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The Longest Road, Part II - The Long Road To Clarity
By: Gerry Wolfson-Grande
e-mail: gawolfson@earthlink.net

The same disclaimer as for Part I applies. Much as I love them, I do not own the characters of
Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Randy Wolfe, and
Captain Newman; CBS and Viacom do. Any other personnel wandering through these pages are
fictional and not intended to resemble any actual living person or animal.
Rating: PG-13; angst, drama, some unavoidable violence.
Summary: Steve Sloan struggles with the consequences of Randy's plan while the others search
for him.
Feedback: Always appreciated, of course!

* * *

The Long Road to Clarity - Chapter One

He gradually became aware of a man's hoarse mumbling, the words slurred and
indistinct. He wished vaguely that the poor, drunk bastard would shut up, or at least move on to
panhandle someone else. "I can't help you," he tried to tell the other, but the words refused to
form themselves in their proper shapes, making it sound to his dazed ears as if he was mumbling
as well. "Shut up already!" he yelled suddenly, filled with an inexplicable rage. "No one cares
about your damn problems, just go away, get out of here!"

The fog in his brain lifted slightly, just enough for him to realize that the babbling idiot
bothering him was mimicking him, only less clearly, if that were humanly possible. A feeling of
dread he couldn't explain started to inch its way through his body. He tried to move his hands --
either hand -- and noted absently that his arms didn't feel right; slowly, painstakingly, he located
a thumb by willing it to wiggle until he became aware of movement against his chest. Encouraged,
he ventured the rest of his left hand, determining that the fingers still moved, but meeting
opposition when he tried to move it away from his body. What the hell is this, he wondered
fuzzily, his mind as blurred as the voice he had heard. He decided to repeat the experiment with
his right hand, with similar success and ultimate failure. The fact that he couldn't lift his arms,
or even his hands, slowly registered on his dazed brain, but for the life of him he couldn't get his
cognitive processes working well enough to figure out why.

In sudden panic, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and realized that his eyes
were screwed tightly shut. Okay, let's open the eyes, he told himself furiously, I have to get a
look at the idiot, ask him to help me. It took some determined effort, but he finally forced heavy
eyelids open, only to blink in total bewilderment at his surroundings. He was in a small white
room containing himself, a cot and a toilet. There was no inarticulate vagrant drooling over him
or anywhere else in the room. The sense of unease rapidly magnifying, he focused downward
towards his chest to look for his hands. After the resulting nausea passed, he tried again, this time
succeeding, only to have it return as he realized the cause of his immobilization was a strait-
jacket. His dread heightened, making it difficult for him to breathe. Somehow, he managed to
push it away until the heaving in his chest subsided, although the hammering of his heart still
matched the rhythm of the nasty little pangs of sharp pain in his ribcage. Where the hell is this
place? he wondered, trying to keep the hovering panic in check. And what the hell am I doing
here?

Chapter Two

"You're in a special facility, and you're coming down from a dose of pentobarbital," an
amused voice said, startling him. He didn't think he'd spoken out loud. The voice sounded
vaguely familiar; not necessarily a well-known voice, but one he thought he'd heard recently. He
lifted his head with some difficulty and looked around, irritated by the voice's bodilessness, and
finally noticed a speaker grille in a wall. He licked dry lips and deliberately tried to speak. The
same rough, slurred voice he had heard earlier -- the drunk's? -- crawled reluctantly out of his
throat. "What --" Now that he was consciously trying to talk, it hurt like hell.

"Water usually helps," commented the voice unkindly. "Maybe, if you're good, someone
will bring you some." It paused. "And maybe if you tell me where Miranda is, you'll get some."

Renewed panic flared through him. Who was Miranda, and why did he have the distinct
feeling he should keep his mouth shut? But he was so thirsty -- "Who?" he managed to croak.

"Miranda," the disembodied voice said encouragingly, but unhelpfully.

"I don't -- understand," he managed finally, hoping the words sounded clearer than they
felt.

There was a rustling noise, as of papers, from the speaker, and the voice muttered, "Jeez,
how much did you guys give him? He shouldn't be this out of it still."

Another series of rustles, and the low-pitched murmur of another voice. The first
anonymous speaker sounded irritated. "That shouldn't have been enough to turn him into a
gibbering idiot. He should be babbling away like a girl with her first crush right now. Let me see
the list of what you found on him."

The occupant of the small white room experienced a sudden terror. What did they mean
by "gibbering idiot?" He felt so fuzzy, so groggy, but, somewhere in the recesses of his
barbiturate-dulled mind, he knew it was only a drug reaction, there was nothing seriously wrong
with him. Well -- he amended that estimate as he slowly recognized a dull ache in his right knee
along with the sharper pains in the vicinity of his ribs. Come to think of it, his face felt stiff; he
wished he could free a hand to explore, even though for some reason he had a sinking feeling it
was going to develop into something else a lot more uncomfortable.

He jerked from his reverie, desperately and painfully trying to focus his senses, as the
mystery voice spoke again. "Methadone," it said disgustedly. "Didn't anyone check to see if he'd
taken any of these before shooting him full of pentobarbital?"

