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.  

A Victim Of Circumstance

by

It wasn’t that an ambulance was an unusual sight, after all he encountered them on an everyday basis when he called in at the hospital to see his father and, in his particular line of work as a detective with the LAPD, the vehicles were usually omnipresent.

Still, he was more than a little surprised when, upon arriving at the precinct for his shift a little after 8.30 AM, he discovered an ambulance parked outside the front entrance; was actually more than surprised when he saw the paramedics carefully sliding a gurney containing the insentient form of Captain Newman into the rear of the vehicle.

“Yo Sloan,” Bob Jarrett hurried towards him.   “Man are we in trouble.”

“Bob,” Steve greeted his colleague.   “What’s going on?” he enquired, nodding towards the rapidly retreating vehicle, its loud, mournful, siren having an immediate effect on the heavy slow-moving traffic.   Cars tucked in behind one another, bumper touching bumper, to enable the emergency vehicle to filter its way through.   It was probably, Steve ruefully reflected, the only time that the commuting public ever extended any common courtesy, usually too focused on getting to their place of work to give a damn about anyone else.

“Newman collapsed at his desk,” Jarrett informed Steve as the two men headed into the precinct.   “He complained to the desk sergeant about abdominal pains.    I overheard the paramedics saying it could be appendicitis.   Whatever,” Jarrett shrugged.   “All I know is that this leaves us, our department, in one hell of a mess.”

“Your concern for Newman is touching,” Steve remarked dryly.

“Oh hey,” Jarrett’s face flushed crimson with embarrassment.   “It’s not that I don’t care about the guy, but his falling sick leaves us in one hell of a mess.   It’s July, Sloan.     Half of the force is on holiday; Chief Masters included.   Newman was the lynchpin holding the precinct together and now he’s in the hospital.  Who’s going to be in charge until either he or the Chief gets back?”

“The Easter Bunny?” Steve quipped.

“Oh you are SO not funny Sloan,” Came the swift retort.

“Don’t worry Bob,” Steve slipped a companionable arm around his colleague’s shoulders.   “You can be sure that the powers that be won’t allow us detectives to run the show.  They’ll find a temporary replacement for Newman, that’s for sure.”

TEN DAYS’ LATER

“Sloan where the HELL is that report on the Pruzinski homicide that I asked you for TWO DAYS ago?” Captain Jackson yelled, as he came to a halt beside Steve’s desk.

“I’ll have it with you first thing tomorrow Captain,” Steve replied wearily.

“No Sloan you will NOT,” Jackson retorted.   “You will have it on my desk before you leave the precinct this evening.  Do you have a problem with that DETECTIVE,” he snarled, the ferocity of his tone sending the other officers diving for cover.

“No sir I don’t,” Steve replied politely.   “It’s just that …”

“Just what?” Jackson’s voice dripped with sarcasm.   “Do you have a hot date Sloan, is that it?   Can’t wait to get out of here and meet the little lady?”

“No sir,” Steve bridled with anger at his superior officer’s patronising attitude.

“Then what is it?” Jackson demanded.   “What could possibly be more important than the Pruzinski report?”

“My father’s birthday,” Steve wanted to yell back.   Except he knew that, if he did, if he mentioned the fact that it was a special occasion, Jackson would go out of his way to find a dozen other reasons to keep him at the precinct – all night if necessary – as he had done so on countless other occasions when the detective had, in the early stages of their volatile working relationship, been unwitting enough to admit to other commitments, whereupon the Captain had come down on him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Steve didn’t know what he’d ever done to incur the man’s wrath, but that he had, had become all too evident in the first few days of Jackson’s arrival at the precinct.

---

“Listen up people,” a strident voice had broken through the everyday buzz of the office, all eyes turning towards the man who stood in the doorway; who stood BLOCKING the doorway, so huge was his girth.   The guy was as round as he was tall, his clothes straining at the seams as he waddled into the office, stopping directly in front of Steve’s desk, his coal-black eyes sweeping over the detective.

“I’m Captain Jackson,” he announced, swivelling around with surprising grace for so large a man.   “Captain Abraham Jackson,” he reiterated.   “I’ve been drafted in from the West Beverly Hills precinct to cover for Captain Newman while he recovers from his operation.   I guess you know that he developed peritonitis, so he’s going to be away a lot longer than was originally anticipated, which gives us all time to get nicely acquainted, doesn’t it?”

Those mean eyes flickered over Steve, turning the detective’s blood to ice.   He didn’t know what he could possibly have done to incur such a look of pure, raw, hatred, from those coal black eyes given that he and Jackson were total strangers; all he could be certain of was that, for whatever reason, Jackson loathed him.

---

“Let me repeat my question detective.  What could possibly be more important than the Pruzinski report?”

“Nothing Captain,” Steve replied as he extracted the Pruzinski file from the bottom of a mountain of paperwork, all of which Jackson had informed him needed to be dealt with quick smart.   

“Good, because before you leave tonight I want a synopsis of ALL your files for the past year; current, inactive and closed.”

“What?” Steve looked at the man, aghast, his mind swiftly calculating the number involved which would certainly ensure he would be at his desk for the next ….. He was suddenly too tired to do the math.

“You heard me Lieutenant.   I’ll be at my desk prompt at 9 AM tomorrow morning, and I expect the synopsis on my desk then.”

“Sir,” Bob Jarrett piped up.    “If that’s your general edict, shouldn’t the rest of us be …..”

“I’m not interested in your cases Detective Jarrett.  I’m not interested in any of your cases,” he growled, his cold, hard, gaze, travelling around the room, fixing on each and every detective in turn before turning to face Steve.

“This is between you and me Sloan,” he murmured.

7.30 PM

“That was Steve,” Mark informed Amanda and Jesse as he returned from answering the phone.    “He’s having to work late.   He told us to start the meal without him.”

“He’s working late again?” Amanda exclaimed.   “Mark you’ve - we’ve,” she corrected herself,  “Hardly seen him for the last ten days.   He seems to be living at the precinct.”

“And when he’s been able to get to Bob’s, he’s been so tired he can barely function,” Jesse added, which comment elicited a frown from his beautiful colleague, swiftly followed by a sharp kick to his shin.    He opened his mouth to protest at such brutal treatment, caught Amanda’s stern glare and the very clear message:  “Mark is worried enough as it is.   Don’t add to his concerns,” and subsided into wounded silence.

Steve’s absence put a very real dampener on the birthday celebrations.    Amanda and Jesse tried – really hard – but they knew that, while Mark did his best to join in the joviality, his heart wasn’t in it; his thoughts being very firmly with his son.

