This story is dedicated to Betty – with grateful thanks for all her help and support both in beta reading my stories and for being a friend. Thanks are also due to Betty for providing me with the medical information.

The Quarrel
by
 

Running a weary hand through his shock of thick, white, hair Mark Sloan sank down gratefully on the couch in the doctor’s lounge nursing a cup of hot, steaming, coffee.    He was totally exhausted, having just finished a 24 hour shift; not through choice but necessity, since so many of the staff and doctors at Community General had succumbed to a particularly virulent form of gastro-enteritis, which epidemic meant that the hospital was running on a skeleton staff.   Even Jesse Travis, Mark’s young friend and protégé, had succumbed to the virus.     Thus far the distinguished doctor had escaped unscathed and he was keeping his fingers firmly crossed that that was how things would remain.

As he allowed his aching bones to momentarily relax, Mark could well understand the attraction that the couch held for Jesse, who probably spent more time sleeping on it than he ever did in his own bed at his tiny apartment in Venice.   But then Jesse was young, Mark reflected, and while he certainly didn’t consider himself old, he would far rather enjoy the comfort of his large double bed back at his beach house on Malibu.

Sighing with pleasure at the prospect of some hot food; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, several cold beers and then, if he had the energy a long, hot, shower; if not straight to bed, he stood up, stretched and, with barely enough strength left to put one foot in front of the other, left the lounge and headed towards the elevator.

THE BEACH HOUSE

Like his father, Steve Sloan had been pulling double; even treble shifts as, one after another, his colleagues at the precinct began to drop like ninepins.   As he let himself into the beach house, tossing his jacket on to the couch where it promptly slithered to the floor and his keys on his father’s desk, he found himself ruminating on the one thing that had been puzzling him ever since the epidemic had started, which was that the criminal populace of LA appeared to have been completely spared!

It wasn’t something he dwelt on for very long, however, as his growling stomach reminded him that he’d consumed nothing but copious amounts of coffee for longer than he cared to remember and it was now time for proper sustenance.    With that in mind he headed for the kitchen.

45 MINUTES LATER

            Mark’s heart lifted at the sight of Steve’s car parked in the driveway.   It seemed like forever since the two men had seen one another, much less sat down and eaten a meal together.    His tiredness evaporated as he looked forward to spending some much-needed time with his son.

            The smile faded from his face however, when, upon entering the kitchen, he saw the devastation Steve had wreaked: cupboard doors open, the bread left out to go stale, an opened peanut butter jar from which a knife still protruded, smears of the same on the kitchen counter, a profusion of breadcrumbs littering both the kitchen counter and the tablecloth and, as if all that weren’t bad enough, two empty beer bottles stood proudly amidst the detritus, both tops having rolled on to the floor where they had been left.

“God dammit,” muttered Mark, all traces of good humour at the thought of seeing his son having vanished.    “You’re 38 years old Steve, why in the hell can’t you clear up after yourself?”

If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have merely shrugged his shoulders, pondered on how - given that he, Kathryn and Carol had always been meticulously tidy - Steve was the complete opposite, cleared everything away and got on with making himself something to eat.  

But he was tired; both physically and mentally and the last thing he felt like doing was tidying up after his fully-grown son.   Thus, by the time Steve emerged from his apartment, strolling nonchalantly into the living room where he greeted his father with a cheerful “Hi dad,” Mark was boiling with rage.

“What the HELL do you call this?” He snapped furiously.

“What?” Steve frowned, puzzled both by the question and his father’s anger.

“This!” Mark gestured impatiently towards the mess in the kitchen, wondering whether Steve was simply being obtuse or deliberately trying to rile him in which case he was doing an excellent job!    “Can’t you even manage to put the lid back on the DAMN peanut butter jar?” He roared.

Up to that point Steve had been too surprised to say anything, much less retaliate.   However, at the - as he saw it - totally disproportionate amount of anger his father was displaying for something as simple as forgetting to put the lid back on a jar, the fuse was lit under his temper too.

“Well, I’m SORRY dad,” he said huffily, crossing over to rectify his heinous crime, “I’ll do it right now.”

“Don’t bother,” came the utterly infuriating response, “I can do it quicker myself but I wish you would remember that I live here too Steve.   I don’t appreciate you using the place like a hotel, expecting someone to clear up after you all the time.”

 “I have never,” Steve hissed, between teeth that were very firmly clenched, “treated this place like a hotel, nor do I expect you to clear up after me.   I was going to do it.”