The other voice apparently replied in the negative. There was a short pause, while the
dazed listener continued to fight his way upwards toward coherence, not making much progress.
A discussion ensued outside. Finally, he heard the first voice state flatly, "All right. I'm going
in there. But you're coming in and dealing with him at the first sign of trouble."

Oh, goody, he thought insanely. It does have a body, after all. I'm not going crazy. Yet.

The door opened, and a striking-looking brunette entered. She looked extremely annoyed.
"We don't have time for this foolishness," she grated. She stepped closer to him and leaned down,
pulling his chin up and then letting go. He felt his head loll downwards again. Hell of a thing
when he couldn't summon up enough motor control to prevent that, he thought miserably. He
attempted to focus on the woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but she was also pretty blurry.
Hard to tell, she could be anyone once she decided to take on definite outlines. He half-smiled,
thinking this was pretty funny.

His visitor wasn't amused. "Get in here and get him sitting on the cot so I don't have to
keep leaning over," she ordered over her shoulder. "And you," she said silkily, turning back to
him, "need to understand that, right now, your life and well-being are totally in my hands."

He blinked at her. They were nice hands. But not as nice as -- he shook his head muzzily
as the thought skittered away from him like a playful kitten. Irritated, she slapped him across the
face. "You need to come out of your little drug dream and start answering my questions. I have
other things to do, and we're wasting time."

He stared at her in shock. What the hell was her problem? He wasn't sure he wanted to
cooperate, assuming that he was even capable of being cooperative. He glowered at her and
mumbled something indistinctly blasphemous. Then the door opened, and he looked up, his
attention diverted.

The other voice belonged to a mountain with a beard. That couldn't be right, he puzzled.
But the mountain moved toward him on what looked like tree trunks, picked him easily up off the
floor in equally sizeable arms, and flung him onto the cot with a force that made his teeth snap
together. Something in the vicinity of his chest sent up a jagged yowling as the ends of his broken
ribs grated against each other. He winced with pain, drawing the woman's attention. "Hmmm.
He felt something just now; meds must be wearing off some." She jerked her head at the
mountain. "Ribs or knee. Either one. Not too hard -- I want him awake."

As he stared at her in mounting horror, digesting her command, he saw the mountain nod
its -- head? -- and one of those tree trunks began an inexorable arc, to slam agonizingly against
his body. "Just a small tap," the mountain rumbled.

Small tap? the man convulsing in pain on the cot thought in disbelief, desperately trying
to decide whether he would be better off passing out or fighting to stay awake, and which
alternative would ultimately be less unpleasant.

"You don't want him to do that again, do you?" queried the woman, casually. He
managed to summon the strength to shake his head, hoping she understood he meant no. The
woman laughed. "Most don't." She reached over and took his head in her hands, noting idly the
depths of the bewildered blue eyes blinking at her. "Now, listen to me very carefully. I will ask
you some questions. You will give me the answers."

He stared at her resentfully. What the hell did she think he was, stupid? Of course, he
realized, with some confusion, he wasn't sure if that meant stupid as in unable to understand, or
stupid as in why would he possibly tell her anything. He wished with a trace of despair that they
would just leave him alone until he could regain his senses more fully, had a better chance of
figuring out just what the blazes was going on.

"And," she continued, apparently unaware of his silent dilemma, "if you give me the
right answers, we'll make you a lot more comfortable. If you don't --" she shrugged in the
direction of the mountain.

Abruptly bored with the cheap melodramatics, and still much too foggy from the drugs
to think rationally, let alone sensibly, he turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. She
hadn't started out with a body. Maybe, if he concentrated on not hearing her as well as not seeing
her, she'd disappear back into whatever noxious pit from whence she came.

Wrong move. Despite his efforts, he heard her speak, and barely had time to resign
himself to the inevitability of it when the mountain fell on him again.

Someone was slapping him, but not hard. "Where's Miranda?" the bothersome woman
demanded.

The object of her attention shook his head. "Who's Miranda?" he forced through lips
which still didn't seem to recognize consonants. "Pretty name," he managed, then, pleased by his
success, he asked happily, "Is she pretty too?" He had just enough time to congratulate himself
on forming a coherent question when the mountain came back.

He'd had enough of this. What the hell was her problem anyway? He thought he'd been
doing admirably to enunciate that much. "Quit," he slurred. "'M trying best I can." To her credit,
she managed to comprehend the garble posing as semi-coherent English. She held up a hand to
stop the mountain, which had ominously drawn near again. "I think he may be coming down
enough to answer questions now."

She turned back to him. He grinned at her inanely. "Okay," she said soothingly.
"Where's Miranda?"

His eyes clouded, and the grin faded. "Don't unnerstand," he sulked. "Don't know --
'Randa." But even as he mumbled the name, an alarm tocsin started to ring faintly in his brain.
Something was very, very wrong.