7 AM

Mark had resolved to wait up and speak to Steve; no matter what time his son arrived back home.   He hadn’t, however, anticipated that it would be early morning before Steve returned.   The soft click of the front door closing roused him from a heavy sleep.   Rising from the couch he was just in time to see Steve padding softly down to his apartment.  

“Where on EARTH have you been?” he demanded, immediately overwhelmed with guilt at the way in which Steve all but jumped out of his skin at the unexpected sight and sound of his father.

“God, dad,” Steve laughed.  “You scared the HELL out of me.   I thought you’d still be in bed.   What are you doing sleeping on the couch,” he enquired.

“Waiting up for you.”

“What for?   I said I’d be working late.”  

“You said you’d be working LATE,” Mark stressed the word.  “You didn’t say you’d be working all night.”

“Things took longer than I thought,” Steve said wearily.   “I’m really sorry about missing your birthday,” he added, a hot flush of shame and embarrassment at letting his dad down so very badly, suffusing his ashen features.

“It’s not important,” said Mark, instantly contrite at causing his son such obvious distress.   “When you get to my age birthdays don’t mean quite as much as they do when you’re younger.   But, son, if you don’t slow down and get some rest I’m worried that you aren’t going to see your next birthday.”

“I’m okay dad,” Steve ran a trembling hand through his soft, brown, hair.

“Oh, so you’re a doctor now are you?” Mark said jocularly.   “Steve,” he continued seriously, “It’s apparent to me that you’re totally exhausted.    Son, I want you to ask Captain Jackson for a vacation.   God knows you’ve earned it.”

“Can we talk about this later dad?” Steve pleaded.   “Only I’m kind of tired.”

Although tired hardly described it, thought Steve, as he made his way down to his apartment where he fell onto the bed and, instead of succumbing to the blessed sanctuary of sleep, tossed and turned fretfully for several hours as he wondered just what the hell he’d ever done to incur Abraham Jackson’s wrath.

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON

“Detectives Sloan and Jarrett,” Jackson glared balefully at the two officers.    “My office NOW!”

“I have a stake-out operation set up for this evening,” Jackson informed both men when they were seated.   “I want you to take the first shift Sloan, commencing at 6 PM.   Jarrett will relieve you at 2 AM”

As the Captain filled them both in on the details of the assignment and the suspect they would be keeping under surveillance; Steve felt his spirits rapidly sinking.   An eight hour stake-out was the last thing he either wanted, or needed - given that he’d had the absolute bare minimum of sleep and was so tired he didn’t know how he was even managing to put one foot in front of the other.    He considered asking the Captain if he and Jarrett could swap shifts so that he could at least get some more sleep but one look at the pitiless expression on the Captain’s face persuaded him otherwise; he’d get through it somehow, even if he had to stick pins in his legs to keep himself awake!

2.30 AM

“Where the HELL are you Bob?” Steve murmured as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ease the numbness in his legs, trying also to ignore the overwhelming lassitude which was slowly enveloping every nerve and fibre in his body.    If Jarrett didn’t arrive soon Steve knew that he was going to lose the struggle he was waging to stay awake.

The whole evening had, he reflected, as he checked his watch again, been an exercise in futility.   He’d arrived, as instructed, outside the apartment building where the suspect lived just before 6 PM and taken up his position across the street which afforded him a clear view both of the front entrance as well as the suspect’s apartment which was situated on the third floor.   He’d witnessed the man go in to the building at 6.15 PM where he had then steadfastly remained, his apartment lights being extinguished a little after 11 PM.   

Time had slowed to a slow, interminable, crawl.    When his watch informed him it was 2 AM he’d heaved a sigh of relief as he eagerly awaited Jarrett’s arrival.    Eagerness soon turned to dismay when the detective failed to show up.    

At 2.45 AM Steve gave up waiting, extracted his cell phone, and punched in Jarrett’s home phone number.   It was answered on the fourth ring by his very sleepy sounding colleague. Steve forced himself to remain as calm as possible as he icily reminded his colleague of his relief duty.

“But Jackson cancelled the surveillance duty,” came the perplexed reply.   “He called me around 7.30 PM and told me that his informant had messed up.    He said he was going get in touch with you right away and tell you to go straight home.”

“He obviously forgot,” Steve said wearily.

“Yeah right,” Jarrett scoffed.   “Look Sloan,” he continued.    “It was obvious right from day one that Jackson didn’t like you.   Why I don’t know, I’ve always found you a personable kind of guy,” he chuckled, before his voice took on a more serious tone.   “The guy is persecuting you Steve.    You have to do something about it, speak to someone.”

“I’ll talk to Jackson,” said Steve.  

“Much good that will do,” Came the swift retort.  

“I’m sorry I disturbed you Bob,” Steve apologised.   “I’ll see you tomorrow - today,” he swiftly corrected himself.

After he’d hung up Bob Jarrett lay awake in the darkness for a long time before reaching a decision.   If Steve wasn’t prepared to do anything about Jackson’s unwarranted and unacceptable behaviour, then he was.   He’d stood by once before, had actually participated - to his eternal shame - in ostracising the detective when Sloan had discovered his partner was involved in an extortion racket and had had the courage of his convictions and reported the matter to Chief Masters.

Well this time, thought Jarrett, as sleep began to reclaim him, he would be damned if he would just sit and watch his colleague suffer.   First thing tomorrow he was going to do some digging and he wasn’t going to stop until he found out just what was going on.

6 PM

“I asked Detective Jarrett to tell you the surveillance operation had been cancelled,” Jackson informed Steve when the weary detective entered the man’s office with considerable trepidation that afternoon to ascertain just why in the hell the Captain had omitted to call him.   

Which statement was a blatant lie and Steve knew it; knew also that he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.    Thoroughly demoralised he returned to his desk, picked up the top file of a mountainous pile that Jackson had ordered him to go through in what was basically a repeat of the exercise he had undertaken several days earlier, save that these were other detective’s cases and not his own, flipped it open and started to read.

By 8 PM the pile had only been marginally reduced, a fact that only served to lower Steve’s spirits even further.   Well there was no question of him working through another night he thought mutinously, because he was due at BBQ Bob’s.    He simply couldn’t let his business partner work yet another of his shifts; it wasn’t fair.   He’d worry about the unfinished review in the morning.    

THE NEXT MORNING - 8.30 AM

“I see, well that’s extremely interesting.    Thank you very much for your help,” Bob Jarrett murmured before hanging up and turning to face Steve, a thoughtful expression on his rotund face.

