save Steve getting up. Where is he? I have some news for him."

"We were just wondering that ourselves."

Jesse had followed Mark and was standing by the table, reading something he'd found tossed there. "Say, you know what? I forgot I told him he could try a gentle beach walk in a couple of days. I bet he went out to get some air."

The tension melted from Mark's face. "Of course. It's been killing him to be stuck inside with only the deck for escape. Of course, I just may kill him myself for not leaving a note…"

"Probably thought he'd be back before you got here." Jesse cackled as he re-read his list. "Hey, I forgot some of these. They're pretty good."

"Mm. Very amusing." Mark's good humor was fully restored. "Cheryl, can I offer you some coffee? My prodigal son should be back soon."

"I'd love some." Cheryl trailed him into the kitchen. "I have some big news for him."

Mark pulled out a cup and filled it from the decanter. "Well, why don't you tell us while we wait? Serve him right for not leaving a note."

Cheryl added a judicious amount of cream to the mug Mark handed her and stirred. "Well, I'm dying to tell somebody…I got a call today letting me know that they'd been able to trace David Fuller's mysterious missing funds. Went out to talk to the lady they'd been given to. Maybe you've even heard of her. Julia Locksley?"

Mark sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Sounds familiar - but I can't quite place it."

"Dr. Julia Locksley?" Jesse piped up.

Cheryl nodded. "That's right."

"You remember her, Mark - " Jesse nudged him. "She's made some really amazing strides in behavioral medicine. I read her latest paper - brilliant."

"Of course!" Mark's face cleared. "Dr. Locksley. She runs a clinic a little way up the coast, doesn't she? I remember now - she's made some very impressive advances." He paused suddenly. "You don't mean she was having an affair with David Fuller?"

Cheryl smiled. "No. That's not what the money was about. It was for her services."

Mark's eyebrows jumped. "David Fuller was seeking Dr. Locksley's services?"

"Not for himself," Cheryl explained quickly. "For his son. Seems he'd been displaying some odd behaviors over the last year or so and the family doctor had him sent to a specialist. The specialist thought he was demonstrating early signs of schizophrenia."

Mark gave a low whistle. "Well, that's about the age it starts to show up in boys, all right. But I don't understand - why keep the money a secret? That's certainly a legitimate use of funds. If anyone I knew was showing signs of schizophrenia, I'd want them to see Dr. Locksley too."

"Well, that's where it gets more complicated. Evidently, Mrs. Fuller strongly objected to the diagnosis and was sure it was just growing pains - something he'd get over. She was terrified that a label of mental illness would be a stigma he'd never overcome - that it would terminate a promising potential sports scholarship and make him a pariah at school. She wanted to give it time and see how it developed. Mr. Fuller wanted to seek immediate and aggressive treatment."

Mark looked pensive. "Well, as much as I sympathize with Mrs. Fuller, I have to agree with Mr. Fuller. The sooner Brian could be on the proper medication, the better. Schizophrenia is a very tricky illness. Immediate, consistent treatment is essential to the patient's even trying to cope with normal society. So Mr. Fuller set it up behind Mrs. Fuller's back?"

Cheryl nodded. "Dr. Locksley said they fought about it every time he was in town - put a lot of strain on their marriage. At one point, he gave Mrs. Fuller a big check and told her to take care of it while he was away - when he came back, she said she had, that everything was under control, but he eventually figured out that she was lying to him. Never did find out what she did with the money - just stashed it, probably. But he decided for his son's sake that he'd better take things into his own hands and worked it out with Dr. Locksley in person to disguise the transfer of funds. I don't know how he planned to pull it off, but evidently he was determined to get his son to Cliffside, Dr. Locksley's clinic, and into care as soon as possible."

"But he never got the chance." Mark grew sober. "A mother protecting her young can be a formidable force to deal with. And trying to accept that a child may be facing chronic, persistent pain and suffering is more than a lot of parents can bear - I've seen it again and again. Can take a long time to accept. Some never do. I applaud Mr. Fuller's courage." He bent to sip his coffee, noticed Jesse pacing back and forth in front of the windows facing the deck, peering this way and that through them. "Jesse, what on earth are you doing?"

Jesse turned around, his face a study in startled surprise. "Huh? Oh - I figured - figured Steve couldn't have gone too far. Thought maybe I'd see him walking back. Was gonna run out and meet him halfway. Walk with him."

Mark swallowed a smile and nodded knowingly. "And tell him that you spilled the beans to me about Madge Fuller?"

Jesse gave a weak laugh. "If - you know - if it came up in conversation…"

Mark got up and gazed out the windows over his shoulder. "See him?"

"Um - no." Jesse squirmed a little. "I thought maybe I'd just go - you know - take a look."

Mark looked both directions, up and down the beach, his frown suddenly returning. "You can see an awfully long way from here, can't you?" he remarked thoughtfully.

Jesse looked even more uncomfortable. "Yeah…possible he overshot and needed to rest before he came back." But Mark wasn't listening - he was staring straight ahead as though looking at something else. Suddenly he exclaimed under his breath and turned to walk out of the kitchen. "What?" Jesse ran to catch up and Cheryl slid off of her stool to follow. "Mark, what?"

"The guest room…" Mark lead the way into the guest room, went directly to the chair holding the duffel bag. "It didn't really register when I was in here earlier, but…his jacket was on this chair before."

"So?" Jesse didn't like where this was leading. "He probably took it on his walk. That ocean breeze is pretty strong."

Mark upended the duffel over the bed. A pile of clothing fell out and he rooted through it. "Well, here's his gun." His face was suddenly grim. "But no wallet, no badge, no telephone."

??????????????? Jesse shifted. "He could have taken them with him on his walk too," he suggested unconvincingly.

"Maybe." Mark's frown deepened. "He must have left word somewhere. Cheryl, you didn't hear from him at all?"

??????????????? Cheryl raised her brows. "Nothing on my cell. I haven't checked with the station, though. I came to see Steve right away."

Mark tried to smile. "Would you mind - ?"

Cheryl shrugged and picked up the bedside phone. She dialed in a few codes and then listened. Mark watched her face intently, his stomach doing a slow slide to his shoes as he saw her smile evaporate. She hung up the phone slowly and turned around. "Well, he did leave me a message."

Mark breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, good - at least we know where he is!"

"Yeah - he's at the South Beach strip mall - asked me to meet him there as soon as I could." Even as she was talking, Cheryl was making her way back to the front door, checking her gun and badge and picking up her purse.

Mark kept pace with her. "South Beach strip mall - what on earth is he doing there?"

Cheryl had her keys out. "Evidently I got a call after I left - Brian Fuller showed up for work at the South Beach strip mall. Steve went to keep an eye on him until I could get there."

Jesse stopped in surprise. "Just showed up for work?"

"Looks like." Cheryl glanced at her watch. "I'm going there now. I'll check back with you guys later."

Mark was already retrieving his own car keys. "Cheryl, you must know we're going with you. Or without you, if you prefer, but we're going."

Cheryl sighed. "Yeah, but it was worth a try. Just do me a favor and try and remember who's there in an official capacity?"

"I promise to do my best. Once I find out what that son of mine is up to. Besides, you may need us. If Brian Fuller is an untreated schizophrenic, his behavior could very unpredictable - it will help to have medical personnel along. Jesse, you riding with me?"

Jesse grabbed his jacket by the door. "You bet."

Cheryl slid Mark a sideways glance as he locked the front door behind them. "When you say "unpredictable" - what exactly does that mean? Dangerous?"

Mark pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No, no - not usually. To themselves, more often than not. High suicide rate. Now, an unmedicated patient who suffers from chronic paranoia or psychotic episodes can sometimes be a danger, to friends and family, mostly, but it's not really - " He stopped abruptly, as if hearing his own words play back to him and not liking them. He winced. "Let's - just get going, shall we?"

Cheryl nodded, striding ahead. "I'm going to call and see if there's anybody in the mall area who can get there ahead of me. If I have to hit the siren don't try to keep pace, just get there when you can!"

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Chapter 14

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The curb, probably, was what saved his life: the front wheels bumped up over it, slowing the car's momentum just enough to ameliorate the impact. He belatedly tried to jump, a wavering lurch that was more of a fall, and felt himself slide upward the length of the hood, felt the safety glass of the windshield give with a crunch as his back rammed against it, felt the bounce that sent him corckscrewing off again, the sky disappearing and reappearing in flashes of sickening sequence, finally tossing him to the pavement so that he careened across it like an askew slide to home plate. When his long slide finally came to a halt he lay still for a moment, the sky and asphalt still switching places so rapidly that he couldn't have said for sure that he wasn't still in motion. It was the faint, electric sting in his palms and cheek where they were pressed against parking lot that finally tugged at his consciousness and he tried to push himself up, hissing ferociously at the fire that erupted in his hands. Damn. Hunching, bracing his forehead against the tarmac, he tried his forearms instead. He made it halfway up, his back heaving like a bellows, before dropping down flat again. Maybe he'd just stay here until…until…

He heard the screamer start up again, wanted to press his hands over his ears and block her out, but old habits die hard and he instinctively forced his eyes open to slits to check for trouble. Huh. Didn't the world used to be in color…? The ground was heaving underneath him now and he longed to close his eyes again until it stopped, but he became vaguely aware of a loud humming noise, like the approach of an over-sized hornet, the high-pitched squeal of rubber under stress, and opened them further instead.

What…? He wasn't - ? Sure enough, Brian Fuller was wheeling his sedan for another approach. Was he crazy? Vehicular homicide on a cop in broad daylight? In front of witnesses…?

He rolled awkwardly onto one shoulder, clutching at the pavement for balance, blinking to clear his vision. Then he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of one eye and his heart crowded into his throat: the blurry figure of the screamer running towards him as if to help him up.

No - he managed an unspecific wave in her direction to signal her back. Sucking in what breath he could, he choked out, "911! Officer in trouble!", then collapsed in an explosion of coughing. Oh, this was not good…

??????????????? He curled into a ball, trying to pull in slow breaths, blinking at the black spots that danced across his vision, even behind his eyelids. Enough, enough, Sloan - get up, get moving…Breathing hard, he forced himself onto his back and up on his elbows, tried to place himself and take stock. Damn, this place was full of innocent bystanders. All he needed -

The sound of Brian's engine rose to a roar and he glanced hastily over his shoulder, crabbing clumsily backward until he felt the side of the nearest car bump up against his shoulders. Stretching flat, he crammed himself underneath it. At least Fuller'd have to get out of the car to get to him under here. That would give him a minute to think and the girl some time to…he paused, puzzled, listening, then with his heart quickening in his ears. That car didn't seem to be slowing down. He wasn't going to…? Son of a -

He scrabbled forward wildly, groped frantically for the undercarriage of the car in front of the one he'd taken refuge under, swore again as his raw palms made painful contact with the metal of the muffler. Pushing himself forward with his heels, he managed to swing one arm around a rear tire and yank himself clear of the first car, just as, with a boom of impact and screech of tearing metal, it swung in a violent torque, ricocheting off of the car he was using as a shield so that it jumped against its shocks, rotating a few inches and caroming him off the inside of the tires. He coughed again, trying to snatch back his breath, grit his teeth until they ached, swallowing repeatedly to force his stomach back down out of his throat. Crap, that hurt.

He set his teeth on edge and listened, praying he could lie here for just a second and re-gather his energy. Come on, come on - that must have done some damage to something…Water pump? Engine? Something - that car can't be nearly as frisky, I don't care what kind of a crash frame it's got… heard the screaming spin of wheels, chewed his lower lip, hoping to distinguish direction. Fleeing, or…? Oh, God. Coming back for another try.

??????????????? Pulling in one more staggered breath, he dragged himself out from under the car by his elbows, allowed himself just a moment to collect his wind, letting his head hang limply between his arms. You're just gonna have to suck it up this time, Sloan, because there's really no time for you to be sick here...

He rose as far as his knuckles and knees, struggled to the base of a nearby light pole tucked between two parked cars and collapsed into sitting position against it. He leaned his head back and tried to think. He was sure that Brian would not hesitate to ram the pole and crush him between it and the car, but he also knew he was going to have to come back around the other side to get a good head of steam to do it, and that would give him at least a heartbeat to come up with a plan of action.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to settle the jumping, wavering world, then opened them again, trying to look around and take stock. There weren't nearly enough cars in this parking lot to play a successful game of hide and seek, besides - he didn't have a whole lot of reserves left to play with. The spiderweb of cracks his body had left on the Crown Victoria's windshield had succeeded in impairing Brian's vision, making it almost as poor as his own, and that was buying him a few precious seconds. He needed to get someplace that the car couldn't follow. The stores were the safest bet, but Brian would almost certainly follow him over the curb, and that would risk any number of innocent shoppers. The parking lot was almost as bad - shoppers could arrive at any second and be crushed and killed in the melee. He needed some kind of cover, but far away from everybody else. An itch of moisture tickled his ear and he rubbed irritably at it with the back of his hand, made a face when he gleaned through his hazy vision that his hand was now smeared with red. That had better not be from his stitches, or Jesse was going to kill him.

He heard the purring roar of an accelerating engine and winced. Always assuming that Brian Fuller didn't beat him to it.

*

?

Cheryl cursed quietly as she pulled onto the highway, glancing in her rearview mirror to see if the doctor was still following. He was. Of course.

That was what you got for partnering with a guy like Sloan - a coterie of trailing civilians and a bad case of perpetual heartburn: the guy just never seemed to know when to give up or back down. Her frown twisted into a faintly sardonic smile. She could never quite decide if that was the thing she loved most or hated most about him. Today she'd vote for hate. She turned on the police radio and reached for the microphone. Before she could call in her request, the speaker crackled.

"All units - 911 call from South Beach mall. Officer in trouble. Officer in trouble. Please respond."

Her smile disappeared. Officer in trouble. Of course there was. She thumbed the button on the mike. "Officer responding. ETA ten minutes. Over." Sloan, I'd better find you relaxing over a cup of coffee with Brian Fuller, or I'm going to - going to - She slammed down the microphone. Well, I don't know what - but I'll think of something. Slapping the cherry light onto the car roof she flicked on the siren and hammered her foot on the accelerator.

*

His eyes flew open, his heart trip hammering high and fast in his temples. He had been out - only for a second, but a second was more than he could afford. He could pass out later - now he needed to keep moving. Which was in itself pretty laughable, because his body felt as inert and immovable as stone. He heard the whine of an engine and coughed to coax his sluggish lungs back into action. Thanks, Brian - nothing like a little incentive…

He thought he spotted something across the parking lot - it was hard to be sure, the way it was shimmying like a mirage in the distance, but…he narrowed his eyes and concentrated until his head swam - almost smiled. A dumpster. Yeah. That'd do it. Now all he needed to do was get to it without becoming a hood ornament first. He braced his feet and tried to push himself upright, fell back almost as quickly with a ragged jounce that made sparks cluster in front of his eyes. He reached out to catch himself, remembered his hands too late, choked on a cry as his abraded palms ground into the tarmac. He had lost the energy to swear except in vague, unspoken, half-formed expletives - he didn't have the breath to waste on them anyway. He tipped forward onto his knees, looking for the Crown Victoria, listening hopefully for signs of a hitch in the engine. Damn thing sounded as hearty as ever. Was it indestructible? Where the heck did they get it, anyway - from Stephen King?

There was a small concrete divider a short ways off sporting three young trees - maybe four - he had to admit he couldn't be sure any more - and he blinked at it thoughtfully. That was the direction he wanted to go in…and those trees might slow Brian down a little. He was almost subconsciously aware of a pattern to Brian's attacks - they were systematic, consistent - not hurried. If he'd been in a little better shape, he probably would have been able to elude him by now. He listened carefully, could hear the engine humming in his direction, got ready to move. Not too soon - he didn't want to give Brian a chance to change course - needed him to kiss that light pole. Not too late, either, his brain warned him - your agility is not your most reliable quality right now. He saw the car skidding toward him, careening onto two wheels - God, David Fuller thought this car would make his son less reckless? - pushed himself into a sloppy football crouch. Don't panic, don't panic, just another second, just…oh, hell - what a time for that double vision thing to kick in - which one…? He took a chance and threw himself to the side at the last possible moment, must have misjudged slightly, because a sledgehammer blow exploded on his upper thigh and suddenly he was airborne, landing with a bone-jarring thump in another long skid across the pavement, plowing through the gravel on his side this time. He felt the knee of his jeans disintegrate under him and any remaining flesh on his palms peel away, heard the squealing of brakes as Brian Fuller tried to slow his momentum toward the light pole and the booming concussion of metal on metal as he didn't quite succeed.

He lay struggling to get up, to remain conscious, to remember how to breathe. The edges of everything were indistinct now, shrouded in a muffled grey. Sounds were far away, echoing, but he still made out the rumble of an engine being thrown into reverse. He struggled harder to rise, squirming unsuccessfully like a bug pinned to an examination board. He managed to lift his head and thought he saw the concrete island he had been hoping to reach not too far away. As he watched, it swung upside down so that the trees were rooted in the sky, swung back again, split into half a dozen trees. He dropped his head. Where the heck was his backup? If this was the average response time for a 911 call, then he was going to…if he survived, he was going to…he heard the engine rise to a whine and strained to force himself back to his knees. The leg that had glanced off the car gave way under him and he just stopped himself from hitting the pavement again, teetering precariously on one knee. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black blur of movement that was Brian Fuller's car.