“When, Christmas?” Came the sharp retort.

“No,” Steve took a deep breath and counted to ten.   “Right after I’d had my shower.”

“Most people clear up as they go along,” Mark grumbled as he extracted the knife from the peanut butter jar and replaced the lid, before turning his attention to the rest of the mess, “and I notice you couldn’t even be bothered to hang your jacket up - again,” he added archly, nodding towards the offending garment.

“Oh I give up.”  To add emphasis to his words the detective held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.   “You’re obviously going to find fault with everything I do or say dad, so there’s no point in me even attempting to apologise or clean up the mess is there?”

For a moment - a very long moment - father and son stood and glared at one another, like two angry cats squaring up for a fight.

And then Steve turned and stalked back down to his apartment where he slammed the door with such force that the whole house shook.

“Oh, dammit,” Mark sighed as - his rage spent - a heavy mantle of guilt began to settle on his shoulders. He knew he’d behaved irrationally; knew also that he should apologise.   He was on the verge of heading down to Steve’s apartment, when he thought better of it; right now they were both so tired they were just as likely to start arguing again.

“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he vowed as, his appetite having deserted him, he headed towards his bedroom and some much-needed sleep.   

THE FOLLOWING MORNING

            Like most best laid plans, however, Mark’s was thwarted.   Just as he exited his bedroom the following morning, fully intending to eat a breakfast of humble pie, he heard the familiar sound of Steve’s car starting up and reached the front door just in time to see his son pulling out onto PCH.

“Oh, hell!” He exclaimed, slumping dispiritedly into a chair.   It was quite evident to him that Steve had left early in order to avoid him, which thought only served to exacerbate his guilt. 

Well, he would make it up to Steve, that much was certain.    He’d call the precinct later and suggest they meet for lunch at the hospital, knowing that his son would never be able to resist the lure of the cuisine at Community General and, just as soon as he arrived, Mark would apologise for his boorish behaviour the previous evening.

Having decided on his course of action, he set about fixing breakfast.

THE PRECINCT

            Steve had felt guilty sneaking out of the house like a thief in the night, but he was still smarting about his father’s totally unwarranted criticism and thought it best that their paths didn’t cross for a while until they’d both had a chance to calm down.

            But as he was pulling out onto PCH he happened to glance in his rear-view mirror and, catching sight of his father’s thoroughly dejected figure silhouetted in the doorway, was immediately consumed by guilt as he realised that he had been inconsiderate and he did owe his father an apology.

            As soon as he reached the precinct, therefore, he reached for the phone on his desk and dialled the number for the beach house.   The answering machine clicked in on the third ring so his dad had obviously left for the hospital.   He tried his dad’s cell-phone but that was switched off and when he rang the hospital he was informed that, yes, Dr. Sloan had just arrived but that, no, Steve couldn’t talk to him because he’d just been called to the ER where the victims of a 10 car pile up on the highway had just been brought in.

            Well, he’d call in at lunchtime and offer to take his dad out for lunch; being totally prepared to forego the heady delights of the food in the hospital cafeteria and treat his father to some “proper” food.

            Having decided on a plan, he settled down to tackle the mountainous pile of paperwork on his desk.

NOON

            “Don’t forget you still owe me twenty dollars Lieutenant,” Tanis Archer called out as Steve loped out of the office a few minutes before noon.

            He had in fact totally forgotten; still it wasn’t a problem, he reasoned as he slid behind the wheel of the car.   His bank was on the way to the hospital; he’d stop and withdraw the cash and be on his way again in less than five minutes.

            And that’s what would have happened, had the cash dispensing machine not swallowed his card without even so much as an “excuse me,” thereby forcing him to go into the bank to remedy the situation, whereupon - to his dismay - he saw that a long queue had formed at the only counter that was open.   Sighing resignedly, he took his place in the line, which moved forward with all the rapidity of a snail.   Wondering why, at lunchtime, which must surely be one of the bank’s busiest times, the powers that be chose only to have one teller on duty, Steve glanced impatiently at his watch: 12.10 PM.  He’d be lucky if he was out of here by 12.30 PM at the rate the queue was moving, or not moving to be more precise; would just have time to get to the hospital and apologise to his father before turning round and heading back to the precinct.   Lunch was, most definitely, out of the question.   Still, it was the apology that was the most important thing, he mused, as he shuffled forward another few inches.  He’d take his dad out to dinner tonight instead.   Maybe they’d try that new Italian restaurant that had...