Tanya Solario made an exasperated sound. "He's drifting off again," she observed with
irritation. She pressed the intercom, asked for a number, then snapped, "Hey! How much
pentobarbital did he get, anyway?" Something crackled through the speaker. She looked dubiously
at the man on the cot. "That shouldn't have been enough, even with the narcotic, especially since
he got it on the flight up."

The speaker buzzed again, and Solario's face reddened. "On arrival? My God, you idiots,
he'd already had 100 mg -- how much?" She listened, shaking her head in annoyance. "Another
100. No wonder." She dismissed the unseen speaker and turned back to her involuntary guest. He
had been watching her cautiously, unconsciously bracing himself for the imminent explosion and
another encounter with the mountain. Unbelievably, she seemed to regain control of herself and
smiled at him, not unkindly.

"Well, that explains why you're so groggy. They gave you too much by mistake." She
patted his shoulder in what apparently was supposed to be a reassuring fashion, ignoring his
reflexive shrinking away from her touch. "Now. Let's try this again, okay?"

He regarded her warily, unwilling to commit himself. She touched his cheek, her fingers
cold as ice. "Where is Miranda?"

Why did she keep harping on this Miranda person? he wondered savagely. She was
obsessed. Obsessed. Now there, he mused, his mind starting once more to wander, was a cool
word. Obsessed. He said it aloud, wrapping his tongue around the esses with relish until he
became hopelessly ensnarled in them, his voice trailing off in confusion. Fury sparked in her eyes,
and he winced away from her hand, but not quickly enough. This time, it was her fist against a
cheekbone which he immediately discovered had been targeted at some previous point. "Stop it,"
he grumbled, shaking his head to see if his eyes could focus more easily that way.

"Where is Miranda?" she repeated.

Sullenly, he turned his head away again. "Don't know," he mumbled. "Wouldn't tell you
if I did. Bitch." He slid a look sideways at her from under his lashes. "Go 'way. Lemme alone."

Stung by his response, she started to react, then closed her mouth slowly and let her hand
drop, regarding him steadily for a minute. "Alone?" she questioned, a touch of menace in her
tone. "You want to be left alone?"

He looked at her dubiously, wondering why that word, which sounded so enticing a
moment ago, suddenly had lost its appeal. Even in his less than lucid state, it was obvious that the
wrong answer had the potential to produce extremely unpleasant consequences. She deliberately
pretended to mistake his silence for agreement. "All right," she said briskly, "here's what we'll
do. We'll give you some more medicine, and then we'll leave you alone."

His perception was not capable yet of distinguishing clearly between truth and lies. He
only knew he didn't want any more pento-whatsit. Hating it, half afraid he had made the wrong
choice anyway, he shook his head.

She smiled triumphantly. She had him, and they both knew it. Then -- "Where's
Miranda?"

Oh, God. There was no way he could get this question right, whether he wanted to
cooperate or not. Why couldn't this woman get with the program? Quietly, patiently, despite his
screaming nerves, concentrating as hard as he could on speaking as clearly as possible, he
whispered, "I don't know. I don't know who Miranda is. I don't know where she is. I just don't
know." He hunched his shoulders, steeling himself against the pain he knew was coming.

There was a silence. Tanya Solario eyed the man who had put her in jail for five long
years pensively, debating whether to retaliate just on general principles. The only sound was the
harsh rasping of his breathing, as he tried to inhale and exhale without causing the abused ribs
more discomfort. He didn't think it was working. She watched in fascination as his face tightened
with pain and his determination to keep it from becoming too noticeable. Noting his struggle, she
laughed out loud, relishing her revenge.

There was a metallic clanking of keys outside. The door opened, and Aubrey Wyler
strode in. "Anything?"

Solario shook her head. "Not really. Can't tell if he's truly got a high pain threshold or
if it's just the drugs, considering some overeager beaver tried to overdose him."

Wyler's eyes narrowed as he moved closer to the cot, registering the harsh, uneven
breathing. "I thought I gave express orders not to break anything," he complained.

She shrugged. "Blame your boys back at the Ranch. They were broken before he even
got here."

"Morgan's not going to be pleased," Wyler replied. "He doesn't like broken bones
interfering with his experiments. Sloan's going to have to heal some before they can start." He
deliberately spoke loudly enough for the words to be clearly audible to their guest, waiting for a
reaction.

He was disappointed. The man in the strait-jacket was zoning truly and definitively; the
blue eyes had dulled, and he had lost himself in some other world. Wyler stared down at him
disdainfully. "This won't do. We need answers. Before I start tearing down my organization, I
intend to know for sure what he knows!" He motioned to the mountain. "Wake him up."

Chapter Three

Life was truly strange, he thought. How could he stand up without moving his arms or
legs? It was almost like flying, he noted whimsically, except something wasn't quite right. He
shouldn't be able to hang in mid-air without flapping his arms or something. A voice which woke
a quick memory of fear and pain spoke. "Drop him."