…if he survived, actually, he was going to have a heck of a lot of explaining to do. Because he had a sinking suspicion that this was exactly the kind of thing that fell under Jesse's heading of "derring-do".

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Chapter 15

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Mark's brows twitched together as he watched Cheryl slap her light onto the roof of the car and heard the beginning wail of the siren. "Cheryl's pulling out…" he remarked uneasily to Jesse.

Jesse watched. "Yeah. Maybe she got another call."

Mark shook his head slowly. "I don't think she'd take it, under the circumstances, unless it was urgent."

"Maybe it was."

"Mm…" Mark sat for a second, undecided, his instincts itching uncomfortably, then abruptly made a decision and yanked his car out of traffic to follow Cheryl's rapidly diminishing rear fender. "Then again…"

Jesse watched what he was doing with growing unease. "Mark, she said not to try to keep up if she had to…what are you doing?"

Mark steered his car around the lane of waiting vehicles, clenching his teeth a little. This looked so much easier on TV…"Tailing her. Just in case she took a call about South Beach mall. If it was about someplace else, I'll pull over when we get to the mall - no harm done."

"No harm done!" Jesse's voice rose. "Now you sound just like Steve! Mark, Cheryl's in an official police vehicle, and you're not - you're going to get pulled over for speeding!"

Mark was concentrating hard on leaning in on the accelerator while still maintaining control of the car. "If we get stopped I'll - just explain that I'm with Cheryl."

"Oh, yeah - that'll be a big hit! You know how much Steve loves it when you do that kind of thing?"

Mark chuckled a little, even though he was staring intently ahead, focused on catching up with Cheryl's cruiser. "Oh, yeah."

"Well, I have a feeling that Cheryl will love it even less!"

"Mm hm." All Mark's energy was centered on his driving now. "Well, we'll cross that one when we come to it. Don't worry, I know - " he winced involuntarily as the car slewed for an instant, but wrestled it back under control. "what I'm doing," he finished weakly.

He nudged the speed a little higher, purposely ignoring the speedometer. After all, what you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? They had to almost be there…and he just plain had a bad feeling…

They slid into a turn, the spinning wheels losing purchase with the road for a minute, then landing again with a thump that swerved them part way across the lane before righting.

Mark gulped. "See?" he offered with shaky good cheer. "Nothing to it. Um - you remembered to buckle up good and tight, right, Jess?"

*

?

His timing was off this time. Or maybe Brian Fuller was just getting impatient - tiring of the game. Either way, he knew it at once, as soon as he made his move toward the tiny island of trees - that he had moved too soon, tipped his hand. One second the car was aimed straight toward him, the next, as he rolled to the left and his oasis, it veered abruptly, accelerating loudly, instead of continuing straight ahead as he had hoped. He had an up-close glimpse of the crumpled front end, felt the heat of the overworked engine blasting on his face. He scrambled clumsily up the slight rise, the fender's growing shadow snapping at him like a hungry beast, dove between the small saplings, found himself tangled and fell into a somersault. He attempted to control his momentum with a tuck and roll, but tumbled down the other side haphazardly anyway and landed with a smack that body-slammed him against the pavement, cracking his chin resoundingly on the asphalt. For a second the world bleached away in a conflagration of white.

He twitched in a feeble, automatic effort to rise, lay limp again. Through the high pitched ringing in his ears he could just make out the screaming whine of Brian's engine, the sharp, dry report of snapping wood, the rustle of leaves. The grind-and-drop, grind-and-drop shriek from under the hood told him that Brian was hung up in the trees somehow - for the moment at least. Time to get up - to make his move. Somehow he was still just lying there.

??????????????? He felt his ragged hands try to fist on the hot tar, to get a grip on something and still the wildly swinging world. He made another feeble attempt to rise, flopped back as his damaged leg folded beneath his weight again, just managed to cushion his head with his arm before it could crack against the ground one more time. He lolled there for a moment, floating. He really didn't feel so good.

Faintly, through the roaring in his brain, he made out the continued high-pitched yowl from the Crown Victoria and he groaned, turning his head slightly. If you'd just get out of the damn car you could finish me off easy, you dumb punk, he thought dimly. He squinted blearily ahead, saw the bouncing square blob of his personal Mecca a short way - an interminable way - away. He should - he really should…his eyes fluttered shut. Too hard.

So what, Sloan? You're going to just lie here and wait to die? Give up?

He stiffened his elbows again, tried to push upward, foundered. Maybe.

Well, that'll be great - what a way for a cop to go - squashed like a bug by some half-grown teenager. He tried using his forehead and his elbows and his good knee to push this time - got a little further up, choked painfully on a throatful of air and toppled.

I tried. Let me black out in peace.

Go ahead then, you big sissy - just lie there. Nice for your Dad especially - he can come here and identify the remains as they hose them off the…

All right!

He didn't even try to rise this time, just coughed again and stretched as best he could, inched himself forward. All right - I get the point…If the ground would just stay still, this would be so much easier…

He refused to listen for the car, to even think about it - just continued his serpentine crawl until he found he could pull himself up the smallest bit, actually saw his goal in front of him, within fingertips' length. He reached forward and just brushed it, dug his toes into the tarmac and pushed himself another few inches. Okay. Almost.

Bracing his knuckles against the looming box, he maneuvered his good knee under him, pressed his forehead against the gritty metal wall and pushed himself slowly erect - more or less - thinking wistfully that just a week ago he would have been able to vault effortlessly right over the side …don't think now, thinking is not your friend - just do…if I could just rest for a second…no resting - you can rest all you want later - for now just…just…he felt with his foot for the metal notches along the side of the corrugated metal square, used one to push himself up high enough to drop his arms over the side, hung there dizzily. Good. You're doing fine. Keep going. Don't think. Don't listen. Don't stop. He felt with his other shoe for some kind of footing, slipped and dangled for a second, his weight dragging on his armpits and his feet scrabbling weakly for purchase against the dumpster's side. Mindlessly, he swung one leg, was stunned when it actually hooked over the top of the dumpster. He wriggled until he lay along the lip of the dumpster and sagged for a just moment, trying to collect himself, resting his aching skull against the metal, listening to the ugly rasping sound of the air dragging unevenly in and out of his lungs. Almost there.

There was a full-throated growl from the Crown Victoria engine and he stiffened - car must be about free. For a second he couldn't remember which way was which - which way he had to roll to take refuge inside and which way would dump him right back into Brian Fuller's path. The sky and the earth were doing a slow revolve and "up" and "down" had ceased to have any meaning. Didn't matter: in the end the decision was made for him.

??????????????? There was a deafening clang and the dumpster rocked, tearing him from his perch and flinging him against the opposite side. He felt the molded steel brand his back then he dropped like a stone, directly into the garbage. Well, at least it broke his fall. He closed his eyes. And he could lie still…

There was another hollow clang, rattling the dumpster like an earthquake. Steve reached out uncertainly with one hand to steady himself against the side, his shredded palm skidded along the surface, slipped down again.

??????????????? There was another boom of concussed metal and the dumpster shook again. Oh, give it a rest, he thought wearily. What good do you think this is doing? This ought to kill that car of yours pretty quick anyway…The walls around him reverberated with another bang, shivering his cocoon again. This must be what a pinball feels like. One thing is certain - after this? I don't ever want to try another amusement park ride, ever in my life, ever again.

The ringing in his ears was louder now, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. There was something familiar about it, but it was much too much trouble to figure out what. Almost seemed to be getting nearer, too. The walls around him rang again, convulsing violently. He closed his eyes more tightly and burrowed into the garbage to anchor himself. The ringing in his ears started to sound friendly to him, like the whistles on the trains he had played with as a kid. Woo…woooo…he almost smiled, let things grow fuzzier around the edges. All he needed to do now was hold on for…hold on…for something. He couldn't quite remember what.

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Chapter 16

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Cheryl replaced the radio mike. Good - a unit in the area would meet her there - things were looking up. She glanced in her rear view mirror, did a double take. If she had been going at a slower speed that didn't require so much of her concentration, she would have been tempted to take a second to bang her head against the steering wheel. Not that it would help. She had told him not to try to keep up - hadn't she told him that? Did he ever listen to anyone? He probably didn't even have training for driving at these speeds…wonderful if she was going to have to explain to Steve how his father had lost his life riding in hot pursuit with her. Always assuming that Steve himself was still in any condition…really, those two deserved each other - both making her old before her time. Like father, like son.

She saw the mall entrance speeding toward her, spun the wheel to take it at a run. The red and blue flash of a patrol car's lights across the parking lot made her smile. Good. A little assistance. Professional assistance. Despite her determination not to, she peeked in her rearview mirror to see how Dr. Sloan had managed the turn, grinned involuntarily when she saw he was doing just fine. Irritating man. How old was he, anyway, to be doing this sort of thing? Poor Dr. Travis didn't seem quite so well off, though - looked a little green around the gills.

She vaulted from her car and went directly toward the patrol car, glancing around her. The lot had looked fairly normal at first, but now she could see signs of some sort of turmoil - a car with the hood popped, belching steam; a tumbled tree lying crushed on the pavement; a pay phone listing at an odd angle with the receiver off the hook and banging in the breeze; a crowd of shoppers rimming the parking lot in front of the mall but making no move to go to their cars. She noticed now that the patrol car was pulled alongside a Crown Victoria and noted the color and year in her mind. Could be Brian Fuller's. Would make sense. As she got closer, she could see that one of the officers had his gun drawn and was saying something to the driver. She patted her own gun reassuringly, just in case. Even closer, she could tell that the front end of the car had seen better days and that it was nosed up against a dumpster, which was looking a little chipped and mangled too. Now she was close enough to make out the conversation, and she heard the officer say flatly, "Step out of the car, please."

"But I'm not finished."

The driver's voice sounded calm and matter of fact, and something in the tone made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She glanced around the parking lot again. Where the heck was…? "What have we got, fellas?"

The officer who wasn't occupied with the driver walked over to her. "Looks like someone driving with reckless endangerment, Sergeant. Haven't been able to determine much else - just got here ourselves."

Cheryl puckered her forehead. Now she could see the driver was definitely Brian Fuller - recognized the serious, clean-cut face from the photos. "Brian," she tried to keep her voice easy. "Can you get out of the car for the officers?"

"I'm not finished," Brian repeated politely, as though glad to see someone who knew him.

"You are for now," she stated bluntly. "Why don't you just get out of the car for us. We need to take you down to the station."

She glanced over the roof of the car to see where Dr. Sloan was, saw him walking in their direction from his parked car with Dr. Travis beside him, glancing around the lot as though looking for something, too. Maybe he could give her some idea of what to expect from this kid. Now that he had actually gotten here alive and unscathed, she could admit to herself that he did come in handy from time to time.

Brian hesitated, then dropped his hands from the wheel. "I'm going to the station?"

"That's right. Just open the door and step out, please."

Brian paused, studying her. The officer made a move to open the door, but Cheryl held up a warning hand. "No brute force. Not only is he a kid, but - well. I'll explain later."

Brian shifted, studying her thoughtfully. "Can I see my Mom?" he asked at last.

Cheryl sighed, feeling suddenly tired. "Yeah. Sure. I'm sure we can work that out."

Brian nodded, then pushed down on the door handle and shoved the door open. It stuck a little and Cheryl watched carefully, in case it looked like he was going to try something, but he seemed docile enough. "Turn around and get up against the car, please?" That car looked rough - like it had been through the wars. Brian obeyed promptly and Cheryl gestured to the uniformed officer to take over. The officer reached for his cuffs.

Cheryl took a step away, her eyes traveling in a more comprehensive sweep of the parking lot. She toed the splintered tree, crouched down to get a better look. There was a smear of red next to it - what looked like a bloody handprint on the tar. She sensed somebody next to her, turned her head to see Dr. Sloan's frowning face. She gave him a tight-lipped smile, then straightened and returned to Brian Fuller. The officer had him cuffed and was easing him into the car. "Brian - did Lt. Sloan meet you here?"

Brian's face went blank. "Am I going to see my Mom?"

Cheryl struggled for patience. "Yes, Brian - I'll make sure you see your mother. Now, Lt. Sloan - did he meet you here? Do you know where he is now?"

Brian's expression grew solemn. "My Mom would never hurt anyone."

Cheryl glanced over her shoulder for Dr. Sloan, her eyes asking for help. Mark shook his head at her and she sighed. "Yeah, okay, Brian - I'm starting to think that too." She pulled the other officer a couple of feet away. "Look, go easy with him - he has some kind of mental disorder. When you get back in the car, phone ahead for someone from Police Psychiatry to meet you there and a crime scene team to meet me here and help me take statements. In the meantime, don't push, but see if you can get him to tell you anything about Steve. Have you had a chance to question any of the bystanders yet?"

The officer shook his head. "We got here just before you pulled in."

Cheryl glanced up at the row of shoppers ringing the parking lot. She sure had her work cut out for her. "All right - thanks." She watched the two officers settle into the car and drive away, then turned to try and catch a glimpse of her unofficial assistants.

She spotted Dr. Sloan crouched near the car with the popped hood, staring at something on the pavement, Dr. Travis standing by his side. Don't touch anything, don't touch anything! she thought frantically. He knew better than to do that, didn't he? At least until they figured out what was going on and where the heck Steve had gotten himself to? She hastened her way across the lot and stood next to Dr. Travis. "Find any - ?" broke off abruptly when she saw the glimmer of brass occupying Dr. Sloan's attention. She pulled out a pen and used it to scoop the object up by the hook, turning it over to get a good look. It was scuffed, but it was for the rank detective lieutenant and besides, she'd know that number anywhere. "Steve's," she muttered, automatically fumbling for a plastic bag and dropping it inside. "What on earth went on here?" She caught a glimpse of Dr. Sloan's face and winced inwardly. And this is what she really hated about having civilians along - that look. She touched his shoulder lightly. "Hey, don't worry - that son of yours has nine lives. And when we find him, I get first dibs on relieving him of at least one of them."

"I don't know - we may have to toss for that," Dr. Travis muttered, "Say - what's that?"

But Cheryl was already moving toward it, knelt to get a better look at the smears further along on the pavement - three this time. She felt in her pockets again, for chalk this time. Her pockets always seemed to be brimming with odd things like chalk and rubber gloves and plastic evidence bags, she reflected absently - no wonder it was so hard for her to get a date. She circled the three smears for the evidence team and sat back on her haunches, thinking out loud. "There was a 911 call, officer in trouble, from this mall. I was sure it was Steve, and the badge tells us he was here - so where is he now?" She looked toward the stores, straightened suddenly. "Somebody has to have seen him. Do me a favor? Follow these smears toward those broken trees and see what else you find? Don't touch - just follow."

"I know enough not to touch anything at a crime scene," Jesse pointed out, insulted.

"Good," Cheryl stood up, brushing off her knees. "Dr. Sloan?" She glanced over her shoulder to find her other charge. He was standing where she had left him, looking uncharacteristically lost and helpless. Oh, damn. She strode back to him, took his arm firmly. "Hey," she said with determined brightness, waited until he seemed able to focus on her. "Got a picture of Steve on you?" He stared blankly at her, then suddenly seemed to catch on and patted at his pockets until he found his wallet. "Good. Let's find out who's seen him."

The crowd gathered along the edge of the parking lot was beginning to grow restless. Not a very big crowd, now that she looked more carefully, but she was regretting sending the patrol unit away anyway. One woman was not really enough to keep order here - not even one really stressed out, ticked off woman. "All right, thank you for your patience…" she raised her voice to be heard over the murmurings. "I hope to be able to let you all go home soon."

"What about me? After what happened to my car?"

She scanned the crowd to put a face with the voice, forced a stiff smile for the man in his late thirties, clutching a bag from the music store. "Your car the one with the popped hood?"

"That's right! I came outside and it was - well, it was how you see it now!"

"Uh-huh," Cheryl pulled out her faithful pad and clicked on the pen. "Once we've been over the lot we'll call a tow truck for you. Anybody see what happened?" A gaggle of voices started up at once and Cheryl lifted her hands to silence them. "Okay! I'll be talking to you one at a time, please! Hopefully somebody will be along soon to help me speed this up!" She was acutely aware of Dr. Sloan's silent anguish at her elbow. "In the meantime, we got a 911 call from here - officer in trouble. Anybody see the officer in question?"

"I made the call."

Cheryl frowned through the sea of faces to pick out the small voice that answered. She saw a young blonde woman, no more than her late teens or early twenties, self-consciously holding up her hand. "You, ma'am?" Could this girl really be a member of the force? "Are you a police officer?"

"Oh!" The girl looked startled. "No! I'm just - you know - going to school - "

"You do realize, ma'am, that impersonating a police officer carries a very serious penalty?"

"Hey - " She was distracted by Jesse's sudden appearance at her elbow. "I found a cell phone. It's pretty smashed up, so I can't be sure, but I think it's Steve's - "

Cheryl turned, trying to follow the direction he was pointing. "Where?"