            “NOBODY MOVE!” A harsh voice interrupted his pleasant musings.    “Just do as you’re told and nobody will get hurt,” at which threat several of the women - and a few of the men – screamed in terror.

            Unfortunately the security guard, who’d been visiting the bathroom, hadn’t heard the warning.     His precipitate entrance into the room startled everyone, not least the companion of the man who’d uttered the caution, who raised his weapon and squeezed off three rounds into the guard’s chest.   The man was dead before he hit the ground.    

            “You IDIOT!” A furious voice yelled.   “What did you have to do that for?”

            “He had a gun,” came the surly response.

            “So what?   He didn’t even reach for it.    Dammit, I told you that I didn’t want anyone hurt.   In and out, swift and clean, that was my plan and now you’ve messed the whole thing up.”

            “Quit complaining and move, because it’s my guess that little Miss Innocent over there,” the bank teller visibly cringed as the gun was levelled in her direction, “just tripped the silent alarm.”

            During the heated exchange, a cold hand had closed over Steve’s heart as he realised that he knew - with dreadful certainty - the identity of one of their captors.

            Turning slowly, so as not to give either of the armed men a reason to shoot him, he found himself face to face with Frank Jerkowski.

*****

            When the last of the casualties from the freeway accident had been dealt with, having either been sent to theatre or admitted to a ward, Mark was finally able to draw breath.   Hastening to his office he dialled Steve’s direct number at the precinct.   The phone was answered by Tanis.

            “Steve’s not here,” she informed him.    “He said something about coming over to take you out to lunch.   I reminded him he owed me some money so he probably called in at the bank first,” she added.

            Some five minutes after speaking to Mark, Tanis was just thinking of heading out to lunch herself when Captain Newman, his face grim, thundered into the office.

            “Listen up,” he announced to those officers present.    “The silent alarm has just been triggered down at the Municipal Bank on East 17th Street,” at which statement a bolt of fear coursed through Tanis.   “I want every available officer down there right now,” Newman continued.     “What is it Sergeant Archer?” He enquired as Tanis raised her hand.

“I think we may have a problem Captain,” she replied gravely.

THE MUNICIPAL BANK

            “Well, well,” Jerkowski’s weasel face split into a malevolent grin.   “Fancy meeting you here Lieutenant,” he commented, his voice thick with sarcasm.

            “You KNOW this guy?” His colleague enquired.

            “Hell, yes,” Jerkowski replied.  “The Lieutenant and I go way back, don’t we?” He enquired, winking at the tactiturn detective.

            “Way back,” came the dry response.

            “Surprised to see me Sloan?”

            “No,” Steve replied honestly, “this…” he glanced around him, “just seems like a natural kind of progression for you, Frank.   You had a second chance to make it in the real world and you blew it.   You were a hunted felon after your attack on me.   The only path you were ever heading for was the downward one.   But you have to…” his gaze travelled around the room, taking in the body of the security guard and the frightened group of people who were huddled in the far corner of the room, regarding the trio nervously, “give up now,” he advised.   “Both of you,” he addressed this comment to the whey-faced man who was doing his level best to look tough, but who was in fact visibly trembling, his carefully constructed plan having turned to ashes, his plot to harm no-one having already resulted in one death, “you must know that you’ll never get away with this.”

            “He’s right,” Frank’s nervous companion agreed.   “We should…”

            “SHUT UP,” Jerkowski yelled.   “This isn’t over,” he added menacingly as he took a step towards Steve.   “Okay so the plan might have gone wrong and we won’t get the money – this time,” he stressed, “but we’re not finished,” he informed his partner in crime.   “We’ll get out of here – we WILL get away with this.”

            “I don’t see…”

            “Lance,” Frank’s face relaxed into a smile.  “You worry too much, really you do.   Don’t you see that we have the perfect bargaining tool standing right in front of us?”

            It took a while but, eventually, recognition dawned and a slow, understanding smile spread over Lance’s face.

            “Search him, he must be carrying,” Frank snapped, turning away to peer out of the window where he wasn’t at all surprised to discover half of the LAPD had arrived.   His gaze swept from the myriad black and whites, behind which officers in Kevlars, their weapons trained firmly on the building, huddled for protection, up to the roofs of the adjacent buildings, where sharpshooters stood as still as statues, their rifles aimed, awaiting further instruction.