“What?” the detective enquired suspiciously.

“Oh nothing,” Jarrett smiled looking for all the world like the cat that had caught the canary.   “Let’s just say,” he glanced over at the Captain’s office, “That a certain Captain’s tenure here might well be measured in minutes rather than days or weeks.”

“It’s too early for riddles,” Steve mumbled, wishing he could just lay his head down on the desk and go to sleep.   He felt awful; his head ached, his throat was sore, his eyes felt like they were full of grit and he was bone-achingly tired.    He’d crawled into bed a little after midnight after a gruelling shift at the restaurant but, exhausted as he’d been, sleep had eluded him until an hour before he was due to get up and start the whole crazy merry-go-round all over again, at which stage he’d fallen into a heavy slumber, from which he was rudely wrenched by the shrill screech of his alarm, stumbling from the house a little after 7 AM feeling more dead than alive.

As he picked up the next file Steve was only peripherally aware of Jarrett leaving the room.

20 MINUTES LATER

“Sloan!”

Jackson’s irate voice jerked Steve out of his gentle reverie.    He looked up to find the man mountain towering over him, quivering with rage.

“Where’s that damned review I asked you for?”

“I uh,” Steve reached up to rub his left temple, surprised when his hand came away wet.    He hadn’t even been aware he was sweating until that moment, “Haven’t finished it yet sir.”

“You haven’t.....,” Jackson stood regarding Steve for a long moment as though the detective were a bug he would very much like to crush underfoot.

“My office right now,” he said curtly before turning on his heel and heading in that direction.

 As he stood up to follow his superior officer, a wave of dizziness washed over Steve and he had to grab hold of the edge of his desk to steady himself.

“I said NOW Sloan,” Jackson snapped.    “God dammit detective, are you deaf as well as stupid?”

“THAT is quite enough.”  

Chief Masters’ voice was as cold as ice.   

"I’d like to see you in my office Captain Jackson, he continued, his clear, blue, eyes regarding the man dispassionately.    “Go home Lieutenant,” he instructed Steve.   “I’ll call by and speak to you later.”

---

Mark was just preparing to leave for the hospital when Steve stumbled through the front door and almost fell into his father’s arms.

“Hey dad,” he mumbled.    “I don’t feel so good,” he managed to add before slumping unconscious to the floor.

---

The sound of voices woke him.   For a moment Steve was totally disorientated to find himself lying on the couch, his head resting on a pillow, his exhausted body covered with a soft, warm, blanket.   And then he remembered the sequence of events that had led to him being there, at the same time as he recognised the voice of the man with whom his father was talking.    Chief Masters.

Throwing the blanket aside, Steve struggled to his feet, his legs as shaky as a new-born colt’s as he made his way to the balcony door.

“…. pushed him way too hard,” Steve heard his father’s voice raised in uncharacteristic anger.    “My son is absolutely exhausted Chief Masters and I want Captain Jackson reprimanded for the thoroughly reprehensible way in which he’s behaved .”

“Dad no,” Steve inwardly groaned as he heard his father’s strident demand.   “You don’t tell the Chief of Police how to do his job.”

He had to do something, say something, to silence his father.   Anxiety spurring him on, Steve stumbled out on to the deck, his precipitate arrival startling both men who, seeing that the detective was about to pass out where he stood, crossed over to him swiftly and, gently supporting him, led him back into the house where he was, once again, settled on the couch.

“I want your assurance that Captain Jackson will be suitably dealt with for what he’s put my son through,” Mark snapped after he had satisfied himself that Steve was comfortable.   

“Dad, please,” Steve begged, glancing apologetically at the Chief, more than surprised to see that, far from being annoyed, the man was actually smiling!

“It’s all right Lieutenant,” he said reassuringly.   “Your father’s got every right to be angry.   As have I,” he added grimly.    “Why don’t you sit down Dr. Sloan,” he suggested.   “I have something I need to tell you both.”

---

“Detective Jarrett came to see me this morning,” the Chief continued, when Mark was seated.   “He and his colleagues have been extremely unhappy about the way in which Jackson has been treating you Lieutenant so Jarrett decided to do a little digging into the man’s background to see if he could unearth anything that might account for the man’s vindictive behaviour.”

“And did he?” Mark queried.

“Oh yes,” came the affirmative response.    “Before I go on I would just like to hasten to add at this point Lieutenant that, had I not been on vacation the man would never have gotten one foot inside the doors of the precinct.   However, fate was most definitely on Jackson’s side and I fear that you, detective, were the most unfortunate victim of circumstance.   Yes Dr. Sloan I’m coming to the explanation,” he added, noting Mark’s rising impatience.

“Abraham Jackson is Vernon Henley’s uncle.”   This statement was directed solely at Steve, in whose eyes recognition swiftly dawned.   “Vernon Henley,” the Chief informed Mark, “Was one of the officers involved in the extortion ring with Sergeant Brown.  When Newman fell ill and Jackson discovered I was on vacation, he saw it as the perfect opportunity to even up the score,” he informed the stunned duo.   “He applied to be seconded to the precinct for the duration of Newman’s illness; his application was accepted, no-one saw any reason to refuse it.   Had I been there of course ....,” his voice tailed off regretfully.

“Henley has been in jail for almost three years,” Steve pointed out wearily.   “Why did Jackson wait until now to seek his revenge?”

“I don’t think he ever intended to.  Please hear me out,” he held up his hands as Mark immediately started to protest.

“When I spoke to Jackson earlier he told me that he’d been totally appalled at what his nephew had done; that insofar as he was concerned the boy had sullied the code every cop swears to uphold when they pin on the badge.   He certainly had no problems with the punishment his nephew received,” the Chief continued after Mark had fallen silent.

“So why ......?” Mark started to say before the Chief interrupted him.

“Henley died last month,” he said quietly.

“Died?   How?” Steve whispered.

“He got involved in a fight with another inmate and was thrown down a flight of steps.   His neck was broken.    He died instantly,” came the sombre response.  

---

“Henley’s father died when the boy was 10 and Jackson, who’d never married, moved in with his sister and helped raise the boy.   He loved him as much as if he were his own son.    As much as you do Steve, Dr. Sloan,” Masters added.    “The boy’s death destroyed him.”

“And because I was responsible for Henley going to jail, he came after me,” Steve murmured.

“Quite so,” said the Chief.    “That in no way excuses what he did and rest assured that he will be suitably punished but I wanted to, I felt it was important to, let you knew the reasons behind his actions detective.”

“What will happen to him?” Steve enquired.