"I didn't. I mean, I wasn't impersonating anybody - "

Cheryl swung back to the blonde girl. "Ma'am, 'officer in trouble' is a call reserved specifically for - "

"Over there." She pulled her eyes away again to pinpoint where Jesse was indicating - apparently somewhere by the island with the crushed tree. "I didn't touch it."

"Good - "

"Well, I thought he was."

Cheryl looked back at the blonde girl.

"So we have his badge and his cell phone - what else do we know that he took with him?"

Cheryl raised her brows at the familiar voice. Good. Evidently Dr. Sloan had come back to life. That was a good sign. "Just his wallet, I think you said - "

"I mean, he's the one who told me to say it. I just assumed - "

That snagged Cheryl's attention away from Dr. Sloan again. "Who's this ma'am?"

"The - you know - the man."

"If we follow the path from the badge to the cell phone…" Dr. Sloan began, his eyes focusing beyond her, trying to make sense of the evidence.

"Yeah, but we have no way of really knowing what direction he was actually going in," Jesse objected. "Could be cell phone to badge. Since the pay phone is off the hook, maybe he came this way after his cell phone was smashed - tried to make a call."

"True…" Dr. Sloan fell silent again, thinking.

Cheryl waved her hands at both of them as though brushing away a particularly pesky pair of flies. "What man is this, ma'am? Ma'am?" she repeated more emphatically, when it looked as though she had lost the blonde girl's attention.

The blonde girl looked embarrassed as all eyes suddenly swiveled toward her. "Um - he was - he was there - in the parking lot. I wanted to help him, but he waved me away."

"Help him." Cheryl studiously ignored Dr. Sloan's sudden stillness at her elbow. "Help him what, ma'am?"

The blonde girl glanced around and blushed. "Help him up. But he didn't want help. Well, except the call. He told me to call 911, officer in trouble."

"I see." Cheryl began to feel a little more relaxed. You'll never learn when to stay down, will you, Sloan? "Because he, what? Fell? Was he ill?" That was pretty easy to picture. Damn man thought he was The Terminator or something.

"Oh." The girl considered this. "Maybe. He didn't look too good. And he had - you know - a bandage - here…" She indicated her forehead.

Cheryl nodded with feigned patience. "So he fell and - "

"I don't understand. Why would he wave you away if he'd just fallen? Even Steve's not that foolishly proud."

Ah. She had almost forgotten about her shotgun-riding medical team. She turned a mildly reproving eye on Dr. Sloan. All right, he was anxious - she'd cut him some slack for that. She took the wallet from his hand and flipped through the pictures until she found a good one of Steve. "This the man who asked you to make the call?"

??????????????? The blonde tilted her head at the photo, then bobbed it eagerly. "Yes, that's him. He told me to call. I really wanted to help him, but…. I think - you know - that he was afraid I'd get hit, too. I don't think I would, though. I wish he'd let me help."

"Hit?" Cheryl winced at the sudden bark of Dr. Sloan's voice. "What do you mean by 'hit'?"

The girl stared at him. "By - you know - the car."

"He was hit by a car?" Dr. Sloan's voice crept up a notch. He turned around again, eyes sweeping the surrounding area more frantically.

"What car?" Cheryl demanded. She was as baffled as the doctor. If Steve was hit, how could he go anywhere? Where on earth was he?

The girl seemed surprised that she didn't know. "That - you know - blue one. The one over there." She pointed helpfully to Brian Fuller's car.

Cheryl followed the direction of her arm, shook her head helplessly. "He was hit over there? This man - " she indicated the photo, and held up the other hand in a warning to Dr. Sloan to let her talk. "Lt. Sloan?"

The girl furrowed her forehead. "That's him. Oh. No. I don't think so. Not over there. Over here." She looked thoughtfully in the area of the car with the popped hood. "I think over there, too. But I'm not sure about that."

"Lt. Sloan was hit by a car - twice? How the heck is that possible?" She was just aware of Dr. Sloan performing one more frenzied scan of the parking lot, turning back in frustration.

The girl shrugged. "Well, you know - the guy was chasing him."

Cheryl felt her heart sink. Oh, God. Suddenly this was making some sense. "The guy - " she gestured toward the Crown Victoria, still abutting the dumpster. "Driving that car."

The girl seemed pleased to be understood at last. "Yeah."

"Then where on earth is Steve now? Did someone call for medical help? Was an ambulance here?"

Cheryl didn't bother to rebuke Dr. Sloan this time. The words seemed to explode out of him, almost beyond his conscious volition, and those were her next questions anyway.

The girl seemed more puzzled than ever. "Oh. No. You were the first people here. He's still right over there - from what I could see, anyway."

They both turned to stare at the Crown Victoria. Now, she had been standing right next to that car and she hadn't seen any…realization dawned all at once, and she started in the direction of the car at a run. Belatedly, she called back over her shoulder, "Don't anybody move! I'm going to need your names and statements! I'll be right back!"

?

Chapter 17

?

She really wasn't aware of the parking lot pavement whizzing by beneath her, because her thoughts were racing as fast as her feet: Damn. He hadn't made a sound, even with the sirens, even with the conversation. He must have heard my voice anyway, if he was in any state to hear anything. He hadn't been in that great shape BEFORE being hit by a car…twice…how the HELL was that possible?… still, if he had made it that far, maybe he wasn't in dire straits yet. On the other hand, if he was just lying there, dying or something, while…She deftly hurdled onto the Crown Victoria hood. She could feel the heat of the parched metal through the thin fabric of her slacks, slid on her knees to where the battered front end met the dumpster. It was a large dumpster - about as high as she was tall and at least as long as it was high, so kneeling she could just rest her arms on top to peer inside. It was hard to see anything for sure - the higher far wall cast the interior into shadow, and it wasn't quite half full, so the mounds of trash seemed to be far below her. She leaned over further, trying to see more clearly. "Steve?" she called tentatively. Her voice echoed a little. No answer. She stood and climbed up onto the rim, sitting with her legs dangling over the side. She had a little better view from here, thought she could make out a white blob that might be a hand. Steve's? Or some other body…she shivered, then rolled her eyes in disgust. Come on, Cheryl - you're a Homicide Cop. This is what you do. It's not like you've never seen a body before…

"Is he in there?"

She was even more disgusted when she actually jumped at the sound of the voice. Of course, if she'd thought about it, she would have realized that Dr. Sloan would be right behind her. He was standing next to the car, looking up at her.

"Can't tell. I'm gonna go in and take a look." She eyed the inner walls of the dumpster measuringly. "Trash isn't all that high - stand by in case I need a hand getting out?" From her higher vantage point she glanced around the entire area, wondering where they had lost Dr. Travis. She spotted him, and her lips quirked into a brief, involuntary smile. He was over by the front mall sidewalk, briskly keeping the crowd together. From his stance and gestures, he was doing a pretty good imitation of a patrolman - she wondered if that was intentional, or an unconscious reflex from seeing so many of them in action. Probably she should give him her lecture on impersonating an officer, but right now she was just plain grateful for the assist. She dropped into the dumpster, felt things squish under her feet and made a face.

"Cheryl?"

Dr. Sloan's voice sounded closer - he must have climbed up on the hood, too. Sheesh, she hoped she was doing that at his age. "Give me a second…" There was less light once you were actually in here, but when her eyes adjusted, she could see the contents much more distinctly. Yup, that was definitely a hand, a right hand, and a watch was on that wrist…she knelt down, forgetting to notice the squishing under her knees this time, batted absently at a small cloud of flies.

"Cheryl - "

She glanced up at the pale blob that was a face looming over the rim of the dumpster, her fingers meticulously tracking the pulse in the wrist with the watch, gave a reassuring smile that she hoped he could see. "Yup. I've got him." She put down the wrist and began carefully moving things aside, trying to get a better look. He had really burrowed himself in here…or something…

"Is he - ?"

She didn't look up this time, she was busy shifting a bag of trash to get a better look at the face and to create more breathing room, tried not to think about what might be in the bag as she tossed it aside. "He's a little worse for wear - how bad is your territory, not mine. Don't come down here - " she added hastily, anticipating his next move."Not until we're sure we can all get out. There should be a team on the way - "

The head stirred under her hand, and she smiled broadly. "Hey, partner. I can think of about a hundred better places for you to pick to have a nap." Steve's lashes flickered and he raised his head about a quarter of an inch before dropping it back into the muck with a faint cough. Cheryl kept her hand resting lightly on his hair. "Your Dad and Jesse are here…" She felt something unpleasantly sticky on her fingers and tried to get a better look in the dim light. Hm. Could be some residue from the garbage, but it looked more like…"And from the look of you, I'd say you might be needing their services. How are you doing? Can you talk to me?"

Steve coughed again, with more conviction this time, shifted as though groping for his bearings. He didn't speak, but after a second he nodded.

Cheryl chuckled encouragingly. "Well, that'll do for now."

"Cheryl, don't let him move until we've had a chance to examine him - "

Dr. Sloan's anxious voice told her that he was barely restraining himself from joining them, so she moved her hand from Steve's head to his shoulder as he showed signs of trying to turn over. "Hey, just lie still, okay? Don't make me look bad in front of your Dad. I'm going to try and make you a little more comfortable for the time being. Soon as somebody's had a look at you we'll get you out of here."

Steve's shoulders bunched under her hands as he tried to push himself up again. "'Mokay…" he grunted faintly.

"Yeah, you look swell, too." Cheryl held him down with disconcerting ease, sweeping a pile of crumpled fast food bags out of the way with her free arm. "Heard you were hit by a car?"

Steve stopped struggling against her, pulling in slow, shallow breaths. "Not…" He took another breath and tried again. "Sounds…"He opened his eyes and tried to focus on her. "…Brian Fuller?"

"In custody."

He nodded once and closed his eyes again.

After a second, she felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten again as he tried to push himself up and pressed down gently. "Hey, hey - none of that. Your Dad sees us wrestling down here, he's gonna get the wrong impression about us. Just relax."

She was rewarded with a short gust of breathless amusement. "Easier…if it…smelled better…"

"Yeah, well, you chose the venue, partner, not me - too late to complain now…" She dislodged a couple of cardboard boxes, then gingerly used them to push away some substances whose origins she refused to think too much about. "I'd just as soon do this sort of thing in a Roman Spa myself, but you seem to have a taste for dark alleys."

Steve laughed shortly again. The laugh turned into a sharp, dry cough, and she wordlessly tightened her grip on his shoulders.

"Cheryl, I'm coming down there!" Dr. Sloan sounded at his wit's end and Cheryl was out of ideas for stopping him.

"Hey. You got 'em?"

The new voice sounded out of breath and Cheryl looked up to see Jesse's face appear next to Dr. Sloan's. Dr. Sloan paused in his attempt to climb the wall.

"Yeah, he's down here and conscious - a little fuzzy, maybe."

"More than usual?"

Steve opened his mouth to retort, coughed again instead.

Jesse didn't wait for her consent; he landed in the garbage next to her with an indescribable squelching noise and a speed that surprised her. It was a big dumpster, but a little small for three full grown people - especially two extra-longs like her and Steve.

Cheryl tried to shift to give him room next to Steve. "You need me, or would I be better out of your way?"

"Stay for a minute, in case. Say, Mark?" Jesse raised his voice. "You got a bag in your car by any chance?"

"I might - let me check." Dr. Sloan's face disappeared from above the dumpster.

"Okay, buddy - let me see what you've done to yourself here…boy, there's just no point putting stitches in you, is there? Next time I'm using a staple gun." Despite his casual tone, Cheryl was impressed with how gently and surely his hands worked their way down the length of Steve's spine, probing.

Steve grit his teeth hard, his breath coming in labored puffs. "You mean…you don't…usually…?"

Jesse clucked his tongue softly against his teeth. "No appreciation, that's your problem. Can you tell me where you were hit?"

Steve shook his head slightly. "Wasn't. Just…a little."

"A little, huh?" Cheryl watched as Jesse moved his fingers carefully along Steve's ribs next, working his way out from the spine. "Hit by a car just a little." He stopped abruptly at the sound of a choked cry from Steve. "What was that - here?" He pressed again, Cheryl saw Steve go rigid beneath his hands.

"Yes!" Steve hissed ferociously between his teeth.

"Uh huh." Jesse touched the rib directly beneath it. "How about here?" The sound of Steve pulling in his breath sharply answered him. Jesse frowned in concentration and moved down one more. Steve relaxed a little and he nodded to himself.

"Jesse?"

He glanced over his shoulder and up to where Mark was holding up a medical bag. "Uh - Cheryl, could you…?"

Cheryl stood up and stumbled over the uneven piles of debris to take the bag. She paused to give Dr. Sloan a quick smile, handed the bag down to Jesse, then stayed near Dr. Sloan to keep him company, so he wouldn't feel so separated from what was going on. They watched as Jesse first checked Steve's blood pressure, then patted him lightly on the back.

"Be right back." He stood carefully, sliding a little until he could find his balance, then smushed his way over to them, wiping his hands futilely on his jacket. He cleared his throat and squinted up at Mark, lowering his voice. "I think we need an ambulance."

Mark's face fell. "You think he's that bad?"

"Well…" Jesse shot a look at Steve, who didn't seem to be listening. "He's kinda shocky and I wouldn't mind having him on an IV line before we move him. And I think he has a couple of cracked or broken ribs back here - " he pressed his hand against his back. "Can't tell for sure without an X-ray, but means I don't really want to turn him over without a board, so I can't even get a look at what's going on in front. Wouldn't hurt to take him in and have him checked out. If everything looks good, you can take him home."

"I want to take a look at him myself."

??????????????? "I know…" Jesse glanced back at Steve. "But it's kind of close quarters down here, and I'm smaller. Why don't you let me get him set up, and you can ride along in the ambulance?" Mark was silent and Jesse continued, "Look, I really think he's okay - just banged up. Can't see all that well down here anyway."

Cheryl looked from one to the other, waiting. Mark shifted his eyes to Steve for a long, frowning moment, then nodded reluctantly.

"What about me?" The look on Jesse's face told her that he had almost forgotten about her. "Still need me, or am I in the way?"

"Oh - " Jesse blinked. "Should probably make way for the ambulance crew. Your crime scene team is here taking statements, too - you might want to check in with them." He slopped back through the garbage to Steve, crouched down and touched his shoulder. "Hey." Steve lifted a hand slightly in acknowledgment, but didn't open his eyes. Jesse shook the shoulder lightly. "Listen. I've got some bad news for you."

Cheryl rested her hands on the edge of the dumpster, testing to see if she had enough leverage to heft herself out. She looked back over her shoulder, noticed Steve had barely cracked one eye at Jesse.

Jesse smiled. "News is yer gonna need a new jacket. This one's a mess."

There was a pause, then she could actually make out Steve's slurred words. "Second…this week…"

"Yeah, I know - maybe you should start checking your horoscope before you leave the house or something …"

She looked down to hide a smile, found a small toe-hold in the dumpster wall and pulled herself up until she was kneeling on the rim. Dropping lightly back onto the car hood next to Dr. Sloan, she frowned suddenly and brushed uselessly at her own clothes. Speaking of needing new ones…

Dr. Sloan was just finishing his call for an ambulance. Jesse was still talking to Steve, shaking his shoulder lightly when he seemed inclined to drift off. Across the lot she could see her crime scene team, marking evidence and taking statements.

Dr. Sloan lowered his cell phone. "Ambulance on its way."

Jesse's voice drifted up toward her. "Hey, you aren't going to sleep, are you? Because I'm not sitting here in the garbage with nobody to talk to." Some kind of a mutter from Steve. "That's better. Hey - I said no sleeping. Stay with me."

Cheryl smiled faintly to herself. Dr. Sloan folded up his phone and put it away, shot her an inquisitive glance.

She shrugged in answer. "Just thinking." He raised his eyebrows and her smile grew broader as she slid from the hood of the car. "Just thinking that - having a medical consultant or two ride along might not be the worst idea anybody ever had after all."

*

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh…a flash of brightness whizzed past him, almost immediately replaced by another and another and another…he tried to count them, but they moved too fast and besides, he seemed to be having some trouble concentrating. He couldn't quite figure out what they were. They reminded him of something - of a ferris wheel, maybe - but he had promised himself no more amusement park rides - life was pretty much enough of a damned amusement park ride all by itself, thank you very much…They were really starting to annoy him now, and he turned his head away - they obediently disappeared, but now little white squares were racing by, and that was even more irritating, so he closed his eyes instead. People were talking…saying all sorts of things, sharp and fast, but none of it seemed to have any real meaning.

The sensation of flying, of things whipping past, came to an abrupt halt and he reached down to steady himself. Something stopped his hand from moving though and he frowned. The voices were louder now and one of them sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He thought about asking, but the words wouldn't organize themselves in his head. He felt an odd, cool slither along his leg, then a sensation of release and relief, though until that moment he hadn't really been aware of a feeling of restriction. He sighed out loud, wanted to thank whoever had done it, then promptly lost that thought, too. Something cold stung his face and he tried to lift a hand again to swat it away, but his hands were entrapped somehow and wouldn't obey him. He tugged experimentally. Something was picking at his palm - like a bird walking across it and plucking at it with its beak. He tried to tug again, but the bird didn't stop.

"…local?"