            “It looks like the party has started,” he joked, just as the phone rang.

“Answer it,” he snarled.    “No, not you,” he addressed this remark to his companion who was already heading towards the phone.   “Him,” he gesticulated, nodding over at Steve.

            “Okay,” the detective acquiesced, crossing slowly over to the phone and picking up the receiver into which he announced, “Lieutenant Sloan.”

“Sloan?”   At the other end of the phone Newman glanced over sharply at Tanis; their worst fears now confirmed.

“Captain Newman,” came the cool, calm response.

“Can you apprise me of the situation, Lieutenant?”

“Yes sir.   There are two perpetrators, both armed.    There are also 12 hostages, including myself.”

“Any wounded?”

“The security guard was shot, he’s dead, Captain,” Steve said regretfully.   “Sir, I...” he started to say, just as Jerkowski snatched the receiver out of his hands.

“Listen Newman and listen good because I’m only going to say this once.”

“Jerkowski?” The Captain’s astonishment was evident in the tone of his voice.  

“The very same,” came the sharp retort. “Now I want a car waiting out front in exactly,” he checked his watch.    “Fifteen minutes.    Leave the keys in the ignition and the engine running.”

“I can’t sanction a deal like that without the requisite authority from the Chief, you of all people should know that,” Newman pointed out patiently.

“Well you go ahead and do that,” the tone of the man’s voice sent a cold shiver down both Newman and Tanis’s spines.   “In the meantime we’ll start shooting the hostages.”   Newman winced at the collective scream that went up from the assembled group inside the bank.   “One every 15 minutes.    Maybe that will get your butt into gear, hmm?”

“You don’t have a choice,” Tanis murmured.   “You have to agree to his demand otherwise those people in there don’t stand a chance.”

“I know it,” Newman’s face was grim.  

            “14 minutes and counting,” Jerkowski’s hateful voice taunted them.   “What’s it to be Newman?    The car or the first dead body?”

“The car will be outside in 15 minutes,” Newman replied quietly.  

            “I knew you’d see the sense in my proposal.”   Both Newman and Tanis bristled at the gloating tone in Jerkowski’s voice.   “Now, just in case you have any ideas about double-crossing us, we’ll be taking Lieutenant Sloan with us as insurance.    If you do exactly as I say he’ll be released unharmed.”     Somehow Steve doubted the veracity of that statement but he was in no position to do anything other than go along with Jerkowski’s plan; he wasn’t about to risk the safety of the other hostages by trying anything heroic.

“I’d better call Lieutenant Sloan’s father,” said Newman after the line of communication had been temporarily suspended.   “He should be made aware of what’s going on.”

COMMUNITY GENERAL

Mark was halfway through reading the contents of a financial report, thinking how well a cup of coffee would go down, if only to keep him awake long enough to reach the end of the voluminous tome, when the phone rang.    Grateful for the distraction - for any distraction from the task in hand - he snatched the receiver up and gaily announced “Mark Sloan.”

“Mark.”    At the sound of Newman’s voice Mark felt a cold hand squeeze his heart in a vice-like grip.

            “Mark?” Newman repeated.

“Yes, I’m here,” came the husky response from a voice dry with fear.    “Is it Steve?    Is he hurt?”

“He’s not hurt.”   The unspoken “not yet anyway” hung heavily in the air.   “He’s being held hostage, along with 11 other people, down at the Municipal Bank on East 17th Street.”

“I’m on my way.”  Mark was about to hurl the receiver back in its cradle when Newman forestalled him.

“There’s... something else you should know before you get here.  One of the perpetrators is... Mark, It’s Frank Jerkowski.”

            A stunned silence greeted that revelation.

            “There’s more...”

            “Go ahead,” came the terse command from the fraught man at the other end of the phone.

“Jerkowski has demanded transport and safe passage, without which he’ll start killing the hostages.     One man, the security guard, is already dead and I’m not about to let anyone else come to harm so I’ve agreed to meet his demands, but…” he swallowed hard, unable to formulate the words, knowing that he had do, that Mark had a right to do know what was going on.

“Tell me,” Mark pleaded.

The answer, when it came, was like a knife through his heart.

            “They’re taking Steve with them as a hostage,” Newman said bluntly.

*****

            “You should have said sorry; you should have said sorry,” the words kept playing over and over in his head until Mark thought he would scream.