The flying lesson ended abruptly. He realized, with somewhat greater clarity of vision
than he had experienced earlier, that he was not quite face down on the floor, gazing in awe at
the biggest shoe he had ever seen. "Bigfoot!" he gurgled, and started to laugh until his ribs
stopped him violently. He choked, coughed, and choked again as a massive paw picked him up
more or less by the scruff of the neck and stood him upright, where he watched his own unsteady
feet with fascination. A strange hand swam into his line of sight. It wasn't as pretty as the
woman's or as huge as the mountain's. For some reason, though, its vague familiarity made him
extremely uncomfortable, and the memory of pain and fear inexplicably returned.

His fears were confirmed when Wyler spoke. "Lieutenant. You have some information
I need." He winced as the rich baritone vibrated through his aching head, which hurt even more
when he shook it no without thinking. "Where is your wife, Lieutenant? Where is Miranda?"
Wyler pressed.

Wife? His eyes widened as he tried to assimilate this latest information. Was that who
this mysterious Miranda was? His wife? Delighted at finding some clue to at least a portion of the
mystery, he started to speak, only to close his mouth, panic-stricken, when he realized he still
didn't know who they were talking about. Wyler misunderstood his confusion for recalcitrance.
"One would think you'd had enough of playing games," he warned, somehow signaling the
mountain.

He doubled over, coughing helplessly, from the gut punch he didn't sense coming. "I
don't -- know," he gasped, willing himself to breathe. "Who the hell is Miranda?" Astonished by
his ability to produce a more or less coherent utterance, he drew as deep a breath as his reviled
ribs would allow and shouted, "I don't know! And I don't understand what you want! So can the
crap about this Miranda!"

Oops. In his sudden rage, he had temporarily forgotten he was at somewhat of a
disadvantage; drugged, battered and restrained, and he thought he was going to do -- what. Reality
descended with the suddenness of the cruel smile, more a grimace really, which spread across
Wyler's face and was mirrored on Solario's. "I think he's coming down now," she gloated.

"I believe you're right," Wyler agreed, still wearing the death's head grin. He nodded
at the mountain. "Help our friend stand up better, won't you?"

He shook his head fretfully. Didn't the idiot think he'd stand up straight if he could? It
hurt, and he was tired of hurting. The drugs were starting to wear off with a vengeance, leaving
a growing catalogue of aches and pains behind them. The mountain, unconcerned, trundled behind
him and yanked him upright, holding him in place when his knees tried to buckle. He wasn't sure
how much he should appreciate the gesture.

A hand grabbed his chin to pull his head up; irritated, he jerked it away, only to have
the mountain tap him on the less-abused cheekbone. No point in asking for more trouble, he
conceded wearily, and he didn't resist when he found himself staring into the opaque black pools
from which Aubrey Wyler viewed the world. He swallowed thickly. They were so cold, so blank,
so utterly lifeless. As Wyler continued to gaze at him unblinkingly, he felt a sudden kinship with
any small animal terrorized by a snake's hypnotic glance. He moved his head uncontrollably,
attempting to escape that soulless stare, and Wyler laughed. "There's nowhere to run, Lieutenant.
Not here. Not even in this room." The iron hand inexorably forced his head back to the ophidian
gaze. "You can't pretend to hide behind a drug-induced haze now, so let's try it one more time."

Steve Sloan forced his weary eyes back to Wyler's chilling ones. "And what happens
then?" he asked calmly, tiredly, managing somehow to control most of the slurring.

Wyler's smile broadened. "That depends on what you have to say," he remarked.

Steve said nothing, waiting for the inevitable arrogance of the man to manifest itself. He
wasn't disappointed. Unfortunately, what he heard was less than encouraging. "I'm afraid you're
going to have enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. How comfortable you'll be, however, is
entirely up to you." Somehow, Steve didn't think they were discussing the deluxe
accommodations, but he waited, although it took all of his hard-gained self-control not to flinch
when the dead eyes fixed on him again. "All right," the rich voice so at odds with those eyes said.
"Again. Where is your wife?"

He swallowed with difficulty. He must have taken a hefty whack on the head at some
point, because he was just not connecting. "Look," he said hoarsely, "I still don't understand.
What are you talking about? I'm not married."

Solario's hand stopped her lover's before it signaled the mountain. She leaned close to
him, whispering, then both of them turned assessing frowns on their prisoner. "What's the last
thing you remember?" the woman asked casually.

"Breakfast?" he hazarded, not sure where the interrogation was heading.

"What day?"

"Yesterday?" he guessed wildly. Solario stared at him, then looked at Wyler. "He's been
pretty consistent in his response when we mention his wife," she pointed out, too softly for Steve
to hear. "Could he be having some temporary memory loss from the drugs?" They both turned
their attention to the bewildered man before them, then Wyler shook his head in disgust. "Bah,"
he snorted contemptuously. "What nonsense." His eyes flickered towards the mountain and back
again. "Last time. Where is Miranda?" he demanded.