“That’s not a matter with which you need concern yourself,” said the Chief as he stood up and prepared to take his leave.    “Right now you need to concentrate on getting well.    I want you to take a month’s leave, Lieutenant, starting as of right now.”

“What?” Steve regarded the man incredulously.    Was the man mad!   A month!   What would he do cooped up at home for a month?    Apart from go bug-eyed nuts?

“I don’t.....,” With tremendous effort Steve succeeded in struggling to his feet, instantly regretting the action as his head began to swim alarmingly.    “I don’t need a month,” he protested weakly.    “A couple of days is all I .....”

“You’re taking a month and that’s final Sloan,” Masters replied firmly.    “You’re quite clearly exhausted and I don’t want you back at the precinct until you’re back to full fitness.”

“I wish people would listen to me,” Steve grumbled, puzzled as to why his father and the Chief were fading in and out of focus.   “I’m absolutely fi …...”

This time Mark caught him as he fell.

6 PM

It was early evening when Steve woke again, his nose twitching appreciatively at the delicious aromas emanating from the kitchen where his father was busy preparing supper.    Yawning loudly he struggled to sit up, which action served to draw his father to his side in an instant.

“Dad, please don’t fuss,” Steve said testily as, after Mark had helped him to sit up he began to re-arrange the pillows, cushions and blanket to ensure his son was kept warm and comfortable.    “I’m perfectly okay.”

“Of course you are,” Mark replied cheerfully.   “That’s why you’ve passed out twice in the last few hours!”

“I was just tired is all,” Steve said mulishly.   “I’ll be just fine after I’ve gotten some decent sleep.”

“Steve,” Mark’s voice was stern.   “You’re suffering from exhaustion.  Now you might think that a good night’s sleep will cure you, but I can assure you that it won’t.    You need plenty of rest, lots of good food and a change of scenery might not be a bad thing either which is why, when you’re a little - a lot,” he corrected himself, “Stronger.    We’re going to take a trip.”

“Where?” Steve’s interest was immediately aroused.       Suddenly the prospect of a month away from work didn’t seem quite so onerous if there was the prospect of a vacation involved and some much needed quality time with his dad.

“I was thinking of Big Bear,” Mark replied as he headed back into the kitchen to check on the contents of the saucepans that were bubbling merrily on the stove.   “One of my patients has a cabin there.    He’s offered me the use of it many times but I haven’t taken advantage of his offer until now.   I’m going to ring him after supper and see if the place is available.”

“Sounds great,” Steve enthused.    “Just what the doctor ordered in fact,” which age-old joke elicited a small groan of dismay from his father.

THREE DAYS’ LATER

“Hey Steve - how are you feeling?” Jesse Travis enquired as he joined his friend on the deck of the beach house.

“Smothered,” Steve replied sulkily.   “I mean - look,” he indicated his legs, which were covered with a thick blanket.    “I keep telling dad that I’m not an invalid but he won’t listen.”

As if on cue Mark emerged on to the deck, a cold beer in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other.   No prizes for guessing who the milk was for, Steve thought gloomily.

“I’d rather have a beer,” he said mutinously, enviously eyeing the bottle Mark handed Jesse.

“Later,” Mark promised.   “Right now I want you to drink your milk.”

“Don’t say a word Travis,” Steve hissed as he reached for the offending receptacle his father had placed before him.

In truth Jesse couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to.   He was biting down too hard on his lower lip to stop himself laughing at the look of pure disgust on his friend’s face as he picked up the glass and began to drink.

“Next you’ll be baking me cookies,” Steve muttered to his dad who stood over him ensuring that he drained every last drop of the cool, creamy, liquid.

“They’re in the oven,” said Mark, meeting his son’s furious glare with a level gaze before glancing over at Jesse and winking.      It was too much for Jesse who promptly burst out laughing, swiftly followed by Mark.

“Oh very funny,” said a thoroughly disgruntled Steve.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON

“Dad,” Steve began hesitatingly, after Jesse had left.   “About this trip to Big Bear.”

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about going,” said Mark, regarding his son with surprise.  

“Oh no - I want to go,” Steve hastily assured his anxious father.     “I was just wondering if we could ask Jesse along?    He hasn’t had a holiday in almost a year and he’s worked really hard at BBQ Bob’s covering all the shifts I wasn’t able to.   It’s the very least I can do to show my appreciation for all his hard work.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mark enthused.    “And I’m sure Jesse would love to come.   I’ll ask him tomorrow.”  

THE NEXT MORNING

To say that Jesse was delighted to be invited to join the Sloans on their trip was an understatement.     He was as thrilled as a little boy for whom Xmas had suddenly come early.  

“All that fresh air and exercise is bound to make us hungry,” he said gleefully, which comment prompted Mark to make a mental note to buy extra provisions to cope with the young man’s prodigious appetite.

The older man left his young colleague babbling excitedly to Amanda about the prospect of toasting marshmallows over an open fire and holding competitions to see who could tell the best, and most frightening, ghost stories.   Amanda’s amused gaze met Mark’s, the unspoken “You men are all little boys at heart,” quite evident in her merry brown eyes.

As he went about his rounds, Mark had an extra spring in his step.    The trip away was just what Steve - just what they all - needed.

TWO WEEKS’ LATER

“I hope the weather is better than this when we get to Big Bear,” Jesse commented, ‘This,’ referring to the heavy, torrential, rain which had been falling since the early hours of the morning.

As they pulled out on to PCH in Steve’s truck, his son having obdurately refused to let anyone else drive the precious vehicle, Mark silently concurred with Jesse’s sentiments, fervently hoping that the inclement weather wouldn’t take the edge off their trip.

“How long before we get there?” Jesse piped up after only a few minutes had elapsed, at which question Mark smiled, assailed by a sudden memory of vacations taken when Steve and Carol were children, recalling only too well how, no sooner had the family set out, than one or other excitedly asked “Are we there yet?”

“It should take about two hours to get to Big Bear,” Steve replied.   “I gather from what dad’s told me that the cabin is about another hour’s drive after that.   It’s 9 AM now, so I’d expect us to arrive at around 1 PM.    And hopefully we’ll have left this weather behind us,” he added whole-heartedly.

Sadly the hopes of all three were dashed as the bad weather stuck resolutely with them throughout the entirety of the drive.

---

“The Williams’ cabin?   Sure I know it,” the owner of the store informed the trio when they stopped to stock up on a few last-minute supplies.   “It’s a real nice place, but are you folks sure you want to head up there?” he enquired.   “The track is pretty bad after all the rain we’ve had recently.    Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay right here in town?   We’ve got a couple of real nice inns I could recommend.”