            “And I WILL,” he snarled as he wove in and out of the traffic, his erratic driving attracting startled looks and - in several instances - a stream of shouted invective.    He saw nothing, heard nothing; totally focused on reaching his destination, of being there when Steve... he gulped as he realised the severity of his son’s situation.

            “Let’s hope you get the chance,” the hateful inner voice taunted before - mercifully - falling silent.

*****

            Captain Newman and Tanis were waiting for him as he slewed his vehicle to a halt at the police cordon, ushering him under the tape and over to the communications van situated behind a veritable plethora of black and whites.

“I just spoke to Jerkowski,” Newman solemnly informed the ashen-faced man. “He and his accomplice will be coming out shortly with Steve.    We can’t risk following them, so the vehicle’s been fitted with a tracking device.   I know it’s risky,” he conceded as Mark began to protest, “but it’s been well concealed and to be honest,” he admitted, “we really don’t have any other choice if we’re to stand any chance of apprehending them both and getting your son back.”

            “Where’s Chief Masters?” Mark enquired, his gaze sweeping the area searching for the tall, lean, figure of the Chief of Police.  

“He’s attending a conference in New York,” Newman replied.   “But I’m in constant touch with him and he’s sanctioned my plan of action.”

            “They’re coming out Captain.”   Tanis’s eagle eyes had spotted the door to the bank opening.

            Steve was the first to emerge; closely followed by Jerkowski, who had the barrel of a gun jammed very firmly into the detective’s back.   

            “Don’t try anything stupid, or Sloan dies” he yelled as they made their way to the waiting vehicle - a large black sedan - the engine of which was thrumming gently, the only noise in the otherwise hushed silence that had descended,

            “You drive,” he commanded his trembling companion who was eyeing the parade of armed police officers with growing anxiety.   “I’ll get in the back with our friend here,” he nudged the barrel even harder into Steve’s back, “to ensure that he doesn’t try anything smart.”

            Suitably instructed, Lance slid behind the wheel while Frank pushed Steve none too gently into the back seat, climbed in swiftly beside him and placed the barrel of the gun to the side of the detective’s head.

            Seconds later the vehicle pulled slowly away from the sidewalk.   All those assembled stood and watched until, at the next intersection, it turned left and disappeared from view.

35 MINUTES’ LATER

“Where are we going?” Lance agitatedly enquired.   “We can’t keep driving forever.”

“Quit whining,” Frank said tersely, at which Lance fell into a huffy silence.    “I know this vehicle has been bugged,” he continued, turning to face Steve.    “But don’t bank on the cavalry arriving in time to save you Sloan; it isn’t going to happen.    Take the next left,” he snapped, which manoeuvre - to Steve’s dismay - led them onto a large, deserted, warehouse site.  

“This is where we part company with you Lieutenant,” he announced, curtly instructing Lance to bring the vehicle to a halt.

From the insane gleam in Jerkowski’s eyes, Steve knew that the man intended to end their long-running feud right here and now on this barren piece of land.  

“Frank...” Lance’s voice was high pitched with fear.   “You... are going to let him go, right?”  

“Of course,” his partner blithely lied.   “We just don’t want him running for help now do we?   Out,” he snapped harshly, levelling the gun at Steve’s chest.

            As he exited the vehicle, Steve glanced around him, desperately seeking cover.   The nearest building was over 500 yards away and it was that on which he focused, knowing that if he could just reach its shelter, he would be safe.   He took first one step, and then another, concentrating on that one aim, that one goal.

            “Frank?” Lance’s puzzled voice broke his concentration.   “What are you doing?   You said that you were going to let him g...” Steve turned just in time to see Jerkowski reverse the gun and club his partner on the side of the head with the butt, thereby rendering him unconscious.

            “He was always gullible,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

            In the small space of time while Jerkowski was focused on his insentient companion, Steve saw his chance - his only chance - to get out of the situation alive.   He took off, running as fast as he could towards the empty warehouse, weaving and ducking to make himself as elusive a target as he could.

            The first bullet whistled past his head, missing him by mere millimetres; the second clipped his left shoulder causing him to stumble and almost fall.   Somehow he managed to stay on his feet - if he fell he knew it would all be over - and continue his desperate race for life.

The third and fourth bullets bit the asphalt a few feet away from him and he thanked providence that Jerkowski was proving to be such a poor shot.    His thanks were, however, premature, the fifth bullet finding its target, slamming into his right leg, just below the kneecap.   Somehow he managed to keep going, the sanctuary of the warehouse looming up before him.    He’d just reached the entrance when the sixth, and final bullet, caught him in the middle of his back, slamming him forwards.  He landed heavily on his hands and knees and began crawling as fast as he was able to seek shelter amongst the myriad crates.  