"Yeah, I think…"

He really wished they'd speak more clearly. Curious to see the bird, he turned his head and cracked his eyes fractionally. Blinked. Frowned. Oh, you again. He glared. Well, you got what you wanted. Happy now? So why don't you just go away and leave me alone?

He turned his head away. The same figure filled his vision on the other side.

Huh. Good trick. He studied her resignedly.

?He had decided that Brian looked like his father, but now he thought that that direct, unsettling stare must come from his mother. All right, what is it you want now? It wasn't you - I figured it out. Big, fat, happy ending. Satisfied? I know it's giving me a warm glow. Almost wish I'd left it alone and let you shuffle off to prison.

??????????????? The figure didn't respond. A variety of vague discomforts, unspecific and difficult to identify, were making themselves known now, and he shifted cautiously, trying to get a clearer reading on them. That bird seemed to be really digging at his palm and he shook his hand, hoping to dislodge it. One of the voices, the one he almost recognized, detached itself from the others for a moment and said something - he could just about grasp it, then the words slid off of his brain and into nothingness again. He glanced back at where the figure used to be. Still there.

??????????????? All right, I guess I don't really wish that. I know he's dangerous. Nobody knows it better. Almost nobody, anyway, I just…I wish it had been different. The world greyed unexpectedly, and he dropped his lids for a second to clear away the clouds.

So, did he do it and you lied to protect him, or did you take care of David and then he tried to take care of me to protect you? He opened his eyes again to wait for an answer, but the figure remained silent. A fine time to shut up on me - you certainly had enough to say the other night.

Something icy splashed over his knee and he gulped air in a quick, involuntary gasp, closing his eyes again quickly. When he opened them once more, his mysterious visitor was gone. He turned his head to see if she had moved to his other side again, but there was nothing there but a sea of blue scrubs. He let his lids sink shut. Fine. Be that way. You're supposed to be in prison anyway. Even if you didn't commit murder, there are plenty of other charges…the bird seemed to have left his one hand and started chewing at the other one. He didn't bother to try and shoo it away this time.

…I think I know the answer anyway. Sometimes I really hate my job.

?

?

?Chapter 18

?

A faint rattling noise, fading in, then fading out. A squeak of rubber on linoleum. A faraway voice, echoing faintly over a PA system. Distant chatter, words indistinguishable, rising, then receding. Steve swallowed carefully, wetting his dry throat, but didn't bother to open his eyes. He didn't have to. Oh, hell. Not again.

He thought about not opening his eyes at all, about sinking back into the heavy lassitude that was dragging at him, but a voice quietly called his name and he surrendered to the inevitable and carefully lifted his lashes to peek. The glare hammered his retinas and he dropped them again hastily, reaching up automatically to rub at his lids, found he was batting them with a club of gauze instead and stopped, trying to get a better look at the white blobs his hands had turned into. After a second he gave up and let one rest instead on top of his eyes to shield them from the brightness.

"Um - don't suppose I dreamt that I was here before?" His voice sounded scratchy and faint and unfamiliar.

"Oh, no - you were here."

"Don't suppose I dreamt about getting out and this is really part of the same visit?"

"Nope - this is a whole new trip."

Steve nodded slightly. "Was afraid of that." He lay quietly for a moment, painstakingly sorting the pieces into context. "What's with my hands, anyway?"

"You left a nice chunk of them on the parking lot pavement."

"Oh. Yeah." He thought there was something important that he should ask, but he was having trouble getting his mind around it. "When'd I get here?"

"Little over twenty-four hours ago."

"What?" That cut abruptly through the haze and he dropped his hand and stared, blinking. "How - ?"

"You've been out pretty much the whole time. Don't think you were quite ready for that car chase. The body will have its revenge."

Car chase. Oh, yeah…pictures were rushing into his head now, like a slide show on hyper-speed. "Yeah, I remember…" Something about that phrase pricked at his mind, and he repeated more slowly, "I remember."

"Everything?"

He hesitated, considering. "I think. Almost."

"Before or after you went to South Beach Mall?"

"After." The look Steve tossed him was mildly annoyed. "You don't think I would have gone without backup if I'd remembered before."

"Well, I hope you wouldn't." Mark leaned forward and pressed a hand experimentally against Steve's cheek.

Steve turned his head away wearily. "Dad, I told you - I don't - " he paused, because now that he thought about it, there was a suspicious sensation of heat trapped underneath his skin. He pinched his brows together, focusing on it. "I do," he corrected himself, taken aback. "What's going on?"

"You picked up a little infection. A little intravenous broad spectrum antibiotic and it should be under control in no time. You know, we almost never recommend dumpsters to our patients with open wounds. Tons of bacteria."

"Yeah, well…" Steve shifted, trying to get comfortable. "You should have seen the alternative."

"Oh, I did. Or, heard some colorful reenactments from bystanders, anyway. And then, of course, we could follow your trail."

"We?"

"Me and Cheryl and Jesse."

"Oh." Steve nodded. "Okay. I think I remember that - pretty blurry, though."

"I can imagine."

"Well, Sleeping Beauty! Awake at last!"

Steve glanced up at the doorway warily. Both Jesse's tone and his Cheshire cat grin warned him what was coming and he countered quickly, "Don't even start, or I'll remind you of all the times I told you to stay away from a crime scene and you ignored me."

Jesse's grin slipped a little. "True," he admitted grudgingly. He brightened again. "But nothing ever stopped you from lecturing me about it either."

Steve smiled sweetly. "And nothing is ever going to. It's dangerous. You should listen to me."

Jesse frowned. "Look, all I've ever done - "he started, then broke off indignantly. "Hey, how did this get turned around to me? I came here to lecture you! And speaking of dangerous - "

Steve held up his hands to stop the flow of words, blinked a little at the sight of the shapeless gauze wads. "I was a model patient!" he protested firmly. "There was nothing on that list about visiting a material witness - I checked."

"Yeah, well, wait till you see the next list. I've added that, I've added dumpsters…" Jesse flipped through the pages of Steve's chart. "Vitals are certainly better. How's the leg feel?"

??????????????? Steve looked down at the lump his legs made under the covers, a little surprised to see the right one made a bigger bump than the left one and was elevated. "I - hadn't noticed it." He peered beneath the blanket, checking for any sign of a cast. "What's wrong with it?"

"Bone bruise," Mark broke in. "And another place you're missing a heck of a lot of skin. Not broken - painful, though."

"Probably from when the car hit you 'a little'," Jesse suggested.

"It was just a glancing blow," Steve insisted, testing the leg gingerly for mobility. "Just grazed me. I probably injured it when I - " he saw both Jesse's and his father's eyes on him and realized this wasn't going to sound quite as innocuous as he'd hoped. "…landed…" he finished in a hasty undertone.

"What was that?" Jesse pressed.

Steve glared at him. "Injured it on the pavement."

Jesse smiled hugely. "It sounded like you said 'landed'," he enunciated the last word carefully.

Steve's glare hardened. "Right. On the pavement. After the car bumped me. A little."

"Hm," Jesse nodded, perching on the arm of the visitor's chair and folding his hands. "And did any of this 'landing' ," he dragged the syllables out lovingly, "involve time spent flying through the air?"

Steve held Jesse eyes and smiled a tight smile. "I don't remember."

"You told me that you remembered now," Mark objected.

"I told you some things were blurry."

"Convenient," Jesse suggested pleasantly. Steve folded his arms over his chest and gave him a challenging smile. Jesse glanced at the chart again. "How's the back?" Steve looked perplexed, then made a move to push himself into sitting position to check. "Don't - " Jesse leaned forward and pressed a hand against his chest to stop him. He handed Steve the bed controls. "Let the bed do it. You got two cracked ribs back there. I gave you a block for the pain to help your breathing, but don't push it."

Steve stared at the bed controls, then at his hands, trying to find a finger with minimum wrapping to push the button. "I don't feel it," he admitted, finally settling on his left forefinger as the center of operations. "It's like pieces of my body are missing."

"Well, don't wish them back in a hurry, because they probably aren't going to feel too good. Head?"

Steve automatically gauged his equilibrium as the bed rose. "You know, I think it's better?"

"Yeah, in spite of all the excitement, I think the extended nap did you a lot of good." Jesse whipped out his flashlight and Steve groaned and lifted one misshapen hand.

"Jess - "

"Just hold still…" Jesse flicked the light at one eye, then the next. "Hm. So. Seriously. Your memory's back?"

Steve lost his smile, casting his eyes surreptitiously around the corners of the room, just in case. Nothing there. "Yeah. I think so." The heat prickling at his skin made him restless and uncomfortable all of sudden. "Where's Brian? Juvie?"

"For now."

Mark offered him the plastic cup from the bedside table and Steve eyed it suspiciously. "That's not something new from the pre-school menu, is it? Because I don't think I can look another juice box in the face."

Mark smiled faintly. "It's water."

Steve managed to take the cup between his bandaged palms, making a small sound of disgust at his clumsiness, and maneuvered it until he could reach the straw.

Mark watched, but didn't comment. "Dr. Locksley is trying to arrange to have him transferred to Cliffside."

Steve lowered the cup. "Who's Dr. Locksley and what's Cliffside?"

"Now, if you'd waited for your partner to return before you took off, you'd know that."

"If I'd waited for my partner to return, Brian Fuller could have disappeared again. I couldn't take that chance."

"You took a pretty big chance of a different kind."

"In twenty-twenty hindsight, maybe. At the time it was just a baby-sitting job." He looked around for a place to put the cup down.

Mark reached for it. "Dr. Locksley is the woman Cheryl went to see. She's a prominent behavioral psychologist. Runs a clinic called Cliffside. Is doing some wonderful work with behavioral disorders."

Steve paused. That was the piece he'd been missing, all right. "Like Brian Fuller."

"That's right."

Steve shook his head. "There wasn't anything in his records."

"No. Apparently his mother was trying to keep it a secret. His father was trying to seek treatment for him."

Steve turned that over in his mind. "And so he killed him?"

Mark grimaced. "Probably not. Brian Fuller has schizophrenia, and while schizophrenics aren't generally violent, they can suffer from extreme paranoia. If they also suffer from psychotic episodes, the combination can be dangerous. Brian honestly believed that his father presented a very real danger - that he was saving his own life and his mother's by killing him. In his own mind, it's not only justified, it's self defense."

"And he saw me the same way."

"That's right. Of course, the difference is that you actually were a threat to him. And his mother."

Steve nodded, scratching absently at the tape that bound his ribs under the hospital gown. "Was he afraid of treatment? Is that why he saw his father as a threat?"

Mark hesitated. "It's probably not as simple as that. Possibly the discord between his parents fed into it, but schizophrenics suffer from what we call 'disorganized thinking' - their reasoning is often only comprehensible to them. On the other hand, it also makes a kind of sense sometimes - I remember a case where a schizophrenic repeatedly tried to kill himself and when he continually failed, eventually murdered a storekeeper and his wife, reasoning that he'd get the death penalty and the state would succeed in killing him instead."

Jesse made a face. "Wow."

Steve studied a point somewhere at the foot of his bed. "Are you saying that if he had received treatment, he never would have killed anyone?"

"It's impossible to know that, Steve." Mark's voice was quiet. "Treatments are improving, but they're a long way from comprehensive. It's a very tricky illness."

"So Madge Fuller confessed to protect Brian," Jesse put in.

Mark nodded. "That's what it looks like."

"She sure spent a lot of time trying to divert attention from him." Steve tried to flex his hands and frowned. This was going to be more than a little inconvenient.

Mark shrugged. "She probably felt she owed it to him. That it really was her fault."

Jesse nodded. "In a way, she was right."

"I don't know," Steve fussed with the bed controls, fumbling to operate them, hoping to find a more comfortable position. "She must have really been in some kind of denial. If anything, her husband's death should have convinced her that Brian needed help. And if that wasn't enough to bring it home, then when he attacked me she should have realized that he couldn't be left wandering around without some kind of treatment or care - not just for his sake, but for everybody's."

"Well, you would think so." Mark sighed. "And from an outsider's perspective all that's very clear, of course. But parents can be surprisingly dense where their children are concerned." The look he gave Steve was so brooding that Steve furrowed his forehead in surprise.

Jesse jumped in quickly. "So, Brian killed his father and tried to kill Steve because he thought he was protecting himself and his mother. Madge Fuller confessed because she thought she was protecting Brian. So, does that make you a witness now, Steve? Do you actually remember him doing it?"

"Kind of." Steve gave up on the bed and pushed the controls aside. Probably should forget about being comfortable for some time to come anyway. "I had a sort of flash of memory when he aimed the car at me - don't know if that would hold up in court. I actually put it together a couple of minutes before that." He shook his head at the memory. "Talk about bad timing."

Jesse waited a minute, then when Steve seemed disinclined to continue prompted impatiently, "Well?"

Steve shook himself. "Oh. Initially Brian Fuller was never seriously considered as a suspect - he was right-handed, and we couldn't place him at the scene, so we probably didn't dig into his background like we should have. Might have got there sooner if we had talked to a few people about him. In fact, unless Cheryl's come up with some new physical evidence or Madge or Brian have admitted he was there, we're still pretty circumstantial." He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.

Jesse jogged his elbow. "I bet Cheryl's got it covered. How'd you put it together? If you didn't remember, I mean?"

"Oh. Yeah." Steve glanced at Mark. "You remember Tommy Ridge?"

"Tommy Ridge?" Mark raised his eyebrows. "I don't think so - should I?"

"Maybe not. He played with me in that summer baseball league I was in during High School. Anyway, I remember him mostly because we both always had to bring our own gloves and batting helmets - you can never be sure there will be enough equipment available for left-handed players. Or I guess I really remember him because Tommy wasn't actually left-handed - he wrote with his right hand, and it was his dominant hand for most things - there were just a couple of oddball things where his left hand functioned as his dominant hand."

Mark's eyebrows jumped. "Like batting?"

Steve nodded. "Right. He was the first person I ever met like that. Of course, as I got older I found out it wasn't all that uncommon - I think maybe you notice it more if you're used to not fitting the right handed mold yourself."

"So you figured that Brian Fuller could be the same way?"

Steve shook his head slowly. "I must have looked at those baseball pictures a hundred times. I knew something about them was bothering me, but I couldn't put my finger on what. I thought it was just because it reminded me so much of my own family, but when I started to put it together, I could see Brian, clear as day, standing on the right side of the plate, batting southpaw. Don't know why it didn't strike me sooner - whether my head kept automatically placing him on the other side of the plate, or whether it just looked natural to me because that's how I bat." He sighed before he could stop himself. A lot of things might have been different if it hadn't taken him so long to work out that particular bit of information. "Anyway - we hadn't actually placed Brian at the scene, but there were enough things about the physical evidence that we couldn't explain and enough holes in his alibis for the times of both scenes that made him worth at least taking a look at. No motive, of course, but I guess Dr. Locksley supplied that. And a weapon sure would be nice…did Cheryl stop by?"

"She stopped by yesterday while you were dead to the world. I'm sure she'll stop by today, too, but it wouldn't hurt you to take a day off, you know. You ARE in the hospital and I don't think you've really taken a break from this case since you were hurt. Hurt the first time, I mean."

Steve turned to eye his father, a little surprised by the edge of asperity in his tone. He looked tired, he decided. Not to mention rumpled. "You told me I took yesterday off," he suggested, hoping to provoke a smile. The look he got in return told him Mark was not amused - something had definitely ruffled his father's customary unflappable good humor. Probably a bad tactical moment to ask when he could expect to be released, then. "Have you been home at all?" he finally ventured.

"No," Jesse answered for him.

"Dad, I'm fine." Steve was honestly surprised. "Nothing worse than I'd get from a bad slide into home plate."

Jesse looked skeptical. "Maybe if home plate was a bulldozer…"

Mark took a deep breath. "When you have a head injury, you need to be careful to avoid a second head injury - "

"Because a second injury can result in brain damage or even death," Steve finished for him. "Dad, I know - you've been telling me that since I started playing football."

"Oh, and at some point do you think you're actually going to start listening to me?"

"I do listen to you! I didn't get a second head injury - maybe I've got one about everywhere else…" he reflected, ruefully taking stock. He saw Jesse out of the corner of his eye making covert gestures toward his chin and frowned, trying to follow his meaning. Mark caught his movement and looked too; Jesse dropped his eyes and scratched his jaw instead. Steve finally caught on and felt under his own chin, trying to find a finger to use that wasn't buried in gauze. "Oh." Yeah, he remembered that now. "I did hit my chin - "

"Split - " Jesse offered out of the side of his mouth.

"Split?" Steve tried touching it with his wrist instead. "Really?" Jesse made a face and nodded. "Well, either way, that doesn't count as a - " He saw Jesse raise an eyebrow and stopped again. "It does?"

"It does," Mark interjected firmly.

Jesse cleared his throat. "Well, technically, it's a maxiofacial…" he trailed off when he saw both Sloans staring at him.

Steve waved impatiently. "Whatever it's called, the point is that I'm not dead and I'm not braind - " He heard the sound Jesse made in his throat and couldn't help grinning, then wincing, as the movement pulled on the chin he was suddenly very aware of. "Don't start."