“No thanks,” Steve replied firmly, picking up the box of provisions and turning to head back outside.   “We really want to get away from everything for a while.”

“If the track up to the cabin is really that bad son, maybe we should reconsider  ….,” Mark’s voice tailed off as he saw the expression on his son’s face.   Steve had set his heart on the cabin and, from the stubborn jut of his jaw, Mark could see that his son wasn’t about to be deprived of his wish.

---

“Pretty bad,” didn’t even come close to describing the condition of the track.     Mudslide would have been a more apt term, thought Mark, as the truck’s wheels sought yet again to find purchase on the slippery surface.    While the store owner had assured them the drive to the cabin was less than 25 minutes, thus far it had taken them well over an hour, Steve having fought with the truck as it slewed from side to side, every tortuous inch of the way.  

And then, just when it seemed they were finally making some kind of progress, they rounded a curve in the track and saw the tree branch lying across the track.

“Oh no,” Jesse groaned.    “Now what do we do?” he enquired of Steve.   “Go back?”

“Jess,” Steve laughingly replied, “After all the effort it took me to get us this far I’ll be damned if I’m going to turn the truck around and go back to town.”  

Pulling on the handbrake, he switched off the engine and turned to face his glum companions.

“Come on,” he said briskly.   “Between the three of us we should be able to move that thing.”

“Are you kidding?” Jesse exclaimed.   “Steve that’s a whole TREE,” he felt honour bound to point out, before obediently hopping out of the truck and following his friend.

---

“Okay here’s what we’re going to do,” Steve informed his father and a particularly anxious looking Jesse, after he’d quietly assessed the situation.   “Jesse you take the far end, dad you take the middle,” Steve deliberately directed his father towards the safest part of the operation, “And I’ll,” he nodded towards the thickest part of the branch, “Take this end.   Stop worrying,” he smiled.   “The mud will do most of the work for us.  All we have to do is push.”

“We should have stayed in town,” Jesse muttered as he placed his hands on the roughened bark.

“Quit griping Travis,” came the swift retort.  “I’m going to count down from three and then we push – HARD – okay?”

Placing his hands on the aged, gnarled, wood Steve took a deep breath to focus himself.

“Three – Two – One – PUSH,” he yelled, whereupon all three men threw the entirety of their weight on the tree branch which at first refused to move, the viscous mud refusing to give up its jealous hold.

And then, as they heaved and strained with every last bit of strength they possessed, the cloying substance reluctantly relinquished its embrace and the branch began to move, slowly at first, lulling them into a sense of false security.

“You see,” Steve declared.   “I told you it would be e….”

He got no further, as the tree branch was ripped out of his hands by the greedy mud.  With nothing to hold on to and no chance to brace himself for impact, Steve fell, landing heavily on a large rock, his left side connecting brutally with the cold, unforgiving, granite.   The pain was so overwhelming that, for a moment, he was unable to do anything other than lie in the cloying mud, gasping for breath.

“Steve!”

Mark was beside his son in an instant.

“I’m …. Okay,” Steve gasped as, with his father’s assistance, he struggled to his feet.   “Well, maybe not okay,” he ruefully admitted.   “But you can check me out when we get to the cabin can’t you?” he smiled, wincing at the effort that simple gesture cost him.   “Now come on,” he added as he headed back towards the truck.   “I don’t know about you two, but I’m just about ready for a hot shower and a cold beer.”

AN HOUR LATER

They’d barely closed the door to the cabin before Mark turned his attention to Steve, insisting on carrying out a thorough physical examination.

“Couldn’t we at least bring the bags in and unpack first?” Steve enquired.

“No!” Came the emphatic reply, at which point Steve gave up any further pretence at arguing and obediently removed his shirt.

“Cheer up,” said Jesse.     “Look on the bright side.    You’ve got the benefit of two highly qualified doctors examining you for free.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better,” Steve retorted.   “Ow!” he exclaimed as Jesse’s slender fingers hit a particularly sore spot on his side.   “That hurt Travis,” he admonished.   

“Sorry,” Jesse apologised, before turning to face Mark.   The two men went off into a huddle in the far corner of the room where much nodding and whispering took place, before they returned to face the, by now, highly fractious detective.

“Well?” he demanded, biting down hard on his lip at the pain radiating throughout his damaged side.

“You have extensive bruising to your left ribcage,” said Mark.   “Nothing feels broken,” he added, “But, to be on the safe side I’d, we’d,” Mark glanced over at Jesse.  “Like to take a trip into Big Bear tomorrow and get an X-ray taken.   Just to satisfy ourselves that everything is okay.”

“No!” Steve’s answer was unequivocal.   “There is simply no way that we are going back to town, much less to the hospital, just because of some bruising.   Look guys,” he continued as he strode to the door, intent on retrieving their bags from the truck.    “I’m fine.   And I’m in the best position to judge after all aren’t I?  If, IF,” he stressed, “I have any concerns then I’ll raise them with you, but I am NOT about to let a little bruising spoil our trip.”

“That’s easier said than done big guy,” Jesse murmured.   “The pain from the bruising will be ….”.

“Painful, I know that,” Steve interrupted his anxious friend.   “But it’s nothing I can’t cope with Jesse.   Compared to being shot a few bruised ribs will be a walk in the park.   So why don’t we unpack, grab a hot shower, and then think about fixing supper.”

At the word ‘supper’ Jesse’s face brightened considerably.

“Well …,” Mark hesitated for the longest moment.

“Dad,” Steve tried to quell his rising exasperation, patiently reminding himself that his father was only concerned for his physical welfare after all.   “I promise you that I feel absolutely fine.  Granted I’ll probably need a couple of Excedrin later – always provided that you remembered to bring some.”   Steve laughed at the indignant expression on his father’s face at THAT suggestion, given that his dad never travelled anywhere without basic medical supplies.

THE NEXT MORNING

“I might have guessed you’d be first in the queue for breakfast Travis,” Steve ruefully remarked as he gingerly made his way down the stairs to join his father and Jesse in the kitchen where Mark was busily cooking eggs and bacon, while Jesse hovered eagerly in the background.

“It’s all this fresh air,” said Jesse.  “It’s given me an appetite.”

“You haven’t HAD any fresh air yet,” Steve pointed out, pouring himself a mug of coffee, his taste buds cramping pleasurably as he savoured the hot brew.