While the other two had pondered, Steve had noticed Wyler was wearing a watch, which
apparently was one of the models which showed the date as well. He had been concentrating as
hard as he could on focusing on it, hoping knowing what day it was would clear some of the fog
in his head. Finally, he determined what it read, and something clicked into place in his mind as
he felt the sick tension in his muscles ease slightly. Randy was safe, or they wouldn't be still
asking about her. He coughed and answered hoarsely, "Miranda's gone, Wyler. Long gone. And
the Feds are on their way." Wyler's blink of surprise must have been a signal, he thought dazedly,
as his body screamed in protest from the impact with the mountain.

Wyler's voice was an infuriated hiss. "What makes you think we won't kill you now,
then?"

Steve was desperately hanging onto every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from
losing consciousness, but the prognosis was not encouraging. "I'm worth more to you alive then
dead, and you know it," he stated baldly. "If the Feds aren't crawling through this place already,
they will be soon."

The reptilian eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and Wyler laughed. "Not here,
Lieutenant. You're not at the ranch anymore." Seeing the other's eyes widen in turn, he chuckled
nastily and gloated, "You're now a resident of a very exclusive facility for individuals suffering
from drug addiction."

"What do you mean?" Steve growled, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Tanya Solario stroked her lover's cheek, then drew the same hand along Steve's
cheekbone, enjoying the sensation of the muscle jumping in his clenched jaw in response. "It
means," she explained, "that, once your ribs have healed sufficiently, Dr. Morgan is going to be
able to continue his fascinating research in the effects of methadone addiction."

His mouth went dry. "I'm not --" he started involuntarily, and this time did flinch from
her caress. "You will be," she purred, "eventually. Right now, though, I think Aubrey has
something else planned."

Re-enter the mountain. Fortunately for his abused body, Steve's resistance was already
sapped to the point that it only took a few more blows slamming into him to send him into
oblivion, drugs be damned.

Chapter Four

LAPD Captain James Newman was pacing. Not roaming nervously, or wandering lost
deep in thought, but stalking the room like a caged tiger, muscles bunching impressively under
his shirt and vest as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His jacket had been flung across the
office during his first furious outburst, and it looked like his tie was next. Cheryl Banks sat tensely
and waited for the storm to strike in force.

He didn't keep her waiting long. "What kind of moon-brained lunacy were you two up
to, anyway, Banks? Did the concept of clearing any kind, I repeat any kind, of investigation
WHATSOEVER with your commanding officer go down the toilet just because Sloan wasn't back
to duty yet?" Another yank on the tie, and he wheeled about to stand squarely in front of her.
"Whose asinine idea was this, anyway? Please tell me it wasn't yours. Of course," he added
sarcastically, "if it wasn't, that would mean you had lost your wits enough to go along with it!"
He paused for breath, while Cheryl debated whether she should attempt to respond.

"Answer me, dammit!"

She took a deep breath and sent up a quick prayer to the patron saint, whoever he or she
might be, of unfortunate cops caught between their partners and their bosses. "Actually, sir, it
wasn't really Steve's idea either." She could swear the captain was starting to foam at the mouth.
"It was -- Randy Wolfe --"

"What??? That crazy woman?"

"--And Dr. Sloan," she finished unhappily.

Now the tie did come off, to smack viciously against the wall clock, where it hung crazily
on the minute hand before sliding off onto the floor. Newman leaned over his hapless victim; her
horrified gaze confirmed that he was foaming. "Detective, just because I authorized the raid
doesn't mean you're going to get away with not telling me what happened. I want the whole story.
Now. Fast. Then I want Mark Sloan and the Wolfe woman down here pronto."

"We're already here." Mark spoke from the doorway, his arm protectively around
Randy's shoulders; Jesse and Amanda crowded behind them. "We let ourselves in; I hope you
don't mind."

Newman's head came up with a snap as he started to expound on interfering medical
dilettantes who didn't have enough to keep themselves busy without hanging about police
investigations and getting in the way, and stopped. Mark looked like he had aged ten years
overnight. There were dark bruises under his eyes, and worry had etched deep grooves down
either side of his nose. The mustache drooped, and there were nicks where he had obviously had
difficulty concentrating on shaving. Newman sighed. All badinage about Mark Sloan's part-time
occupation aside, he had a deep respect for the man, not just as a gifted doctor and the father of
one of his best detectives, but for his own investigative skills as well. He waved a hand tiredly.

"Sit down, Dr. Sloan." He scooped his jacket off the chair where he had flung it. "You
too, Ms. Wolfe. Sorry about the mess." He noticed the other two as they followed Mark and
Randy in, and, greeting them belatedly, quickly scared up more chairs.

"Actually," Randy said, with some trepidation, "it's Mrs. Sloan." She perched on the arm
of Mark's chair, reluctant to leave whatever protection he could offer against the madman in the
vest.

Newman's mouth hung open. "What?" He started to comment about the lack of an
invitation, but dropped it after getting a good look at her face. She might be nuts, but she was
obviously dead serious. Randy frowned. "At least, I think it is. I have a certificate saying we were
married by the Ultimate Enlightened One." Her frown deepened. "Guess I'd better make sure he
could do it legally."