"This is not something to make light of!" Mark's tone was stern but a reluctant twinkle was stealing into his eyes. "You were very lucky. You may not always be lucky. You need to not take so many chances."

Steve decided it was pointless to repeat that it hadn't seemed like he was taking any chances when he'd headed out - there was something else going on with his father and reasonable explanations weren't going to work for now. Maybe he just needed a little sleep. "Fine. But you can see everything is all right now, so why don't you go get some sleep in a real bed? I really feel better than I have in days."

"Wait'll the meds wear off," Jesse murmured. Steve gave him his best "you're not helping" glare, and he subsided into silence.

Mark rubbed his eyes. "Maybe you're right," he admitted. "A shower would be nice, anyway."

"Good idea."

"I have one question," Jesse offered hesitantly. "If Brian is guilty, what happens to Madge Fuller?"

"Depends," Steve's frown returned. "That's why I'd like to talk to - " He glanced at Mark speculatively, then stopped and started again. "She's still guilty of perjury, misleading an investigation - any number of things the DA may decide to throw at her. Will probably use the charges against her as leverage to get her to come clean about Brian."

Jesse pushed his eyebrows together. "Do you think she will?"

Steve shrugged. His strength seemed to abandon him in a rush. "Hard to say. She fought so hard to protect him so far. Or thought she was anyway."

"Yeah," Jesse shook his head. "Was kind of crazy, when you think about it. The worst he would have gotten was some time in a mental health facility - which he needed anyway. I mean, he's a minor - even his records would be sealed. She could have faced the death penalty. Why take such a risk?"

"To protect him. Keep him from going through the publicity…due process…time in Juvenile Hall. To try to keep him young and a kid, I guess."

"And she was gonna risk her life for that?" Jesse shook his head again. "Just doesn't make any sense to me."

"Funny," Steve glanced over at his father and smiled a little. "That's one connection I didn't have any trouble making at all."

?

?

?Chapter 19

?

Steve opened first one eye, then the other, slid them quickly around the room. Nope. Still nothing. Good.

To tell the truth, he felt like he could sleep for another twenty-four hours easy now that sleep seemed to be his friend again - no odd dreams, no weird voices, nothing sinister waiting for him on the other side of wakefulness, pulling and poking at him, trying to get his attention.

Jesse had been right about the meds, though - the minute they started to fade, he had become aware of a biting in his back that forced him to cautiously regulate his breathing and a fire in his hands and leg that pulsed in time to the heat that simmered just under his skin, leeching at his strength. Still, that all seemed fairly manageable. He could deal with a little pain. Pain was concrete - you knew what caused it and you knew how to treat it. It almost seemed friendly. Familiar.

He patted clumsily at the sheets, feeling for the bed control. He found it and tried to curl his hand around it, but his bandaged hand barely bent and it just rolled uselessly under his palm. He made a face. On the other hand, some things about it could be a real nuisance…He held the small cylinder still with his right hand, maneuvering his left forefinger to push the button. The head of the bed started to rise, jerked to a stop when the controls slid against the gauze and slipped away. Ouch. He frowned at the controls, considering. Well, he could always ring for a nurse, but that meant trying to operate a different button…oh, to heck with it. He'd just have to learn to love lying at this angle. He tried a tentative shift to his side, but a warning stab of pain from his back grabbed at his breath and he lay still again. Damn. He was pretty much immobilized. He could try to slide out of bed, but he wasn't too sure about that right leg and the thought of a possible fall made him wince. The thought of the discussion with his doctor that would surely follow made him wince again - he just didn't feel up to another argument right now. So - what were the alternatives - just lie here? He felt almost as helpless as he had in the parking lot. He glanced around. Well, he could always count the ceiling tiles…

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard the door quietly open and close. "Hey." He recognized Cheryl's voice, softened for the hospital. "How are you feeling?"

"Sixty-seven," he answered after a minute.

There was a pause, then he heard the scrape of a chair being pulled next to the bed. "Sixty-seven. Aging you fast, huh?"

"No. Ceiling tiles. I've counted sixty-seven so far. Hang on, I don't want to lose my place…" He smiled a little at Cheryl's low laugh, turned his head to look at her.

"Well, you certainly are cleaner than you were last time I saw you…" She leaned back in her chair to get a better look. "You know, I don't want to criticize, but that position looks really uncomfortable."

"It is," Steve assured her.

"Oh. Well, then, why - ?" Steve held up his hands to show her. "Oh." Cheryl tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Want a little help?"

"If you wouldn't mind." He nudged the bed controls in her direction. "I seemed to do okay when Jesse handed them to me earlier, I just can't pick them up."

Cheryl picked the controls up and studied them, then pressed experimentally. The bed rose slowly. "Say when…"

"There." Steve sighed in relief as the head of the bed stopped. "Much better. Thanks." He glanced at the clock. "Not visiting hours. You here on official business?"

Cheryl nodded. "To take your statement. And bring you up to speed. And tell you that you owe me a pair of shoes."

"Pair of shoes?"

"Had to throw the ones I was wearing when I dug you out of the dumpster away."

"Sorry." Steve grinned. "Line of duty - charge the department. You found me in the dumpster? Guess I need to say thanks."

"Line of duty," Cheryl echoed. "Isn't there something else you want to say?"

Steve's brows lowered quizzically. "Um - sorry about the shoes?" he offered tentatively.

Cheryl laughed. "I meant 'I told you so'! I came here all steeled against some good gloating and ready to do some token groveling! You were right - you were not crazy and you were not imagining things, and I didn't want to hear it. Don't you want to rub it in just a little?"

"Oh." Steve's expression changed. "I don't know. Feels a little - hollow."

Cheryl sat back in her chair and studied him. "What's that about?"

Steve dropped his eyes. "Something about putting a sixteen year old kid with no priors away doesn't feel all that wonderful."

Cheryl pursed her lips. "Don't go getting all soft on me, Sloan. A sixteen year old can be as lethal as anybody else - sometimes more so, since they don't always have a clear sense of consequences. This kid killed somebody. Came pretty close to making it two somebodys. We don't have any reason to believe that, if he'd stayed on the loose and unmedicated, it would have stopped there. Don't kid yourself about it - he's dangerous. You should see the damage he did to one big, tough cop I know."

One corner of Steve's mouth lifted slightly. "Bad, huh?"

"I wouldn't ask for a mirror for a few days."

"Yeah - " Steve reached up to rub his eyes, stopped and stared at his gauze paws in growing exasperation. "I know you're right." He hesitated. "I guess I - just keep imagining what happens later, when, say, he's medicated and - normal, or whatever happens then, and he has to - look at the fact that in one, crazy, psychotic moment, he killed his own father. Might be almost better to stay delusional."

Cheryl leaned forward and rested her folded arms on the tray table. "Look," she said firmly. "All we can do is what we do - we get 'em off the streets. The rest - that's up to other people. Like Dr. Locksely. We do our job - and that's hard enough sometimes. Let everybody else worry about theirs."

Steve studied her for a minute, then nodded. "Must have too much time to think these days."

"Maybe." Cheryl eyed him shrewdly. "But you've been a little funny about this one from the start."

"Yeah, I know…" Steve lay back, moving with a grimace to try and relieve some of the pressure from his ribcage. "A little close to home, I guess."

"What - you thinking about taking a baseball bat to your Dad?"

Steve laughed. "Not this week."

"Well, I almost did. Did I tell you he followed me when I hit the siren?"

"He what?" Steve barked before he could stop himself, pressed one swaddled palm against his forehead when his voice reverberated painfully through his skull. Ouch. None of that.

"Shhh - you wanna get me thrown out of here?" Cheryl offered him the water cup and waited until he managed to take it. "I got your distress call while I was on my way to South Beach Mall and hit the siren. He pulled out of traffic and followed me."

"At that speed?" Steve tried to remember to modulate his voice, but it came out as an outraged hiss anyway.

"Let's just say he kept up."

Steve groaned and dropped the cup, pushed both bulky hands against his eyes instead, hoping to settle a low-key pounding that had suddenly started up there. "I've gotta talk to him."

"I thought we'd agreed you were overdue for that anyway."

"No you agreed - and about everybody else on the planet, it seems. Tell me something, am I just this big, open book that everybody can randomly read?"

Cheryl smiled the slightest bit. "Not everybody. Maybe just we folks who know you."

"Great."

Cheryl's smile deepened. "There's nothing wrong with being reliable. It's nice. Relaxing."

"Oh, thanks. I'm flattered. Really."

Cheryl laughed out loud this time. "Look, maybe we just think we can. We were all wrong about the Madge Fuller thing - everybody was pretty sure they knew what your problem was there, and we batted zero for zero."

"That's true." Steve brightened some, reaching for the cup again and holding it against the side of his face instead. It was really warm in here. "So, speaking of Mrs. Fuller, where does that stand?"

"Oh, she rolled over. The DA cut a deal with Brian's placement in Cliffside as opposed to Juvenile Hall being contingent on her coming clean and she sang like a bird. She turned over the baseball bat - they're doing the DNA testing on the blood and hair samples now, but it's mostly a formality. Brian openly admits to swinging the bat in both instances - only kept quiet about it to please his mother. He seems honestly surprised that people seem to feel that he did something wrong."

Steve winced, then the rest of Cheryl's statement registered. "They have the bat? Where was it?"

"Oh, you're really not going to believe this one. I tell you, this job shows you more about human nature than you wanted to know sometimes."

"Can't argue with that."

"You remember the money David Fuller gave Madge to put Brian in Cliffside? The money we couldn't account for?" Steve frowned a little. "Oh, that's right - you missed that part. You were busy hanging out in the dumpster." Steve gave her a look and she continued with a grin, "Seems Madge used it to create a solution of her own for Brian - while her husband was out of town, she hired a contractor to build his own little getaway behind a false wall. You had to know about it to find it. It was supposed to be a place for him to go when he was feeling 'restive'. That was her label for his condition - 'restive'."

"Just a little normal puberty, huh?" Cheryl shrugged. Steve twitched his right leg, which was suddenly complaining, hitching it higher on its pillows. "So she was just going to lock him away when he got out of hand? I think that maybe as detectives we better start spending less time in police seminars and more reading Victorian novels."

"Yup. Every time you think they can't get any weirder."

"So that's where he disappeared to after he killed his father and took a crack at me - and probably when he cut school. Still seems like there should have been bloody footprints."

"Well, we have his clothing - that should be good enough. It looks like they're gonna waive a jury trial anyway - Brian's confessed, no contest, and they seem willing to take a plea."

"So all's well that ends well."

Cheryl shook her head. "You know, either you've gotta work on your delivery or else you are still not convinced that's true."

"Oh, don't mind me…" Steve half-smiled apologetically. "I'm just a little out of sorts. Playing chicken with a car always does that to me - I'll get over it."

"Mm. Anything I can do to help cheer you up?"

"Not unless you could smuggle something resembling real food in here."

Cheryl tilted her head at him. "What are we talking? Burger and fries? Chinese?"

"Anything. You wouldn't believe what they're feeding me."

"I thought you liked hospital food?"

"I do - believe me, that's not what I'm getting. More like rabbit food. Except I think rabbits eat better."

Cheryl laughed. "I'll see what I can do. A little black bag work would be good for me."

"Cheryl, if you could pull that off, I'll owe you about any favor you name."

Cheryl raised her brows with a smile. "Really. Well, how could I resist that? You feel up to giving your statement or do you need a break?"

"Fire away."

They were interrupted when the door swung inward to allow a wide bouquet of orange and yellow roses in a tall green glass vase to enter. The roses dropped a few inches to reveal Mark's smiling face. "Well, hello, Cheryl - I didn't know you were here." He walked over to the side table and put the vase down, arranging the flowers to best advantage. "And how are you feeling, son?"

"Fine…" Steve eyed him dubiously. "And you certainly seem to be feeling better."

"Oh, yes - you were right - a long shower and a little sleep and I feel like a new man." He stepped away from the flowers to admire them. "Look nice?"

"Um - yeah…but…" Steve wrinkled his forehead questioningly. "…roses?"

"Oh!" Mark laughed. "They're not from me. They were at the nurse's station for you, so I said I'd bring them in. Who's Candy?"

Steve heard Cheryl's choked laugh, felt heat rush to his hairline. "You read the card?" he demanded accusingly.

Mark smiled innocently. "Well, it wasn't in an envelope - just on one of those spiky things. Couldn't miss it. And I was a little curious to see who would be sending you a dozen roses. Who did you say she was? I don't remember you ever mentioning her."

"Because I didn't. She's - just someone I work with."

Mark shifted his eyes to Cheryl, who was grinning broadly. "In forensics," she explained. "She has a crush on Steve."

"We don't know that!" Steve protested.

Cheryl snorted. "A dozen roses? On a technician's salary? I think we do!"

Mark gave Cheryl a pleased nod, leaning in confidingly. "She a nice girl?"

"She does really nice DNA work," Steve interrupted impatiently. "And that's about all I know about her."

"Oh," Mark looked a little disappointed. "Attractive?" he suggested hopefully.

"Dad!"

"All right, all right." Mark gave the vase a final turn. "Want me to read the card to you?"

"NO!" Ouch. Steve reached up to rub between his eyebrows, lowered his voice. "I want you to give me the card. I'll read it myself."

Mark chuckled. "Don't think you can hold onto anything that small, son." Steve stared at his wrapped hands and moaned in frustration. "Don't worry - " Mark continued cheerfully. "It doesn't contain anything personal - just 'get well soon' and 'best wishes, Candy'." He pulled a chair close to the bed and got comfortable. "So when do I get to meet her?"

"Dad, I haven't even gone out with her! I haven't even asked her out! I haven't even thought about - " Steve broke off abruptly, because that last part wasn't actually quite true.

"All right, well, you don't want to wait too long - you know what they say about he who hesitates - "

"What I want - " Steve jumped in abruptly, "Is to talk about something else. Can we?"

"Oh, all right." Mark held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sure you'll tell me all about it in your own time."

"There is nothing to - " Steve broke off suddenly, his expression sly. "And speaking of telling. Cheryl was telling me something interesting. She said that you tried your hand at a little hot pursuit."

Mark shot Cheryl a reproving glance, turned a conciliatory smile on Steve. "Oh, Cheryl's exaggerating - just trying to flatter me."

"Uh huh," Steve was unmoved. "So you didn't follow her at top speed in full traffic?"

"Oh, well - " Mark's smile grew more benign. "I didn't really have to - did you know, the other cars pull right over, out of the way?"

"Dad, you do not have the training to drive at those speeds! Especially in LA traffic! It's dangerous!"

"It was only for a second or two - and we weren't going that fast."

Steve skewered him with a look. "How fast?"

Mark chuckled. "Do you know, I was afraid to look?"

Steve turned inquiring eyes to Cheryl. Mark shook his head at her behind Steve's back.

Cheryl folded her arms over her chest. "Oh, no you don't. You're not sucking me into this - as far as I'm concerned one of you's as bad as the other - you're two peas in a pod."

Steve looked shocked. "You must be kidding. We're nothing alike."

Cheryl rolled her eyes.

Mark took advantage of the moment. "Steve, the fact is that it's over and done with and nothing happened. So why not just let it go?"

Steve crossed his arms and eyed him blandly. "You were very lucky. You may not always be lucky. You need to not take so many chances," he quoted pointedly.

Mark's mouth twitched. "Point taken," he agreed, meeting his eyes affably.

"Good morning…" Amanda swept in the door toting a box and smelling freshly of the outdoors. "I bring homemade cards and homemade muffins," she announced cheerfully.

Steve groaned. "I don't even want to see the muffins if you're just going to rip mine away and replace it with zwieback or something."

Amanda shook her head indulgently. "Of course they're something you can eat - I checked first. Oatmeal raisin." She centered the box on his tray table and turned to smile at him, frowned instead. "Hm. You look like you could use all the help you can get."

"Thanks. I'm touched."

"Wait'll you see the cards the boys made for you." She perched next to him on the bed and opened a piece of folded red construction paper, pointing to the crayon illustration. " This is CJ's… That's supposed to be you. Um - he still has a little trouble with proportions."

"I think the resemblance is uncanny," Cheryl offered, leaning in to get a better look.

Steve tossed her a narrowed glare, then returned to admiring his card. "He's getting so he writes his name really well."

"Well, it is only two letters…" Amanda murmured trying to look modest, but only succeeding in looking proud. "And this is from Dion…" She opened a piece of blue construction paper next to the red one. "I think he's getting so he draws really well. He was trying to fit in all your injuries, but he ran out of crayons."

"Ha ha." Steve tried to pick one up, but just managed to slide it around on the tray table.

"Here - " Amanda set it up so he could look at it, gave his arm a quick pat. She frowned, moving her hand consideringly to his cheek. "You're kind of warm - when's the last time somebody took your temperature?"

Steve made a face. "Believe me, there are nurses here whose sole job seems to be taking my temperature."

Mark stood. "Let me check - "

"Dad - " Steve raised a mummified palm to hold him off. "Somebody took it just a little while ago. I'm sure somebody else will be taking it again before you know it. That's enough. You know what they say about too many doctors…"

"That's 'cooks'," Mark corrected, moving to the side of the bed anyway. And, when Steve drew back, "I just want to see your cards."