            He wasn’t sure how long he huddled amidst the damp and decaying wood waiting for Jerkowski to come striding into the gloomy edifice and finish the job he’d started so determinedly; wasn’t sure if his ears were deceiving him or if he really did hear the sound of the vehicle driving away.    After a while it ceased to matter and he sank to the floor, heedless of the dust and grime, lay his head in the crook of his right arm, and watched as the bright sunlight that filtered through the open doorway gradually faded to grey, to black, and then, finally, to nothingness.

*****

            No-one spoke when the signal they’d been painstakingly tracking, stopped although they all knew what it meant; that the vehicle was now stationary, but for what purpose?    While they all harboured their own thoughts and fears, no one dared voice them aloud, preferring to concentrate on the positive, that Steve had been freed; that he was alive and well.    

As they covertly approached the area, the vehicle once again began moving, its signal loud and strong.

“Stay with the surveillance team Sergeant Archer,” Newman instructed the cool blonde as he ordered the driver of the van to pull over, “I want to check out the area,” he continued, gesturing to Mark to follow him outside where a posse of black and whites were lined up, one behind the other, ready to set off and investigate the vicinity where Jerkowski had chosen to - momentarily at least - interrupt his escape.

            But as they approached the locale and Mark surveyed its vastness, he wondered despairingly just where they were supposed to start looking and whether, in fact, Steve was even there.     The fact that he didn’t emerge to greet them as the cavalcade pulled to a halt was surely a clear indication that he remained with his captors and yet the burning question remained; why had Jerkowski chosen to stop in such a barren waste ground?

            His worst fears were confirmed when one of the officers, some 200 feet from their position, sent up a loud cry, “There’s blood on the ground over here Captain Newman.”

            Mark was at the man’s side in an instant, his heart thumping so hard he was surprised it didn’t just burst out through his chest.   His eyes fell on the blood, bright droplets which stood out in stark contrast against the hard, grey, asphalt, droplets which formed a trail to a large, dilapidated warehouse, towards which he began to run, fear spurring him on.

“Call 911 and get an ambulance despatched here - fast!” barked Newman as he set off in pursuit of Mark.

As he plunged inside the gloomy interior Mark was forced to pause for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light.  When they did, what he saw was a sight that would haunt him for weeks, months - years - to come; his precious son lay in a crumpled heap in an ever-widening pool of blood.  

“No!” He cried, sinking to his knees and pressing his fingers firmly against Steve’s throat, checking frantically for a pulse.    There was nothing.     He pressed harder and blessedly - mercifully - there it was; the faintest beat - weak and irregular - but there all the same.

COMMUNITY GENERAL

            Jesse, who knew nothing of the drama involving his best friend, responded swiftly to the summons to the ER, arriving at the same time as the gurney conveying his unconscious and blood-soaked patient.

            “What have we got?” He enquired, his eyes sweeping over the man’s body, swiftly assessing the damage.   When his eyes reached the ashen countenance, he recoiled in shock.

“Oh, my God.    STEVE!”  He exclaimed, his horrified gaze travelling from his best friend’s insentient form to Mark, who stood white-faced and silent just inside the doors to the ER.  

A hundred questions were buzzing around inside his head, questions that would have to remain unanswered until he’d succeeded in stabilising his friend.

“BP is 90/60, pulse is 150 and thready.   I want….” he didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence because, at that moment, the heart monitor flat lined.

The world shrank until it encompassed only the small team grouped around the bed; a team that swung into immediate, and well-practised action, as they fought to save their patient’s life.    Once, twice and then a third time the paddles were applied to Steve’s naked, bloodied, chest, the electric current coursing through his lifeless body.   On the third attempt their efforts were rewarded when the heart monitor once again began a steady, rhythmic, beat.

The danger, however, was far from over; Steve’s grip on life was as tenuous and gossamer thin as the silvery thread a spider uses to spin its intricate web.    They needed to get him into the OR - and fast. 

“I’ll...” Mark’s anguished eyes met those of his young protégé, “wait in the doctor’s lounge,” at which statement Jesse visibly sagged with relief.    He knew how much Mark wanted - needed - to be with his son; nonetheless the older man was astute enough to realise that Jesse needed to focus entirely on Steve - as he had done when the detective had been shot two years earlier.   Smiling reassuringly he reached out and squeezed his mentor gently on the arm - and then he turned and strode swiftly alongside the gurney as it was propelled towards a waiting elevator.