Totally lost, Newman looked to Cheryl for help; at her shrug, he dropped into his own
chair with a heavy sigh. "All right. From the very beginning. Tell me the whole sordid story."

Some time later, he leaned forward on his elbows, rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge
of his nose, and sighed again. Incredibly, he had been given a more or less complete picture. For
once, Randy had been able to tell her part of it with a minimum of her natural tendency to
digress, although she had already been through it the night before at the beach house to a much
more sympathetic audience. Unfortunately, the story didn't get easier with the retelling. Captain
Newman glanced at her worried eyes and saw her fears reflected in those of the others. He didn't
feel too sanguine about Steve's chances himself.

"Ms. Wolfe -- excuse me, Mrs. Sloan," he said heavily, "I'm not going to belabor the
point that this was not a smart idea to begin with. Believe me, your husband will hear it from me
when he gets back; he'll be lucky I let him drive a desk for a while instead of busting him down
to Vice." The glint in his eye took the sting from the words, betraying his own concern. "For
now, though, I'm giving the search top priority, and I'm taking charge of it myself. Banks, you're
going to be given a chance to redeem yourself for your part in this debacle by liaising with the
Feds." He turned to Mark. "Dr. Sloan, if you want to help out, I could use you in looking
through the computer files. The number of businesses and properties involved in this operation
is staggering."

Mark nodded. "You think he's being held at some location owned by one of the
subcompanies?" he asked.

"It's possible," Newman replied. "It's all information which will need to be reviewed for
both the state and federal cases against Wyler, so it's worth looking into. If they're holding him
somewhere, it's going to be some place that's not easily traced back." He gave Mark a grave
look. "I have the distinct feeling you're not exactly open to the alternative possibility."

Mark shook his head. "My son's not dead, Captain. From what Randy has told us about
Wyler and his associates, they have every reason to keep him alive, and a good deal more to lose
by killing him, although I don't know whether we're likely to see any kind of ransom demand
soon." He swallowed suddenly, and his shoulders slumped with weariness. "Let's just hope they
don't do too much damage in the interim."

Chapter Five

He was lying on his back on the cot, counting the speckle holes in the ceiling tile for lack
of any other form of amusement. Not much in this place for stimulation, mental or physical, when
left to one's own devices. And, even if he had felt like doing anything while his ribs healed, he
was certain they had some kind of surveillance tape running, and he really wasn't inclined to
provide his unseen watchers with any more free entertainment than was absolutely unavoidable.
He wasn't sure if he should feel any gratitude for having been freed from the strait-jacket and
having his broken ribs taped, as well as other miscellaneous scrapes and bruises attended to (they
had even hauled him down to a lab for x-rays to check for any kidney damage); he couldn't shake
a vague memory from just prior to the last beating about some doctor wanting him more or less
healed. In an ordinary world, his especially, this shouldn't have been cause for concern, except
that same indefinite recollection had left him with the distinct impression that this was not a doctor
he wanted to treat him. He sighed, wishing he could put his finger on it, and swore when he lost
count.

His knee advised him rudely that it still existed. Slowly, he sat up and began
surreptitiously massaging it, trying to curl his body on the cot in an attempt to shield his activity
from any interested observers. Even though he had been left alone for the last day or so, judging
by how often food had been brought to him, he was leery of reminding whoever was watching
of any more vulnerable areas than necessary.

He stiffened as angry voices crackled through the speaker grille in the door. Getting
closer by the sound of them; now they had stopped right outside. One in particular, loud and
apoplectic, sent ripples of apprehension through him, and he involuntarily shrank back against the
wall, hugging his knees, as the door opened. His fears were well-placed. Aubrey Wyler came
roaring in, fists up and ready. "You son of a bitch! You--"

The waiting man's inability to control his instinctive flinching back registered abruptly,
and Wyler calmed just as suddenly. "Afraid of me, Sloan?" he jeered, rocking back and forth on
his heels.

Steve knew it was stupid, but he couldn't force himself to say what Wyler wanted to
hear. "Anyone with any sense gives a mad dog room," he pointed out, congratulating himself on
keeping his voice even.

Wyler's fists clenched, then relaxed, and he was in control again. Damn, thought Steve.
Just what I don't need. He forced himself to meet Wyler's eyes, trying to ignore the nausea they
inspired, and the two remained that way for a seeming eternity, defiant blue eyes blazing at the
dead black ones. Finally, with an effort, Steve tore his gaze away and returned to his inspection
of the ceiling. "Say what you have to say and go away, Aubrey. I have ceiling tiles to count."

He hadn't realized until then that Wyler didn't need mountains to do the physical work;
the madman simply preferred not to indulge except in rare cases. Steve had just qualified for the
exception clause. Coughing, his ribs aflame after the surprise one-two-three punches, he backed
up and eyed the other man warily, wondering how much of a piece of Wyler he could get before
the mountain showed up. His body was insistently claiming he didn't want to try, but his
emotions, his pride, his frustration, all clamored for him to do the proper male thing and get the
daylights knocked out of him. He raised a fist involuntarily, then let it fall, as reason won out in
the end. His mouth twisted, and he turned away. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out. You can explain
to your pal Morgan why my ribs are still bashed in."