"Oh." Appeased, Steve glanced down to slide the cards across the tray table to him, looked up reproachfully when he felt the back of a hand press appraisingly against his neck. He didn't bother to object this time - just sighed silently.

Mark wasn't paying attention anyway; he was frowning slightly to himself. "I'm going to ask the nurse's station for a thermometer," he announced abruptly. "I'll be right back."

Steve gazed bleakly after him; turned to glare in response to Amanda's snort of laughter, suppressed not quite quickly enough.

"I'm sorry," she fought down a smile. "I just can't believe you fell for that."

Steve smiled a little in return in spite of himself - pushed the cards in her direction, shaking his head. "Um - would you mind putting those on the table there where I can see them?"

"My pleasure." Amanda scooped them up, her eyes dwelling fondly on the crayon drawings. "The boys wanted to come, but I thought they were probably a little more than you're ready for."

"And speaking of more than you're ready for, I should probably be going," Cheryl added, rising. "Because I'm willing to bet that I'm about to be thrown out of here. I'll get your statement later, Steve. You take it easy."

"Yeah," Steve resigned himself to the inevitable. "Cheryl - " he hesitated, and Cheryl paused, tilted her head and waited. Steve made an aborted gesture. "I - thanks. For everything. The legwork and - well, for hanging in there with me."

Cheryl's smile deepened. "Hey, what are partners for? Besides, I now get to bask in the reflected glory of a successful case closing. I'll be back later. Remember, I have to bring you those - materials - you requested." She winked.

Amanda paused in arranging the cards around the vase, bent down to breathe in the scent of the roses. "Mmm…beautiful, Steve. Who's sending you passionate thoughts?"

The silence that followed was profound, and she turned and looked from one face to the other in surprise. "I was only joking," she assured them. "Orange and yellow roses stand for 'passionate thoughts' in the language of flowers, but the sender probably just thought they looked pretty together and were more masculine than, say, the traditional pink or red."

Cheryl snickered. Steve refused to even look at her.

Amanda blinked. "What did I miss?"

?

?

Chapter 20

?

"Jesse, what on earth are you doing?"

"Ssssh!" Jesse put a finger to his lips and jerked his head to indicate the nearby open door.

Amanda lowered her voice only slightly. "Because it looks a whole lot like you're eavesdropping," she finished dryly.

"I'm not," Jesse objected. "Not - strictly. I'm collecting tactical information."

Amanda paused and listened along for a second. "And what kind of 'tactical information'," her emphasis dripped with sarcasm, "would you be collecting from what sounds like a perfectly innocent conversation between Steve and a nurse?" She listened harder. "Which one is that anyway?"

Jesse gestured more emphatically to his lips for silence. "Kayley Tupper," he whispered.

Amanda stared at him as he cocked his ear in the direction of the door again. "You know, Jesse, this is pretty unethical. Not to mention just plain bad manners."

Jesse raised his hands to motion for her to lower her voice. "Normally I'd agree with you," he hissed. "But in this case, I need information. I think Steve is trying to use Nurse Tupper to play a practical joke on me."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Amanda began, then rolled her eyes and lowered her voice at Jesse's frantic pantomime. "Why would anybody in their right minds choose an innocent like Kayley Tupper to play a practical joke?"

Jesse was listening hard, shaking his head in frustration at only being able to catch snatches of the conversation. "Because she looks so innocent. Because she's handy. Because he thinks I used her to play one on him." He leaned in and listened harder. "Any idea who somebody named 'Eric' would be?"

Amanda narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "I have no idea. And why on earth would he think a thing like that?"

Jesse didn't look at her, intent on trying to catch the meaning of the words in the next room. "Um - because I did."

Amanda threw up her hands.

"Say - " he straightened, his eyes brightening. "Amanda - maybe you could go in and…" he petered off at the sight of the storm clouds gathering in Amanda's face. "Or not…" he amended quickly. "Because that might be unethical and, uh, you know - bad manners…"

Amanda nodded along with him, smiling a tight-lipped and humorless smile. "Now, your choice - you can go in that room right now and reveal yourself or you can get back to work, because at a count of ten, I'm going to raise my voice and greet you, good and loud."

Jesse squinted at her. "You wouldn't."

Amanda opened her mouth and he waved a hand to stop her. "All right, all right! Geesh, I don't know what you have against a little harmless - all right! I'm going!" He begrudgingly started toward the room, grumbling.

Amanda kept pace with him, talking out of one side of her mouth. "Because I know I will somehow find myself caught right in the middle of one of your escalating games of one-upmanship and that is something neither I or the hospital - oh, hello, Steve. Kayley." Amanda managed to turn her hissed undertone into an over-bright smile as they reached the door of Steve's room.

Steve looked a little flustered. "Uh - hey," he answered uneasily, glancing at Nurse Kayley.

Kayley Tupper, on the other hand, smiled cheerfully. "Hello, Dr. Bentley. Hello, Dr. Travis. I was just finishing re-dressing Lt. Sloan's hands."

"Yeah, she does a really good job." Steve smile seemed a little forced and Jesse looked hard from him to Nurse Kayley. "Gives the best shave on the floor, too," he continued, smiling more naturally in her direction. "Especially considering the obstacle course." He rubbed absently at the butterfly bandage under his chin.

Nurse Kayley smiled back, looking pleased and a little shy. "Lt. Sloan is a very good patient," she offered.

Jesse choked. Steve gave him a smug grin, his discomfort dissolving for a minute.

"Yeah, I always say that myself. Lt. Sloan, what a good patient. " Jesse opened the chart on the tray table and glanced at the latest recordings, his voice heavy with irony. "Must be all the practice he gets. I'm even thinking of putting a gold star on his chart."

Amanda nudged him, hard. "So, how are you feeling, Steve?"

Steve shrugged. "I'm okay. Stiff."

"Uh-huh." Jesse ran his eyes down the page. "Whereabouts?"

Steve smiled slightly. "Pretty much everywhere."

"No surprise."

"I'd better be getting back to work." Kayley picked up her tray and started for the door. "Let me know if there's anything else you'd like to know, Lt. Sloan."

Steve's face stilled. "Um - yeah, Kayley. Thanks for the update."

She bobbed a nod and left. Jesse stared after her.

Amanda nudged him again, more decidedly. "If you're going to examine Steve, then I should leave. I'll stop in later, Steve?"

Steve hadn't missed the nudge and ruffled his brows in consternation. "Uh - sure. Thanks, Amanda."

"I'll see you later too, Jesse?"

Jesse forced a smile. "Of course." Then added under his breath, "See what you can get out of Kayley?"

Amanda turned and dropped a kiss on Steve's cheek, then patted Jesse's shoulder and forced quietly through her teeth, "Leave me out of this - you brought it on yourself." She raised her voice to normal level. "See you boys later."

Steve watched her go as Jesse reached in his pockets for some of the equipment he wanted, mumbling under his breath.

"What was all that about?" Steve sounded faintly anxious.

"Oh - nothing," Jesse hedged. He selected his friendly flashlight. "You and Kayley seem to have hit it off."

Steve peeked at him, then blinked as he was confronted with a light in his eye. "Well, she's a nice girl," he temporized.

"She is," Jesse moved his light to the other eye. "Just hard to imagine what you two would have to talk about."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut to try and dissipate the black dots now swimming in front of him. "Oh, you know. This and that. We have some mutual acquaintances."

"You and Kayley Tupper?" Jesse put down the flashlight and reached for scissors. "Who the heck would you both know that I don't know about?"

Steve winced as Jesse peeled off the head bandage and began to probe at the wound. "You don't know everything about me, you know," he retorted, a little testily.

"Oh, come on." Jesse tilted Steve's head at an angle to get a better look. "I'm your business partner. Your best friend. Your doctor. What the heck could there be about you that I don't know? You know, for a wound that had to be reclosed, this is looking pretty good. You may actually heal in spite of yourself." He moved around to the other side of the bed behind Steve and opened the neck of his hospital gown. "Sorry," he said belatedly. "Normally I'd let you do that, but - "

Steve held up his bandaged hands. "I know. It's a dumb rule anyway."

"Hey, it's not. It's supposed to preserve the dignity of the patient."

"Great. Ask me how dignified I feel about now."

Jesse huffed a laugh, pushed the sides of the gown aside, gave a whistle. "I should take a picture of this for you. What the heck happened back here anyway?"

Steve squinted, trying to remember. "I'm not sure. When I hit the windshield maybe."

"Naw…" Jesse pressed his palm against the rib belt then undid it, probing. "You've got an actual pattern back here, just like somebody painted it on in black and blue." He tilted his head to study it. "Almost a grid or something."

"Oh." Steve scrubbed at his forehead with the heel of his bandaged hand, breathing carefully. "Must be the dumpster. I hit the one wall pretty hard."

"Want to tell me how that happened?" He glanced up as he felt Steve flinch under his hands. "I know this hurts. I won't be too long."

Steve jerked a nod, breathing a little harder. "Is it important?"

"Well, let's see…" Jesse moved his hand carefully, frowning. "I'm your doctor and I'm trying to treat your injuries - yeah, I'd say it would be real helpful to know how they happened."

"Um - " Steve closed his eyes and willed himself not to move away from Jesse's ministrations. "I was just getting in the dumpster when Brian Fuller rammed it with the car - I hit the opposite wall."

"More of that flying through the air thing."

"Yeah - d - " Steve pressed his lips together hard, but not quite fast enough to stop a cross between a curse and a gulp from escaping.

Jesse winced in sympathy. "Almost done." He slipped his stethoscope into his ears. "Breathe in."

Steve sucked in a breath, coughed. "You guys ever consider warming those things up first?"

"Naw, then there'd be no fun in this job at all." Jesse shifted the scope to the other side. "Again." Steve breathed again, stuttered into a string of coughs. Jesse dropped the stethoscope. "Hm." He retied the neck of the hospital gown. "Respiratory therapist has been by, right?"

Steve coughed again to settle his breathing. "Lady with the plastic tube thing I have to blow in?"

"That's her. Catch your breath and I'll take a look at your leg."

"Oh, yeah, she stops by. It's a regular parade in here."

"Good. And you make sure you take at least, say, five or six deep breaths every hour?"

"Yeah, I guess - I don't look at the clock."

"Look at the clock." Jesse held up a hand to stop Steve's comment and continued firmly, "It'll keep your lungs clear. Come on, it’s not like you've got anything else to do here. If it hurts too much tell me and I'll give you another block." Steve nodded resignedly. Jesse raised his brows in surprise. "Wow. Kayley's right. Suddenly you're a good patient."

Steve laughed before he could stop himself, clutched automatically at his back. "Ouch. Don't do that."

"Sorry." Jesse grinned. "Better lean back for this next part." He reached for his scissors again, letting Steve settle himself but watching surreptitiously in case he needed an assist. When he seemed comparatively comfortable he started cutting away the dressing. "Did a real good job here."

Steve closed his eyes. "Thanks. I wasn't even trying."

"Yeah, I'll bet." Jesse gave the dressing a quick pull, saw Steve's hands try automatically to fist, stopped by their wrappings. "Smarts, huh?" Steve's response was unintelligible, but Jesse got the drift. "You wouldn't believe what I dug out of here - skin's gone almost down to the bone. And that contact bruise is a lulu. You're damn lucky it's not broken. Sometimes I think you're almost as indestructible as you think you are."

Steve pulled air in slowly through his teeth. "Someday you'll have to translate that statement for me."

"Wish this infection looked a little better. Maybe in another twenty-four hours." Jesse leafed through the chart, ran his finger down a list of numbers. "Temperature still all over the map, huh?"

Steve shrugged tiredly. "What's that about, anyway?"

Jesse reached for Q-tips and a tube of ointment. "Oh, come on. You aren't really going to make me give the 'over exertion with a healing injury compromises your immune system' speech again, are you?"

"Oh." Steve smiled without opening his eyes. "I guess it's a little more meaningful with first hand experience."

"Yeah, well, if you need first hand experience of everything I warn you about, pal, then we are in for a lot of rough road."

Steve laughed again before he could stop himself, coughed and swore softly at the resulting flash of pain.

Jesse gave a small, apologetic grin. "Sorry." He started to apply ointment, glanced up at Steve's face. "You want something to bite on, since you can't grab onto anything?" Steve shook his head wordlessly. Jesse nodded. "Okay, but it's gotta be bad - that little muscle in your jaw is jumping."

Steve half opened his eyes at him. "What?"

"That little muscle in your jaw. It always jumps when you're trying not to yell. Or when you're firing a gun."

Steve rubbed at his jaw with the back of his hand. "It - ? Jess - "

Jesse was reaching for another Q-tip, stopped when Steve didn't continue and looked at him. "What?"

Steve hesitated, then sighed. "Nothing, I guess. Just - go back to setting my leg on fire."

Jesse wiggled his eyebrows. "Hey - it beats amputation!"

"You're sure about that, huh?"

"Then try to remember this pain and let it guide your future choices."

"Yeah. I love the way you guys make it sound like I choose for this to happen."

"I'm just looking at the record, big guy."

"It's my job, Jesse."

"Well, you sure throw yourself into it. Head first. Literally."

Steve started to chuckle, bit it off quickly. "Could you either stop making me laugh or just plain kill me outright?" he muttered plaintively.

"Yeah. Sorry." Jesse was quiet for a moment, working his way down the long abraded wound, his expression suddenly pensive. "Say, Steve - I've been meaning to tell you - "

This time Steve noticed the pause and opened his eyes again to catch Jesse's face. "What?"

Jesse cleared his throat. "Steve. You know I - I'd never do anything to - well, you're my best friend. You're my partner. I think you're a great cop - "

Steve blotted his face with his bandaged hands. "Jess, unless you're trying to tell me to get my affairs in order and pick out a nice plot, please don't start this again? It really makes me nervous."

"What, I can't give you a compliment without you thinking you're dying?"

"Right."

Jesse tried to look wounded, didn't quite succeed. "Fine. Must be why I never do it."

He was silent again, and Steve finally prodded, "So - what? You mis-balanced the books while I've been laid up?"

"No," Jesse sounded indignant, then paused. "At least, I don't think so."

"Forgot to pay the city taxes?" Steve narrowed his eyes as a sudden idea occurred to him. "You didn't spend a fortune on more of that over priced coffee of yours, did you?"

"No." Jesse returned to treating the wound with increased vigor. "You know, I remember now why it is I never compliment you - there's not much to compliment - you can be really annoying."

Steve smiled and closed his eyes again. "That's more like it."

Jesse snorted a laugh, concentrating on his work for a minute. "I told your Dad that you didn't think Madge Fuller was the killer," he said at last. "I didn't mean to - it just sort of slipped out."

"Hm. Imagine my surprise."

"You know, before you get off too many more smart remarks, you might want to take a minute to remember that I am in a really good position right now to inflict a lot of pain."

Steve's mouth quirked. "You won't - Hippocratic Oath. You really buy into it."

"Oh, that old thing. My hand could slip. My conscience would be clear."

Steve's smile broadened. "No it wouldn't." Jesse gave a disgusted grunt. "Look, Jess, it doesn't matter anyway - Madge Fuller wasn't the killer and now everybody knows it. No big deal."

"Yeah, well…" Jesse cleared his throat. "That's not quite all. And in my own defense, I just want to mention that it was Amanda who opened her mouth about the rest of it."

Steve's smile dimmed. "Okay…" he began warily, "What's the rest?"

Jesse cleared his throat again, suddenly very intent on his work. "The part about you…maybe not wanting him working on your cases…?"

"Oh." Steve fell silent. "Well," he continued after a minute, "That explains the way he keeps looking at me anyway."

"Like - ?"

"Like he thinks I need to be putting my affairs in order and picking out a nice plot."

Jesse peered cautiously up from his work. "Sorry, Steve."

Steve waved one bundled hand. "No - I should have talked to him myself - I meant to…"

Jesse straightened curiously. "So why didn't you?"

Steve made a face. "I don't know. I guess I wanted to be clear in my own mind about it before I brought it up, and it kept getting mixed up in my head with Brian Fuller and everything else."

"And now?"

Steve shook his head and grimaced. "It's complicated."

Jesse shrugged. "How?"

"Well…" Steve tried to twist into a more comfortable position, stopped grudgingly at Jesse's reminding touch to keep still. "There are a lot of things I like about it. My Dad knows a lot about a lot of quirky stuff, you know? It comes in handy. And - I enjoy his company. Sometimes I think that if we didn't work together, we'd never see each other."

"There's always your hospital stays."

"You're just a barrel of laughs today, aren't you?"

"I owed you for that crack about my coffee." Jesse studied his handiwork. "So you really don't mind? He's gotten you into some pretty good messes too, you know."

"Believe me, I know - and yes, it can drive me crazy - whether it's complete disregard for procedure or complete disregard for his own safety, he's given me more than my share of minor heart attacks."

"Yeah, I remember." Jesse reached for a sanitized dressing, grinning. "Remember the time he implicated the Chief of Police in that scandal and made you a pariah with the whole department?"

Steve groaned. "Don't remind me. I thought I'd be looking for a security guard job by the end of the month for sure."

"I'll bet. And then there was the time he guilted you into calling that FBI Agent you'd had that disastrous affair with to help with that kidnapping - got you into a lot of hot water with her. That couldn't have been fun."