Mark stood and watched until the mouth of the steel maw closed on its precious cargo and then he headed towards the doctor’s lounge to begin the long, agonising wait.

THE DOCTORS’ LOUNGE

            He felt as though he existed in a vacuum; the rest of the world going on around him while he sat watching the hands of the clock on the wall crawl slowly around its face, or paced the confines of the lounge over and over - back and forth - like an animal in a cage.

            Captain Newman and Tanis came to see him, to tell him that Jerkowski and his accomplice had been apprehended shortly after abandoning their vehicle and fleeing on foot.   He knew he should take some small comfort in the fact that both men had been apprehended and that Jerkowski would grow old behind bars - but he couldn’t, not while Steve was fighting for his life. 

Newman and Tanis left and Amanda came, although he barely noticed her presence, barely heard her calm, comforting words.   Eventually she, too, left and he was once again left with his ever-present companions; guilt and regret; guilt that the last words he had exchanged with his son had been angry ones, regret that he may never get the chance to say sorry.

            He was so caught up in contemplation he wasn’t aware that Jesse had entered the lounge until the young man called out his name - and then he was on his feet in an instant.

            “How...?” His mouth formed the word but no sound emerged, fear having robbed him of speech.

            “He’s going to be just fine,” came the welcome response, at which Mark felt his knees give way beneath him and, but for Jesse, would have collapsed where he stood.    He allowed the younger man to take him gently by the elbow and guide him back to the couch.

            “Can I see him?”

            “Of course,” Jesse smiled.   “He’s in the ICU at the moment but that’s standard procedure after major surgery as you know,” he added.

            “Jesse I...” Mark hesitated, too overcome with emotion and relief to be able to continue for a moment.    “Thank you,” he was finally able to whisper.

THE ICU

Steve lay motionless, his face as white as the pillow which supported his head, hooked up to - and surrounded by - a plethora of medical equipment.   Mark checked each and every piece of equipment to satisfy himself that it was working correctly before returning to his son’s side where he settled himself in the chair by the side of the bed.

THE NEXT MORNING

His first thought as he drifted back to consciousness was that Jerkowski had changed his mind about shooting him and was, instead, attempting to choke him to death.   He opened his eyes, fully expecting to see his adversary’s malicious face looming above him but found, instead, his father’s smiling countenance; heard his father’s voice soothing him as the tube filling his mouth and throat was carefully extracted.

“Would you like a drink of water?”

“In a minute.   There’s something I need to…” he was forced to stop for a moment as the words rasped his throat painfully.

“No,” Mark said quietly, already guessing what it was his son was trying to say.    “You don’t have to apologise for anything.   What happened yesterday was entirely my fault.   I had a bad day and I took it out on you.   It was unforgivable of me and I just want you to know that I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too,” Steve mumbled as sleep’s gentle fingers reached out to pull him into her healing embrace.   And I promise that, in future I’ll try to be….” He struggled to formulate the last word, “tidier.”

It would be unrealistic to expect that they would never disagree in the future, Mark recognised that indisputable fact.   They were only human after all.   But as he sat watching his son sleep, he vowed that – never again – would he allow either of them to part on bad terms.    

SIX WEEKS’ LATER – NOON, THE BEACH HOUSE

Jesse had been delighted when Mark had invited him to lunch, although his enthusiasm had faded somewhat when the older man informed him that Steve would be cooking!   All Jesse could hope for was that, given that his best friend had been convalescing, maybe - just maybe - he might have utilised some of his time on improving his culinary skills.     

That hope was, however, sadly dashed as, upon entering the house, their olfactory senses were assailed with the acrid smell of burning.    

"Wow!" Jesse exclaimed as, upon entering the kitchen, his eyes took in the carnage his friend had managed to create; not only were the contents of Steve's abortive attempt at cooking burning merrily on the stove, but the sink was full of used pots and pans from earlier, equally unsuccessful attempts, while the kitchen counter, not to mention the table, were littered with plates, containers, packets and jars.

     "He's a little messy isn't he?" He enquired of the older man.

"Yes he is," Mark replied, smiling.    "But do you know something Jesse?"  He added, gazing fondly at his son.    "I wouldn't want him any other way."

The End