“Well I’m anticipating all that fresh air when we hike out of here later,” said Jesse.   “Of course if you’d rather take it easy….,” he grinned as he left the rest of the sentence unfinished, knowing his suggestion would be like a red rag to a bull, given that he knew Steve – bruised ribs aside - was just itching to get out and explore the surrounding countryside.

“How are the ribs this morning?” Mark enquired of his son when he was finally able to interrupt the two men’s banter.

“Fine,” Steve lied, unwilling to admit to the fact that he was in a tremendous amount of pain, pain the Excedrin had barely touched, as a result of which he’d lain awake most of the night trying to adopt a comfortable position in which to sleep.   Eventually exhaustion had overcome him, hence the reason he was late down to breakfast.   

“Sit down boys,” said Mark, knowing only too well that Steve was, as ever, being economical with the truth, knowing also that wild horses wouldn’t drag an admission as to how much pain he was in if he wasn’t ready to give it.    “Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Great,” Jesse enthused.   “What time is lunch?” he innocently enquired as he sat down at the kitchen table.

At which question, Steve and Mark burst out laughing.

11 AM

“This is just great,” Jesse exclaimed, pausing for a moment and tilting his face up to allow the sun’s warming rays to bathe his face.   

“It certainly is,” Steve admitted, reaching into his backpack to extract a bottle of water at the same time that he surreptitiously reached for the packet of Excedrin he’d secreted in his jacket pocket.   Turning his back on Jesse he swiftly popped two tablets out of the packet and chugged them down with a large mouthful of water.

“I saw that,” Jesse piped up, at which comment Steve whirled round to face the cheerful young man, his face suffused with guilt.  “If your ribs are really hurting that badly Steve, you should let us…...”

“We should be thinking about getting back,” said Steve, deftly interrupting his friend.   “If we want to make it in time for lunch.”

As he’d anticipated, the mere mention of food was enough to divert Jesse’s attention.   Turning, they headed back to the cabin in companionable silence.

---

“How much longer?” Jesse enquired, his stomach reminding him that it was at least several hours since it had last received sustenance.

“About 15 or 20 minutes,” Steve replied, at which information Jesse re-doubled his pace.

“Take it easy Jess,” Steve cautioned.   “The track is pretty slippe…..”

The next thing he knew, Steve was lying on his side – his damaged side - contemplating the sodden foliage.

“You were saying?” Jesse giggled, as he squatted down beside his friend, his merriment rapidly turning to concern as he realised that Steve was in pain; worse still, that he was in trouble.

“Take it easy,” he soothed, as he helped his stricken friend into a sitting position, and made him as comfortable as possible against a small outcrop of rocks.    “Where does it hurt?” he enquired.

“I ….,” Steve bit down hard on his bottom lip as a red hot pain knifed through his ribcage.   “Chest,” he croaked, “And I don’t, I can’t seem to ….,” his anguished gaze met that of his anxious friend, “Breathe very well,” he managed to gasp.

Which symptoms screamed “Tension or traumatic pneumothorax,” to the anxious young doctor, a traumatic pneumothorax being a direct result of a blunt or penetrating injury, which had to mean that his friend had sustained either a fractured or broken rib when he had fallen the previous day, the second fall having exacerbated the injury, driving the rib into Steve’s lung, thereby puncturing the organ.  

Such injury was, as Jesse knew only too well, a life-threatening condition.   Despite the heat of the sun, his body was bathed with icy fright.   That his friend required surgical treatment was in no doubt, that none was available was also all too painfully evident.   

As he emptied his backpack, Jesse could have wept with frustration.  There was nothing, NOTHING, he could utilise to help his friend.    Which meant that he had to leave Steve alone and helpless, while he went to fetch Mark and hope that the cabin would avail them of the requisite implements they would need to save his friend’s life.

“Steve,” he murmured as calmly as possible, in order not to alarm his friend.   “Buddy I have to go get your dad.   I’m sorry,” he apologised, “But there’s no way I can get you back to the cabin on my own.”

“No …, “Steve hitched in a tortuous breath.  “Need to apologise Jess.”

“I want – I need for you to concentrate on your breathing while I’m gone,” Jesse said as calmly as he was able.   “Small, shallow, breaths, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve replied.

“I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”

With one last anguished look at his friend Jesse took off as though the very hounds of hell were pursuing him, only too well aware that every second counted.

---

The casserole was simmering in the oven and Mark was just about to turn his attention to preparing the requisite vegetables to accompany it when the door to the cabin didn’t so much open as implode to admit a red-faced, heavily perspiring, Jesse.

“Mark!” he gasped, struggling to draw breath into his tortured lungs.   “Steve …. Collapsed …  Tension pneumothorax.   Couldn’t get him back here myself.   No choice but to … Perform a needle thoracostomy when we get back.”

Even as he stammered out the words, Jesse began hunting for a suitable implement with which to perform the requisite surgery, swiftly aided by Mark who knew only too well that time was of the very essence.

“We can use this,” Jesse held up a small, but razor sharp, kitchen knife, “To make the incision, but what do we use to drain away the air?”

Searching frantically through the cupboards Mark’s eyes were drawn to a box of plastic drinking straws.   

“We can use one of these,” he announced, receiving a nod of approval from his young colleague.    “I’ll go and fetch my bag,” he added as he took the stairs to his room three at a time to fetch the receptacle, cursing the fact that the same contained neither a catheter, syringe, nor chest drain valve, much less any pain relief he could offer his son.   But then, he reasoned, as he swiftly rejoined Jesse and the two men headed back up the muddy trail, he hadn’t envisaged a scenario, such as the one they were now facing, arising.    Well they would manage with what they had; they would have to and it wasn’t as though it were the first time he’d had to perform surgery under less than favourable conditions; casting his mind back two years to the bomb which had all but destroyed Community General, leaving both him and Amanda Bentley trapped in the rubble.    With no idea when a rescue team would reach them, and with time rapidly running out for his stricken friend, Mark had had no choice but to conduct a needle thoracostomy on Amanda, using the only implements at his disposal, a shard of broken glass and a small metal tube.   

“He’s over here,” Jesse announced, as they entered a small clearing where Steve sat, slumped against the rocks, his face almost as grey as the hard granite.   At their arrival he raised his head, his tortured blue eyes meeting those of his father’s.   He opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged.

“Don’t try and talk,” Mark said sternly as he went down on his knees, oblivious to the mud which oozed greedily at his clothes.   “Jesse, I need for you to help me get Steve’s jacket and shirt off and then we have to lay him on his side.”

As they worked, as gently as possible to divest the detective of his garments, Mark kept up a steady flow of reassuring talk.