"No, but…" Steve smiled a secretive smile. "That one had its compensations…in the end."

Jesse reached for another dressing. "And what about the time he was kidnapped by that fugitive he thought was falsely accused and ended up hiding him at your place? Bet that could have had some nasty repercussions if anybody had found out."

Steve frowned. "I'd forgotten about that one."

"Yeah?" Jesse glanced up. "Whoops." He darted his eyes over the chart again. "I'll leave your hands alone for now since the notes look pretty good and Kayley just redressed them. I'm going to try a different combination of antibiotics on you - see how that does. I think another dose of bupivicaine hydrochloride caudal, maybe, too."

Steve let his eyes drift closed again. "If that's that thing you stick in my back, I definitely vote for that."

"You do, huh?" Jesse shook his head. "All this sudden mellowness. Must be the fever." He scribbled on the chart for a few seconds, making careful notes, then reached for another dressing. "So. What are you going to tell Mark?"

"Hm?" Steve started to open his eyes again, dismissed it as too much trouble. "I don't know."

Jesse tore the protective wrapping off the dressing. "He's a big boy, you know - you won't break his heart. You don't have to protect him from everything."

Steve startled, opening his eyes with a frown. "I know that."

Jesse was busy with his dressing, but he glanced up through the fringes of his hair, his expression shrewd. "Yeah?"

Steve smiled reluctantly. "Maybe not," he admitted after a minute.

Jesse nodded. "Just think about it." He reached for the final dressing. "I hope you're suitably flattered that I'm doing this for you myself - it's really a nurse's job."

"Yeah, well, no offense, but most of them are a lot prettier than you are."

Jesse shook his head. "No appreciation. I'm going to give you your shot and adjust a couple of other things, then I want you to rest for a while - sleep would be a good idea."

Steve yawned. "Yeah, all right."

Jesse stared at him. "Okay, now you're just scaring me."

Steve chuckled, swore quietly as he remembered too late what a bad idea that was. "I'm tired, okay? So sue me. Speaking of no appreciation…"

"Yeah, well, it's freaky - like you've been replaced by Stepford Steve." He stood up and pressed the call button. "Next you'll be telling me that you aren't really planning revenge on me with Kayley Tupper."

Steve had been approaching a pleasantly buzzed state, but he opened his eyes again at that. "That's what you think? That I'm plotting against you with little Nurse Kayley?"

"Yeah - " Jesse fixed him with a suspicious gaze. "And don't try to tell me you're not." Steve almost laughed, remembered in time this time and settled for a smirk instead. "You won't convince me," Jesse continued less certainly, watching him carefully. "I know you're up to something."

Steve's smirk expanded to a grin. "Believe whatever you want," he suggested agreeably.

"I mean - what else could you be talking to her about all the time?" Jesse argued.

Steve closed his eyes again and tried to get comfortable. "I told you. You don't know everything there is to know about me."

Jesse's frown deepened. "You're just trying to throw me off the scent." Steve half-opened his eyes to reveal a mischievous gleam, then closed them again. Jesse stared at him some more, then turned away to give quick instructions to the nurse who had answered his summons. "You can try and confuse me all you want - but I want you to know that I'm ready for you." Steve nodded solemnly, but even silent Jesse got the distinct impression that he was laughing at him. He threw up his hands in exasperation. "I'm going to check on a couple of the things I asked for. I'll be right back." Steve nodded again. "And give some thought to what I said, okay?"

Steve sobered suddenly. "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

"And don't even THINK you're going to get one up on me!"

Steve's smile returned. "Right."

Jesse moved warily toward the door, trying to figure out what he was missing.

"Say, Jess?"

Jesse turned in the doorway, his face guarded. "Yeah?"

Steve's smile deepened with drowsy affection. "So when can I expect to get out of here anyway?"

Jesse gave a short crack of laughter. "Well, hallelujah. Welcome back."

?

?

Chapter 21

?

Steve balanced carefully on his crutch and reached with his other hand. The object he wanted shifted around on the shelf, but didn't actually fall, and he studied it in mounting exasperation. He had been home for almost three days now and, if the truth be told, this was the first day he hadn't felt like some version of hell. He had been puzzled and a little troubled at how lethargic he was, physically and mentally. His body seemed strangely disinclined to do anything but lounge around and work out a careful pattern of breathing and his mind kept circling around inside him, curiously unsorted and unresolved. He had always taken his resiliency somewhat for granted, so he had finally broken down and asked his father what on earth was wrong with him.

Mark had smiled with amused tolerance. "That low-grade fever really takes the edge off, doesn't it? And I think maybe you pushed your reserves just a little too far this time. Give them a chance to regroup."

"It's been a week," Steve pointed out, frustrated.

Mark had laughed comfortably. "A whole week, hm? Sorry, son, but I told you - the body will have its revenge. Sounds like yours is demanding some downtime." Then he had looked suspiciously like he was thinking about taking Steve's temperature again, so Steve had hastily changed the subject.

He sighed at the memory and stared back at the shelf. Normally that would have been an easy reach for him, but though his ribs were doing much better, stretching brought an immediate and loud reminder that they were not yet actually healed. He eyed his crutch thoughtfully. Hm…

The crutch was the kind that encircled his wrist rather than relying on his hand to curl around it, since his hands still weren't doing much in the way of curling. Jesse had assured him that, now that the infection was calming down, the hands would begin the process of replacing the missing layers of skin and start to heal, but that it would take a little time. Steve had studied them, trying to flex them.

"How much time?" he had asked at last.

Jesse had shrugged. "Hard to say, exactly. You've seen them - they look like hamburger. Now that they've started to clear up and dry and scab over, though, you should be able to use them a little more pretty soon."

Steve had tried again to get them to bend. "Could you at least ease up a little on the bandages?"

Jesse hadn't looked at him. "No, no - need to keep them nice and clean. And that cushioning won't hurt things either."

"Jess, I can't do anything with my hands like this!"

This time Jesse had looked at him, wearing that innocent expression that somehow managed to be anything but innocent. "No? Hm. Tough break. Guess you'll just have to take it easy for a little while."

Steve had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at that. "Jesse - are all these bandages really necessary? I'm asking you seriously, now - absolutely medically necessary."

"Absolutely medically necessary," Jesse had responded promptly with a brilliant smile that did nothing to allay Steve's suspicions. "Want a second opinion? Mark's right down the hall."

"Oh, perfect." Steve watched him carefully. "Why do I get the feeling that you're ganging up on me?"

Jesse had sighed mournfully. "Because you have a suspicious mind, my friend. Comes from spending too much time with the criminal element."

"Comes from spending too much time with somebody, no doubt." He had eased himself off the examining table. "I can't even get around. I could work around my leg if I could just have a little more use of my hands."

"Yeah, that's terrible." Jesse had shaken his head sorrowfully. "Looks like you're stuck on the couch, pal, except for - oh, that reminds me - " he'd reached in his medical coat pocket and whipped out several sheets of closely written paper.

Steve had blinked. "What's that?"

"The new, improved, recently revised, 'what to do and not do in convalescence' list. Study it carefully. There will be a quiz."

Since Jesse wasn't there to see, Steve smiled to himself at the memory. He leaned his shoulder into the wall, balancing on his good leg and studying the shelf above him. Holding onto anything required two hands, like a kid in thumbless mittens, but he might be able to manage, if he took it nice and slow. He tried gripping the crutch experimentally between his gauzy palms and raised it carefully.

The leg had been problematic mostly because of the hands - one or the other would have been fairly manageable, but the combination all but stopped him cold. He had started physical therapy on his leg almost immediately despite the infection so that the knee wouldn't stiffen up, and though the last thing in the world he secretly wanted was to try bending it, he had stuck with it doggedly, feeling that this was at least something he could do to set himself on some sort of road to normalcy. Jesse had warned him again about overdoing and had threatened to repeat the "over exertion" speech, so this time he had made up his mind to listen. Not that he hadn't listened before, but…well, doctors fussed and warned about so many things, so much of the time - it was hard to know what to take seriously. He remembered ruefully the dreary days of his hospitalization, alternating between sudden bursts of energy and foggy, weary sluggishness, and privately resolved that maybe that was one rule he'd pay a little more attention to going forward.

He got the crutch positioned under the objects on the wire shelves and poked it through. The objects bobbled around, but didn't actually fall. He frowned at them in disgust. Maybe if he could jiggle the shelf instead they would actually come down. Making sure he was well clear of any potential falling debris, he braced the crutch inside one of the wire holes and pushed. That was more effective - a little too effective, actually - the crutch hooked in the wire and the shelf slid from its brace, sending the objects he wanted - and everything else, including the shelf - showering to the floor with a noise like a percussion section just warming up. Instinctively, he let go of the crutch and covered his head. When his mini avalanche had stopped, he dropped his arms.

Well, not exactly what he had had in mind. And now in order to retrieve what he wanted he would either have to get down on the floor or see if he couldn't scoop it up with his crutch and his pathetic excuses for hands. Except that his crutch was now part of the fallout…

Cursing his clumsiness, he turned so that his back was braced against the wall and started to lower himself cautiously to the floor.

"Something I can help you with?"

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere and he jumped, losing his balance and sliding abruptly the rest of the way, landing on the concrete with an unceremonious thump that drilled a dart of anguish through his back. He closed his eyes tight and decided irritably that he was going to BUY his father noisier shoes.

He heard Mark hastily close the distance between them. "Are you all right? Did you hurt anything?" Since he didn't trust himself to speak right away, he held up a hand to indicate that he was fine. He squeezed his eyes open to his father's concerned and not-very-pleased face. "You certainly chose an odd moment to clean out the garage." The voice was dangerously even.

Steve attempted something resembling a smile. "I was just - going through a few things."

"Mm hm."

He wondered if there was another man alive who could use that genial tone to say so many different things - from genuine affability to doubt to downright displeasure. This time it was definitely reading displeasure. He felt an arm around his upper back, deftly avoiding the jostled ribs.

"Come on - let's get you back inside - "

"Wait - just let me get - " He opened his eyes all the way to try and track down the objects of his desire, meekly accepting the crutch Mark handed him.

The arm around his back loosened. "What?"

He pointed with his crutch and Mark gave him an intent look before scooping the items up with one hand and hefting him carefully to his feet with the other.

"You don't have to make it look so easy, " Steve complained, a little breathlessly.

"Just let me get you settled again and then you can tell me what's so important about this old catcher's mitt - especially since I don't think it would fit you any more, even if you had any hands to use it with."

"I know - " Steve let himself be steered back inside and lowered onto the couch, grateful for the help. Sitting was still one of the tricky things - he had yet to find a way to manage it without hurting something. He accepted the mitt from Mark and winced a little at the sight of his accompanying cordial smile. That smile definitely boded a lecture. "I just figured maybe it was time to get rid of a few things."

Mark sat down on the sofa next to him. "And you thought that now would be a good time to work on that."

Steve avoided his eyes. "As good a time as any. They're just taking up space here - thought maybe somebody else could put them to good use."

Mark brushed dust from the batter's helmet. "Somebody like - maybe - Cliffside?"

Steve leaned back carefully, stretching out his right leg, smiling the slightest bit in spite of himself. "You know, it would be polite if every once in a while you would just humor me and pretend that you can't read my mind."

Mark was silent for a long moment. "I can't always, you know," he ventured quietly at last. He looked up from the helmet and held Steve's gaze. "Sometimes you have to tell me."

Steve lost his smile and looked away. Ouch. Okay, no more stalling - here we go. He poked pointlessly at the worn well in the center of the glove. Could use a little oiling, if anybody else was going to use it... "Sometimes there's nothing to tell."

"No?" Mark prodded.

Steve turned the glove over and ran his bandaged fingers over the stitching, then the webbing. Had a lot of good times with this glove…"No," he repeated with more conviction. He met his father's eyes directly this time. "No."

Mark hesitated. "Steve - "

"Dad - " Steve managed to put the glove aside and shuffled his hands aimlessly against each other. He missed being able to clasp them - about all he could do with them now was play patty cake. "It's fine. Really."

Mark sat back and studied him so intently that Steve felt the color rise in his cheeks, but he resisted the urge to turn away. Finally, Mark shook his head. "So you really don't mind? It never bothers you?"

Steve smiled slightly. "Never is a big word, Dad."

Mark smiled a little in return, then sighed. "Maybe I should just - "

It was Steve's turn to sigh. "Look, do whatever you want - it's really up to you - but don't do it because of me. I'm not asking you to."

"I just want to be sure you've thought this through."

Steve's smile listed to one side. "It's pretty much all I've been doing. Sure have had the time."

Mark continued to study him, clearly unconvinced, and Steve returned his eyes to his useless hands. Damn, he was no good at this. Why did people always want to talk about these things? Why couldn't anybody just take his word for it? He had no idea how to explain his feelings, so finally he burst out, "Do you remember when I was in 'Nam?"

Mark looked startled, but he answered, a little reproachfully, "Of course I do."

Steve nodded, watching his hands dangle loosely between his knees. "One of the things I remember best is how mad it made me. Not the political thing - at least, not so much - I don't think I understood that, really, at the time - what made me mad was that everywhere I looked, there was some big guy beating up on a littler guy who couldn't defend himself. Taking advantage. Heck, sometimes it was even one of us, and we were supposed to be the good guys. Just - made me mad. I couldn't wait to get back home where I wouldn't have to look at that every day." He eased forward and ran a hand over the scrapbook lying open on the coffee table in front of him. Mark didn't comment, so he continued, "Problem is, when I got home, I noticed it wasn't all that different here. Subtler, maybe, but - not really. Everywhere I went, it seemed. I got really - tired of it. Felt like I'd maybe like to do something about it." Mark remained silent, so after a pause, he flipped the scrapbook closed and ran his hand down the cover this time. "Remember this?"

Mark nodded. "I don't think I ever poured over it quite the way you did, but, yes - my father's scrapbook. I've been through it a few times."

"Yeah." Steve ran his hand over it again, flipped back to the first page. "One day, after I got back, when I was thinking about all this and wondering what I was going to do with myself now, I passed a cop car parked along the side of the road. On the side it said, 'to protect and serve'." He fell silent, his eyes intent on the book under his hand. He dropped his voice and shrugged self-consciously. "I don't know. I know it sounds - well - corny - but I liked the sound of that. It got me thinking. I came home and pulled out Granddad's scrapbook and looked at it for a couple of hours." He rested his elbows on his knees. "Did you ever notice that he has the Law Enforcement Oath of Honor and Code of Ethics pasted right in the front?"

Mark gave a surprised laugh. "Does he? I suppose I saw it before, but I don't think it really made an impression on me."

Steve nodded. "It did on me." His gaze skimmed the open pages. "By the time I'd read it over a couple of times and thought some more, I'd decided to enroll in the Police Academy."

Mark's smile grew a little sad. "And don your Superman suit."

Steve gave him a wry grin. "Dad, I was six, okay? I have figured out that I'm not Superman and that I can't actually fly."

"Really." Mark sounded politely skeptical.

Steve gave him a speaking look. He felt as though he'd said much more than he wanted to already, but wasn't sure he'd really made himself clear. He looked back at the scrapbook again. "As a Law Enforcement Officer, my fundamental duty is to serve the community; to safeguard lives and property; to protect the innocent against deception, the weak against oppression or intimidation, and the peaceful against violence or disorder and to respect the Constitutional rights of all to liberty, equality and justice…" He trailed off, then swung the cover gently closed and sat back. "There's more."

Mark was watching him carefully. "You know that by heart!" he observed.

Steve shrugged. "It's a good thing to keep in your head. Remind you of what you're trying to do and why. Something Cheryl said made me think that maybe it was time to sit down with it again, word for word." He saw Mark looking at him and held up his hands. "Hey, don't laugh. I still know all the words to the Boy Scout Pledge, too."

Mark chuckled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Steve gave him a tiny smile, his eyes wandering back to the scrapbook, but reciting from memory. "…I will never act officiously or permit personal feelings, prejudices, political beliefs, aspirations, animosities or friendships to influence my decisions. With no compromise for crime and with relentless prosecution of criminals, I will enforce the law courteously and appropriately without fear or favor…" he broke off and cleared his throat. "What I guess I'm trying to say, Dad, is that - I didn't get into this kind of work with some idea of being a star or a hero. Whatever personal feelings or aspirations I might have - well - they have to be beside the point when it comes to the job. I don't know about Grandad's day, but these days, nobody does this kind of work alone. We've got forensic odontologists, forensic sculptors, even forensic meteorologists. We can solve more crimes now, more accurately, than we could fifteen, ten, even five years ago. If we're careful about preserving evidence, then the possibilities are limitless - we just need to wait for technology to catch up. Do you know that we recently solved a twenty year old murder using new techniques on old forensic evidence? Some kid who lost his mother when he was just a baby is now graduating from college, finally knowing what happened to her - " He broke off as he caught sight of the warm light in his father's eyes, suddenly embarrassed. He ducked his head and dropped his eyes. "Okay, I'm babbling. But it takes as many people - as much expertise - as we can get - to solve as many crimes as we can as quickly as we can - and that's the whole point, really, of what we do. Protect and serve. What finally cracks a case may turn on me or Cheryl or someone like Candy - or even someone like you. That's really not the point. The point is that we use whatever we have at hand, whatever it takes, to do it." He faced Mark squarely. "You have a way of looking at things that's - well - unique. It helps a lot." He offered a glimmer of a smile. "You're my secret weapon. I know I don't do what you do. I'm good at the other stuff - collecting all the pieces, filling in the blanks, creating the scenario, building a case for the prosecution…" he shrugged. "A little routine police work. That's what I'm good at. That's what I do. Whatever it takes to get that done," he shrugged again. "I can live with."