Face contorted with rage, Wyler contented himself with grabbing Steve's shoulder,
yanking the hurt man around to face him, and smashing a sweeping, vicious blow into the
lieutenant's face. Steve went down with a crash. He lay still for a moment, then, after ensuring
his arms and legs still worked, opted to remain where he was in case it was safer.

Maybe not. Wyler strode closer until the toe of his boot was directly aimed at the worst
part of Steve's long-suffering ribs, prodding him gently but menacingly. Wyler's voice
reverberated in his head. "I suppose I should tell you that your little foray at the ranch has cost
me five years' work and a lot of money, not to mention the potential legal fees." Steve raised a
silent cheer. One for the good guys.

The toe came back, prodding him again. "I'm going to advise Frank that I'm done with
you," Wyler snarled. "I understand he's been concentrating lately on the effects of hallucinogens
on drug addicts, which should address the problem of how to deal with you." The toe was now
getting really annoying. "As far as your meddling father and your whore of a wife are concerned -
-"

Wrong words. The man on the floor exploded in sudden rage, grabbing Wyler's leg and
heaving him upwards, deriving no small satisfaction from the surprised grunt of pain upon contact
with the wall. Wyler lurched upright and jerked his head to the watching attendants. "Keep him
right where he is," he grated, panting.

Damn, damn, damn. His mother had warned him years ago that action begets reaction,
but he had taken as much as he possibly could be expected to, and it had felt so damn good.
Watching Wyler approach (with a bit of a limp, he noted with savage pleasure), trying not to
struggle against the hands forcing him to the floor so as to provide the s.o.b. with any more
enjoyment, he clutched the feeling of satisfaction, as well as the image of Wyler's flight and
landing, to himself, much as a shield against what was to come, his ribs instinctively shrinking
away from it.

He received fresh insight into the true sadistic nature of Aubrey Wyler. The black eyes
contemplated the immobilized prisoner for a moment, noting the involuntary tightening of muscles.
Then Wyler smiled his death's head grimace, and deliberately kicked him hard in his bad knee.

Wyler stared contemptuously at the man writhing on the floor, nerveless hands uselessly
gripping the injured leg, fingers white to the bone with the strain of silently containing his agony.
"It doesn't matter if you actually scream or not," the crow-like figure informed him, obviously
savoring the moment. "All I need is to know you wanted to." He strode to the door, turning back
briefly. "Goodbye, Sloan. I will at least eventually be able to recoup my losses. You, on the other
hand, are destined for a different type of expansion altogether -- of the mind." He laughed
triumphantly and walked out, the door closing with a particularly final sound.

Steve squeezed pain-filled eyes tightly shut, trying to breathe, swearing quietly and
viciously to himself as he waited for the waves of agony to subside. He had to admit, though, that
the news of the successful raid helped ease the pain a little. He grinned wryly in spite of himself;
he would have given anything to have seen Randy, his magnificent Randy, bullying the Feds,
much less Captain Newman, into running the raid.

His musings lost direction briefly, as he wondered what Wyler had meant by referring
to a wife. They had pretended to be engaged, that much he remembered, and God knows he
wouldn't mind marrying her, but in reality? Try as he might, he couldn't dredge up any specific
recollection. He sighed. He supposed he might be able to recall something if he put enough effort
into it, but, for now, he was exhausted. Slowly, with painstaking care so as not to disturb his
jangled nerves and other aching body parts, he rolled over onto his back and started counting
again, holding the memory of Randy's smile close to his heart.

Chapter Six

The sound of footsteps roused him from the doze he'd fallen into after tiring of the
speckles. His hands clenched involuntarily as he listened, body taut with apprehension, waiting
for the steps to pass. His heart plummeted as they stopped, followed by the predictable clinking
of keys. The door opened to admit two attendants (goons, Steve's mind translated), a nurse, and
a heavy-set man with a beard and a lab coat, obviously a doctor. The attendants immediately
approached him and pulled him upright, directing him to the cot. He recognized the nurse when
she got closer to him; she had been taking care of his misused ribcage. He smiled at her
tentatively.

Nurse Rachel Pauling smiled back as reassuringly as she could. As one would with a
patient, she had grown fond of the quiet, handsome man who never complained, even when he
was obviously in pain. It was a pity that, according to his chart, he had such a substantial
weakness for substance abuse, which had made him eligible for participation in Dr. Morgan's
research program. She helped him remove his T-shirt, exposing strong, well-developed shoulders
and chest, so she could examine his taped ribs. "These seem to be doing pretty well, Doctor," she
reported. She handed Steve another T-shirt. "Put this on, please."

He looked dubiously at the strange sleeves, which had an series of buttons along the outer
side, and glanced at her questioningly. She wondered again why he spoke so little, but he
obviously wasn't going to tell her. "I'll show you in a couple of minutes," she said gently. She
helped him with the shirt and nodded at the doctor.