“I know you can hear me son,” he said as he swiftly opened his medical bag.    “It’s very important that you lie as still as possible.   I’m going to make a small incision in the side of your chest and release the air that’s built up in your lung.   That should help with your breathing.   But it’s going to hurt son, I can’t pretend that it won’t and I’ve got nothing to give you for the pain,” he apologised as he donned a pair of surgical gloves and reached for the box of alcohol pads, quickly swabbing down the area over the second intercostal rib space, just above Steve’s third rib.

Picking up the knife, Mark took a deep breath before leaning forward and making a quick, neat, incision in the side of his son’s chest, trying to ignore the agonised moan which emanated from Steve’s lips as he carefully punctured the intercostal muscles and parietal pleura.

“I don’t have a large-bore Angiocath so the straw will have to suffice until we can get you to the hospital,” Mark informed Steve as he gently began working the pliable object into the incision.   “I’m inserting it into the intercostal space over the top of the rib and perpendicular to the chest wall.     That should ... There,” he announced as he both felt and heard a stream of air flowing through the straw.   “It’s working already,” he informed his relieved patient.   “The air is draining out of the lung nicely.”

“I’m .... Very pleased to hear it,” said Steve through firmly gritted teeth.

“All I have to do now,” Mark continued as he reached the medical tape, “Is to secure this in place and then we have to get you back to the cabin, and from there to the hospital.”  

“Sounds ....,” Steve hitched in a breath and managed a watery smile in his father’s direction.   “Easy enough.”

But of course it couldn’t, and wouldn’t be easy, and all three men were only too well aware of that fact.    Since the track was too narrow and inaccessible for them to be able to utilise the truck they had no option but to make their slow and tortuous way back to the cabin on foot, with Mark supporting the entirety of Steve’s body weight on his strong, powerful, shoulders, since - while Jesse was more than willing to help - the slender blond had neither the requisite strength, nor height, required to make the task feasible.    Progress was therefore painstakingly slow and, as though the circumstances in which they found themselves weren’t already bad enough, the bright blue sky was slowly enveloped with black, malevolent clouds and a heavy rain began to fall.

---

By the time they reached the warmth and safety of the cabin some 40 minutes later, all three men were soaked to the skin and Steve was growing increasingly lethargic.    A cool hand on his son’s burning forehead confirmed Mark’s worst suspicions; Steve had a low-grade fever.

“We’ll get changed into dry clothes and then head for town,” said Mark, crossing over swiftly to the stove, the acrid smell of burning reminding him that, in his panic to reach his son, he’d omitted to turn it off.    That done he turned to face his colleague.   “We’ll leave everything here and come back for it once Steve is safe in the hospital.”

Steve lay quietly on the couch while Mark and Jesse gently stripped him of his wet garments before helping him into clean, dry clothes.    His temperature was slowly climbing and he lay dozing fitfully while Mark and Jesse changed hastily.   That task accomplished, both men then helped the feverish detective to his feet and led him outside to the truck where Mark gently eased him in to the vehicle, climbed in beside him and, taking great care to ensure that the safety strap in no way impeded the makeshift surgery, belted him in.

“All set?” Jesse enquired as he clambered into the driving seat.

At Mark’s nod of assent, Jesse inserted the keys in the ignition and, momentarily holding his breath, figuring that - given everything else that had gone wrong thus far, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the vehicle refused to start - let out a sigh of relief as the engine roared to life.    The sound jerked Steve out of his dazed state.

“Jess, what are you doing?” he mumbled, his febrile blue eyes filled with alarm.    “No-one drives my truck except me.”

“Relax,” Jesse reassured his anxious friend.   “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better be,” Steve mumbled warningly, before succumbing to a fever-fuelled doze.

---

Promises, while made with the very best of intentions, are often quite unintentionally broken as was Jesse’s to Steve when, some ten minutes later, the front offside wheel encountered a large pot hole, wrenching the steering wheel out of his hands.   By the time he’d regained control of the vehicle it was already too late and he and Mark could only sit, frozen with horror, as the truck spun round, before finally - in agonisingly slow motion - rolling on to its side, sliding off the track and down a steep bank where, at the last moment it righted itself before the hood slammed into a large redwood tree, the windscreen shattering and showering the occupants with myriad shards of broken glass.

“I thought,” Steve managed to gasp, levelling Jesse with an accusatory glare.   “You promised me that you’d be careful.”

“Sorry,” Jesse apologised in a small voice, trying to ignore the white hot agony in his left arm, which had taken the full force of his weight when he’d been slammed against the side of the truck as it rolled on to its side and which he guessed was broken, probably in more than one place judging from the severity of the pain.    “How are you?” he shakily enquired of his friend, as he reached down to unclip his belt with his right hand.

“In better shape than my truck at least,” Steve mumbled as he struggled with the strap.

“Stay still son,” cautioned Mark.    “The less you move about the better.”

“I’ll go get help,” Jesse volunteered, grunting at the effort it cost him to flip the latch on the driver’s door before falling out in an ungainly heap where he landed heavily on his knees in the thick, oozing, mud.

“We’ll stay in the truck,” said Mark.    “It’s not perfect,” he added, nodding towards the broken windscreen, through which a steady drizzle was falling.   “But at least it gives us a modicum of protection against the elements.   Are you all right Jesse?” he enquired, frowning as he noticed the young man’s green-tinged complexion and the way in which he was cradling his left arm in his right hand.

“Just fine,” Jesse lied.    “I’ll be as fast as I can Mark.”

“Be careful,” Mark counselled watching as, with some difficulty, Jesse scrambled up the bank to the track.

“I will,” Came the faint reply.

---

“What time is it dad,” Steve drowsily enquired.

“Almost 4 PM,” Mark replied, reaching up to smooth a stray hair back from Steve’s forehead, his cold fingers touching dry, fevered, flesh.

“How long has Jesse been gone?”

“A little over an hour.   Don’t talk son, rest,” he pleaded.

“There’s something I need to ask you to do for me,” Steve continued, ignoring his father’s sage advice.   “Just in case I don’t......,”

“Don’t you DARE talk like that,” Mark snapped.   “You’re going to be just fine.   Jesse will be back with help at any minute.   We’ll get you to the hospital and ....”

“Dad, please?” Steve entreated.   “I don’t have the strength to argue with you and I really need for you to hear what I have to say.   Please?”

Reaching out with a trembling hand Steve squeezed his father’s arm gently.   “Please?” he repeated.

“All right,” Came the whispered reply.