Mark eyed him keenly. "I think what you do is a little bit more than that."

??????????????? Steve held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong - I'm not apologizing for it. I happen to love what I do and I think I'm darned good at it. And I have every intention of making captain some day."

Mark watched him for a moment, then he shifted his gaze to the batter's helmet, turning it slowly in his hands. "So you'd like to bring these to Brian Fuller?"

Steve blew out his breath, grateful for the respite in subject, though he strongly suspected that this conversation was not over. "Well, I know nobody is gonna let him near another baseball bat for a while - " The look Mark shot him told him that his dark humor was not appreciated, and he twinkled back apologetically. "But - he liked fielding. I thought it might make things a little bit more normal for him, and all his own stuff is still impounded as evidence. And you know how it is - if you play left-handed, it's always a good idea to bring your own equipment."

Mark nodded. "I could drive you up there sometime next week, if you wanted to do it in person."

"I don't know. I wouldn't mind seeing the place. What if I'm back to work next week?"

"You won't be."

"I meant just desk - "

"Steve."

"All right, all right…" Steve slumped in surrender. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

Mark reached over and picked up the scrapbook, flipping thoughtfully through the first few pages. He paused on a photograph of his father's academy graduating class and smiled to himself. "Do you know, you're the only person who even questioned my theory?"

Steve closed his eyes and swallowed. "Dad - "

Mark raised his brows mildly. "That wasn't a criticism, Steve." His impish smile plucked at the corners of his mouth. "I think I was bragging." Steve gave him a puzzled frown. "Everybody else was just - willing to take my word for it. I suppose I've been right enough times that it seemed natural that I must be right again."

"Well, you did have a signed confession," Steve pointed out. "And I had insider information - even if I couldn't remember what it was."

Mark shook his head. "No. That's not it. Or, not all of it anyway. You never just take my word for it. You always question me. Is this theory or is there real evidence? Is it evidence that will hold up in court? Can the evidence be presented, or has it been obtained by illegal means so that we have to get there some other way? Do I have anything solid, or am I just listening to my feelings? Intellectualizing? You're a regular bulldog about it, come to think of it."

Steve eyed him warily, trying to decide where this was going.

Mark turned a page in the scrapbook, admiring another picture flanked by a yellowing newspaper clipping. "I guess I never really noticed how much I - counted on that - until what Jesse told me made me think that this time you weren't. Made me feel pretty insecure, let me tell you." Steve watched his face, but didn't interject. Mark tilted his head to study another picture, then smiled up at him. "I thought about it and I realized that one of the things that makes it easier for me to let loose and theorize - to really let my mind wander free - is that I don't have to worry about any of that. All those details about what's procedure and what's admissible and what makes a court case and what doesn't - when you're trying to see the big picture, they can really weigh you down."

Steve's brows rumpled. "There's no point to solving a case if you can't prosecute…"

"I know that." Mark closed the book and rested it in his lap. "What I'm saying is that I never have to worry about that part, because you do. I know you won't let me wander too far off the track - you'll always pull me back and make sure that everything is solid. So I can theorize to my heart's content - work it as an intellectual puzzle - and everything will still be all right. We'll have what we need to go to court. I guess what I'm saying, Steve, is that you're my secret weapon, too." Their eyes met for a long moment, then Mark smiled tentatively. "We make a good team," he suggested.

Steve's eyes crinkled at the corners, and he sank back comfortably into the depths of the couch. He nodded with satisfaction. "That's what I think, too."

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EPILOGUE

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"I need you to sign right here."

"Hm." Steve glanced down apologetically at his hands. "Um - does it have to be legible?"

The delivery man followed his gaze and shrugged. "Guess you could just do the best you can."

Steve took the pen tentatively, holding it awkwardly. Jesse had reduced the bandages just a few days ago, freeing his fingers from the tips to the first set of knuckles and, more importantly, his thumbs. He was almost ludicrously pleased to have his thumbs back, folding them toward his palm and pulling them away again over and over, just to show he could. It stung, and mobility was still limited, but it made a huge difference in what he was able to do. He grasped the pen between his fingertips and his thumb and scrawled something that he hoped resembled his signature.

The delivery man didn't seem to care one way or another. He took back his tablet, bobbed his thanks, and handed Steve a square, surprisingly heavy, package with a couple of flowers sticking out of the top. Steve studied it curiously, wincing a little at the pull hefting it put on his ribs, then he eased his way back inside the door and limped down the stairs to his own apartment, using the wall for a little support. He had abandoned his crutch a few days ago, too - all right, technically he still had it in case he needed it, but he was determined to get along without it whenever he could.

He entered his living room. Returning to his own unit was new, too - only taking place yesterday, when he had proved himself fairly adept at managing stairs. He was relishing being back in his own space with his own things around him - another few days in the upstairs guest room and he knew he would be begging his father to at least allow him to make it a little less - well - pink.

He started to carefully lower his package onto the coffee table in front of the fireplace, using his forearms in place of his hands, trying to find adequate space among the proliferation of cards and get well tokens displayed there. After a second he abandoned the idea and placed it on the sofa instead, sinking slowly down next to it and lifting his right heel onto the table. That leg still felt a little better elevated. He poked through the Styrofoam peanuts that filled the open top of the box to get a better look, lifted his brows at the sight of six neat bottle tops. Curious now, he pulled one out and gave a low whistle. Imported beer. Nice brand, too. Expensive. He fished through the packing material for a card.

There was a pre-typed label with his name and address. Underneath it said, 'Best wishes for a speedy recovery. Candy.'

Huh.

He leaned back, studying the bottle, then the typed message. Funny, but today was the first day his medication level and head injury allowed him to drink alcohol again. She couldn't possibly know that, could she? On the other hand, those forensic guys were awfully good at research. Bemused, he ran a fingertip over the roses sticking their heads out of the top of the box. I wonder…his eyes drifted to his father's laptop, set up nearby. Mark had seemed determined that, if Steve was going to move back downstairs, he should have every possible sort of entertainment at his disposal. Probably trying to forestall any potential temptation to take on more questionable pursuits, though Steve couldn't imagine what he thought he was going to try - surfing? His stitches didn't come out until tomorrow, and even he knew you didn't surf with stitches - even if he had had two good legs to balance on. He glanced at the view through the French doors wistfully. Not that he wouldn't really love…he pulled his eyes away determinedly and back to the roses. White and some kind of pink this time. Hm…

After a second, he limped over to the laptop and hit the "on" button, letting it boot up. All right, forensic scientists were good researchers, but police detectives were no slouches in that venue either - let's see if she was trying to send him a message. When the screen displayed, he two-finger typed "language of roses" into the search engine and waited. A surprising number of categories downloaded. He selected the top one and watched a list fill the screen. He frowned at it for a minute. It was a lucky thing, he decided, that they provided pictures along with descriptions, because there was no way he would have been able to identify some of those colors without them. After some exasperated consideration, he decided that his flowers were not exactly pink and not exactly orange, but that "coral" was a pretty good way to describe them from the tiny images pictured alongside the words. At least, he reflected ruefully, he was pretty positive that the others were white.

He read over the message for "coral and white" and felt a flush rise to the roots of his hair. Oh. Well, if she was trying to get his attention then she certainly had it. All right, well, two could play at this game…he scrolled down the list of messages, reading carefully, then signed off. It took him four florists to find one who could supply roses that would be described as "brown" - God knew he couldn't ever remember seeing any - but the third florist he tried referred him to a specialty florist who he swore would have just what he wanted. His mind drifted a little as the florist waxed eloquent about his choice and launched into some lengthy discourse about the roses' origin, but eventually he was able to give his credit card number and the return address from the label into the telephone and hung up, feeling satisfied. Let's see how Miss Candy liked being played in her own game. It had cost quite a bit, of course, but he didn't really mind - Candy certainly hadn't spared any expense on him.

He limped back to his box and pulled the roses out to put them in a glass of water, taking one beer along to stow in the fridge to chill, then returned to the coffee table and placed the label among the other well wishes, wondering idly if that was really wise. His father would be on it like a bloodhound, but he would see the flowers anyway and he had every intention of offering him some of the beer, so it was only a matter of time one way or the other. He glanced at the other cards and smiled.

There was a new one CJ had made after a visit that sported an illustration of him with huge, oversized, bandaged hands - like Mickey Mouse. It was a pretty accurate depiction of what his hands felt like, actually. Dion's contribution had a picture of him surfing instead - a nice, optimistic view that everything would soon be back to normal. Steve had thought it unusually sensitive of him. He was a nice kid - they both were. He'd have to think of something he could do with them as soon as he was a little more mobile.

Next to Dion's card was a more sober, regulation greeting from Captain Newman. It was on official department stock and said simply, 'Nice work. Jim'. Steve had been surprised and touched, but that had changed to wry amusement when he had opened the folded sheet inside to find a photocopy of the department regulations for medical leave, with a few passages carefully highlighted. 'Might want to review this', was scrawled in the margin. He had shaken his head and set it aside.

Next to that was a whole series of cards from Cheryl, one almost every day. Each one had a comic message and a quick hand written note filled with precinct gossip or her dry observations on the rest of the station personnel. Steve knew she was trying to make sure he didn't feel too separated from station doings while he recovered, and he appreciated it more than he could say. He was eager to return to work but knew he wasn't in any way fit for duty, and Cheryl's efforts to keep him in touch with things made it easier to bide his time with some semblance of patience.

Just beyond Cheryl's set of cards was one with pink bunnies on the front from Nurse Tupper. It had contained a folded sheet of paper as well, which he had quickly secreted, and a sweet message with her well wishes. It had also provoked a conversation with his father, whose eyebrows had jumped almost to his hairline at the sight of it.

"Son - " he had begun hesitantly.

Oh, great, Steve had thought. 'Son', not 'Steve'. Never a good sign.

"Son," Mark had continued after much throat clearing, "You know I try never to involve myself in your personal life - " He was interrupted by a snort of laughter from Steve and smiled. "I said 'try'," he repeated mildly. "I didn't say I always succeed. I just wonder if - you've thought about the fact that - well, Kayley is a very nice girl, but don't you think she's a little young to…?"

Steve had stared at him. "A little young to…what?" he had demanded incredulously.

"To…well…" Mark had trailed off, red with embarrassment.

Steve had stared harder. "You've got to be kidding," he said indignantly. "You think I would even consider…? Dad, she's practically a baby!"

"No, no - of course I didn't think…" but Mark had looked ridiculously relieved. "It's just that Jesse has this idea in his head that you're plotting with her to play a joke on him, and then the card, and I just thought - well…" Mark had shrugged and smiled.

Steve had grinned at that. "Jesse still thinks I'm plotting something with Kayley Tupper?"

"Yes. And frankly, he's driving both Amanda and me a little crazy about it, so I would appreciate it if you would do me a favor and tell him otherwise."

Steve's grin had broadened. "I have told him otherwise. About a hundred times. I don't know why he doesn't believe me."

"Hm." Mark had looked suspicious this time. "Well, did you tell him sincerely, or did you tell him in an 'I've got a secret' tone, guaranteed to make him think that you were just trying to lull him into a false sense of security?"

Steve had thrown up his hands. "How should I know? I just told him. I can't be responsible for whether he believes me or not."

"I suppose." Mark had looked pensive. "But if you gave him that sort of angelic twinkle thing you do when you said it then he's never going to believe you, because that's a sure sign that you're not telling everything."

Steve had frowned at that. "If I - what?" He'd sighed deeply. "You know, Dad, it's not that I've ever kidded myself that I'm a man of mystery or anything, but I didn't quite think I was a human telegraph either. What do I do?"

Mark had laughed self-consciously and patted Steve's knee reassuringly. "Oh, nothing, nothing - I'm just glad to hear that you're not - not that I ever thought that you were, mind you! I just hope that Jesse lets go of this idea. Really, it's making him impossible to work with. He's driving himself crazy."

Steve had chuckled at that. "Yeah, I know. And without me even trying."

There was another envelope lying still unopened on the corner of the table and he hesitated over it, as he always did, studying the left handed back slant to the writing, wondering what it could contain. His father had offered to open it for him, clearly torn between reading it first or spiriting it away to the trash, just in case. He had done neither, of course - Steve was comfortable that he would never trespass on his privacy that way, even if he thought it was for his own good. But he was obviously eager to have it opened and exposed and behind them, for better or for worse. Steve was less eager - not really ready, in fact. He couldn't imagine what she might have to say to him but, good or bad, he needed a little more time. She had been absent from his dreams for a while now and he had no desire for a return visit. He looked at the envelope a little longer, then put it aside again. Some other time. Not today.

His favorite gift so far was on the end of the table, and he picked it up to look at it again.

Last night had been his first back in his own bed and he had slept like the proverbial dead. This morning when he had finally awoken, he had found breakfast prepared and set up on a small tray table at his bedside with a flat package half under the plate. It hadn't escaped his notice that the breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast was all carefully chosen so that it could be handled without needing a knife. There had been a note under the glass of orange juice too, that read, Call if you need anything. The nurse will stop by twice today.

He grimaced. The nurse had been a real bone of contention between them, but Mark had flatly refused to return to work and leave Steve alone with limited use of his hands and leg unless there was someone available to look in on him or help if he fell. Steve was insistent that it was completely unnecessary, but he knew that his father had been out of work long enough on his account and had finally reluctantly agreed to a series of part time visiting home nurses. He had figured that he could always convince the nurse that he was fine anyway, and that she could find other things to do with her time - erroneously, as it turned out. He should have realized that working for Dr. Mark Sloan was something of a big deal in the local medical community and could make or break a nurse's reputation. Consequently, he had found himself overwhelmed with attention - no, Lt. Sloan did NOT need a back rub thank you, no, the lieutenant was sure his temperature was just fine, no, Lt. Sloan probably didn't need another sponge bath (his name was Steve - couldn't they please call him Steve…?) the last nurse had given him one and God, didn't he long for the day when he could enjoy a shower again; no, really, he wasn't hungry - it wasn't as if he was active or anything and besides, there was plenty of food that he could manage for himself…each nurse in turn was so attentive and smothering that he almost longed to return to the hospital where he could enjoy some comparative peace and privacy. He glanced at the clock. He had almost two hours before the next one showed up, anyway.

??????????????? His eyes automatically returned to the contents of the package, and he smiled. It had only been wrapped loosely in tissue paper in deference to his hands. He had pulled the paper away to reveal a brushed nickel frame containing two photographs: the top one a copy of the photo of his grandfather's Academy graduating class, the bottom one a picture of his own. On the back of the frame he found a message scrawled in his father's distinctive doctor's handwriting:

Congratulations on your case. I guess sometimes there's just no substitute for a little routine police work. Your grandfather would have been very proud. Love, Dad. P.S. So am I.

He studied the pictures again. They looked good together, he decided, not for the first time. He'd have to find a good place to hang it - maybe over his desk.

Still smiling, he limped to the refrigerator to retrieve his beer. It wouldn't be truly cold, but he wanted to enjoy one while he watched, and it was almost time. Opening the bottle confounded him for a minute, but he had a bottle opener permanently attached under the counter that he could manage pretty well if he held onto the bottle with both hands. He brought the beer and the water glass with Candy's flowers back to the living room with him and set the flowers on the coffee table, making himself comfortable on the couch. He pulled the insert from Kayley's card out of the book he had stowed it in and double-checked. Yup. He should have time before the next nurse arrived. He reached for the universal remote his father had purchased for him when he came home from the hospital - one with extra large buttons, designed for the seeing impaired. It had made him feel silly at first, but it sure was easier to navigate with his limited fingers - and he turned on the television and found the right channel, listening for the show's opening music.

He had developed an odd, proprietary feeling toward Miranda and their shared memory loss and now that he had his own back, he sort of felt a vested interest in seeing her regain hers, too. Probably hers would be much more dramatic and television worthy than his had been…he frowned suddenly at the memory. Then again, maybe not. It was kind of hard for even a soap opera to compete with that car chase through a parking lot. Still, it would be nice to see Eric and Miranda happily settled, no matter how that happened. Kind of close this little chapter for him.

??????????????? Of course, he would rather open a vein than let anyone know what he was doing…it was good to know that Kayley could keep a secret. He took a swallow of his beer and closed his eyes for a second to savor it - ambrosial - as the first scene opened, smiling to himself as he pictured what his friends and father would have to say if they knew what he was up to.

"Guess you don't know everything about me after all," he murmured smugly, then took another pull on his beer and settled back to watch.

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The End

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·???For those of you who hate to look up such things yourself: coral and white roses together mean, "You're heavenly and I desire you".? Brown roses mean, "Fascination and anticipation."

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