“I don’t plan to ..... Leave any time in the immediate future,” Steve managed a feeble grin, “But just in case I don’t have any choice in the matter, I need for you to speak to Chief Masters and tell him that I don’t want Captain Jackson punished.”

“What?”

Mark regarded his son incredulously.

“He didn’t ......,” A paroxysm of coughing overcame the detective and it was several minutes before he was able to breathe properly, much less speak.   When he was able to do so his voice was so faint Mark had to struggle to hear him.

“Know what he was doing,” Steve continued.   “He loved his nephew, dad.    Just like you and I love one another.    He was grief stricken when Henley died and he wanted to hit out and hurt someone.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Mark growled.

“Neither does punishing him any further,” Came the resolute response.   “He’ll lose everything dad; his job, his pension.    I don’t want that to happen.    He’s suffered enough.”

Steve’s unwavering gaze met that of his father, the unspoken “Please dad?” quite evident in those clear, cerulean, eyes.

Too overcome with emotion to speak, his throat choked with tears that threatened to burst free at any moment, all Mark could do was nod, at which Steve emitted a satisfied sigh and allowed welcome oblivion claim him.

As he reached for his son, fearing the worst, Mark was overwhelmed with relief as he detected a faint pulse.    Letting go of the breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding as he anxiously examined Steve’s insentient body, Mark was dimly aware of a noise in the distance.   The deep throated roar of a truck - heading towards them.   

FOUR HOURS’ LATER

“How’s he doing?” Jesse enquired as he entered the ICU unit, where Mark sat quietly watching his sleeping son.

“He’s going to be just fine,” came the relieved reply.   “He’s on an IV push of Amoxicillin and Sulbactam to combat the infection which arose as a result of my having to operate in less than sterile conditions with less than sterile equipment,” he added ruefully.    “The doctors have also inserted a chest tube, which is removing the air from the pleural cavity.   That will give the collapsed lung time to re-expand and heal and, provided there are no complications, and neither the doctors here nor I,” he added, “Have any reason to believe that there will be, the tube should be removed in the next day or so and we can think about going home.   How’s your arm?” he queried, struggled to suppress a grin as he regarded the slender blond who was garbed in a voluminous white hospital gown that was several sizes too big for him.

“Broken in three places,” Jesse replied, glancing down at the plaster-encased limb.

“It’s lucky for you that I can’t get out of this bed right now Travis,” Steve murmured, slowly opening his eyes and fixing Jesse with a reproachful look, “Because if I could, I’d break your other arm for wrecking my truck.”

“He’s joking,” Mark assured the anxious looking doctor.  

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Steve growled.   “Dad, what we were talking about earlier?   Would you mind ....,” he indicated the IV drip, chest tube and myriad other paraphernalia to which he was attached, “Only as you can see I’m not in the best position to make a phone call right now.”

“Of course,” Mark smiled.    “Would you mind sitting with Steve for a little while Jess?    There’s someone I need to speak to.”

Smothering a grin as he noticed that Jesse very deliberately pushed the chair back from the bed to ensure that he was well out of reach of his friend, Mark left the room, biting back a laugh as he heard Steve say: “I’m glad it wasn’t your writing arm you broke Jesse, because you’ll be filling out the insurance claim on my truck.”

FIVE DAYS’ LATER - THE BEACH HOUSE

“Have you settled in?” Mark enquired of Jesse as the young doctor emerged on to the deck to join his friends.

“Yes - thanks,” came the heartfelt reply.   “And thanks again for having me to stay at the beach house while my arm heals.”

“Well it wasn’t quite the way I envisaged our vacation turning out,” said Mark, grinning wryly.  “But the main thing is that you boys,” he glanced fondly over at Steve, “Are okay.   And we can always go to Big Bear another time,” he added.    Now what do you want for l....”

The strident tones of the front doorbell interrupted him.    Leaving Steve and Jesse to soak up the recuperative sunshine, Mark strode to answer the bell’s summons, finding himself face to face with a very chastened Abraham Jackson.

“Hello Dr. Sloan,” came the quiet greeting from the humbled man.   “I wonder if I might have a word with your son?”

Mark regarded Jackson for a long, silent, moment before finally nodding his head, stepping back, and ushering him inside the house.   

---

“Isn’t that Captain Jackson?” Jesse enquired of Mark as he caught sight of Steve’s caller.

“Yes it is,” Mark replied curtly, trying hard to quell the anger which had welled up inside him at the sight of the man standing as large as life on his front doorstep.   Had it not been for Jackson, Steve would never have collapsed; they would never have taken the trip to Big Bear; his son wouldn’t have been hurt and almost ..... Mark cut his thoughts off right there as he realised that the three of them had, as Chief Masters had so aptly termed it, been victims of circumstance.   

Well it was over now, he reflected as he sat down opposite Jesse, leaving the two men to talk inside the house. Steve was fine, he was almost back to full physical fitness; would, in fact, be returning to work the following week.    It was better to dwell on the positive rather than the negative, put the whole thing behind them and get on with their lives.

---

“I wanted to thank you Lieutenant,” said Jackson when the two men were face to face.

“It’s Steve,” the detective said kindly, trying to set the clearly discomfited man at some sort of ease.

“Steve,” Abraham smiled.   “Thanks to you Chief Masters decided against demoting me to uniform or simply kicking my fat butt out of the force altogether.”

“It was n....”

“Please don’t say it was nothing Steve,” Abraham interrupted the detective.   “What you did was ...,” he floundered for the right words.    “Truly honourable, and I didn’t deserve it, not after the treatment I meted out to you.”

“You had your reasons,” Steve said softly.  

“That doesn’t make what I did right,” the reply echoed the sentiment his father had earlier expressed.

“So, are you back at your own precinct?” Steve enquired, anxious to steer the conversation away from self-blame and recrimination.    It was clear, judging from Jackson’s gaunt expression and bowed frame, that the man had been doing more than enough of that.

“For the moment, while the paperwork is taken care of,” Jackson replied.   “I’ve decided to take early retirement,” he added by way of explanation.    “My sister has been badgering me for years to go live with her in Florida.   So, once everything is settled, that’s just what I’m going to do.”

“I wish you well,” said Steve, extending his hand.

“As I do you.” 

Jackson hesitated for a moment before tentatively extending his hand toward Steve,  any  qualms  he  may  have  had  about  making  the gesture swiftly dispelled in the firm handshake which followed.

---

“Everything okay?” Mark enquired, as Steve rejoined them on the deck.

“Yes dad,” Steve smiled warmly at his father.    “Everything is just fine.”

The End