No great shakes, Steve decided shortly thereafter. Dr. Morgan had checked his eyes,
ears, nose, mouth, chest, made him cough, and tested his reflexes. He wasn't sure what the deal
was. The doctor enlightened him, taking his arm, finding a vein, and swabbing it. When he
reached over to a tray containing a syringe, Steve drew back, alarmed. "What are you doing?"
he asked anxiously.

Rachel felt sorry for him. "It's all right," she soothed. "Come on, make a fist."

Reluctantly, he did as he was told. The needle slid in, cold at first, then he was aware
of a feeling of heat as the drug began to course through his body. Something was wrong. This
didn't feel like any kind of painkiller he had ever received courtesy of Community General, and
he'd had occasion to sample quite a few over the course of his detective career. This stuff burned.
He jerked his arm away, glaring at the doctor resentfully.

"What the hell did you give me?" he demanded.

The attendants had taken his arms, and Rachel was sliding what looked like a cotton tube
with hands up one of them. He tried to pull away, but was held fast. The cloth glove was fitted
over his hand, and she turned to fasten the top of the sleeve to the buttons on his shirt.

He was getting a very bad feeling. He still wasn't sure what they were doing, but he
definitely didn't want to find out. Unfortunately, the goons anticipated his sudden rush for
freedom, and he found himself, while not as bone-jarringly as before, face down, hard, on the
floor. He raised his head dizzily, trying to throw the weight off of his back, but was pinned again.
Relentless hands pulled his arms out in front of him, and he felt cloth moving up the unsleeved
arm, wrapping around his hand, buttons clicking into place. The hands released him. Dazed, he
lay still, trying to get his bearings, then slowly progressed to hands and knees, vision still blurred
from his sudden encounter with the floor. He lifted a gloved hand to rub his eyes, and promptly
fell flat on his face again when the other hand, similarly wrapped, came with it. Cautious
investigation revealed that his sleeves were connected just above the wrist by a short piece of
material. "What the hell is this, and what did you give me?" he growled.

"The muffles are for your own protection," lectured the doctor. "They were invented
specially for patients in experimental drug therapy, who historically have shown considerable
inventiveness in harming themselves, even with their own fingernails. We need to make sure you
can't hurt yourself during the course of this study."

"What did you give me?" Steve snarled again, his voice rising.

Morgan stepped over and helped him up to sit on the cot, then peered into each eye. "I'm
researching the possible usage of combinations of narcotics and hallucinogens. This is our baseline
session, one substance only."

Steve shook his head. "This isn't methadone. Doesn't feel right."

The doctor's laugh was not pleasant. "Oh, no. I need a baseline on the hallucinogen.
Think of it as a free phencyclidine, or PCP, trip."

His reflexes already starting to dull, he was too slow to attack, and the goons caught him
easily and shoved him back onto the cot. He watched, dazed, as the group started to leave, and
recognition of what had just happened slowly, inevitably, began to set in. He called out, voice
ragged, but his plea was lost as the door thudded shut. Out of habit, he glanced up at the ceiling,
and as rapidly looked away again, breathing heavily to try to calm his jittering nerves. The tile
speckles, his familiar link to sanity for so long, were impossible to count now, because they were
no longer stationary, crawling over the ceiling like so many species of beetles. He moaned softly
and closed his eyes, only to snap them open again as an endless void opened up behind his lids.
His last coherent thought before things became very surreal, and his arm turned into something
with feathers, was that it looked like it was going to be a very bumpy ride.

He came out it slowly, feeling renewed pain in his knee, his nerves jittering, and shaking
uncontrollably. His throat was raw from yelling, although he had no clear memory of it. His head
felt incredibly heavy, but he wasn't sure if that was because earlier it had been lighter than a
balloon. He shuddered, once, twice, whole body shivering from head to toe, and collapsed onto
the cot, wrapping the thin blanket around himself as tightly as possible with his hobbled arms to
escape the chill. He didn't dare count speckles now.

Chapter Seven

He was finally sleeping, although fitfully, when the medical team returned, and resisted
being awakened until Dr. Morgan whispered "Aubrey Wyler" into his ear, which brought him
awake and sweating with a vengeance. The doctor noted his reaction with interest and filed it away
for future reference. Having satisfied himself that Wyler was nowhere to be seen, Steve relaxed
enough to let the doctor examine him. "Very interesting reactions you had," Morgan commented.

Steve eyed him warily. Interesting was not exactly the word he would have chosen to
describe his experience. Chaotic, maybe. Exhausting, certainly. He wished they'd go away and
let him sleep, now that he could close his eyes to normal, reassuring darkness instead of that
bottomless abyss. He watched disinterestedly as the doctor made a series of notes. Rachel had left
on some errand, and he was bored. "Hey, doc," he said suddenly, "tell me something."

Morgan glanced up, brows raised. "Yes?" His tone was not particularly encouraging, but
Steve didn't care. "What's your connection with Wyler, anyway?"

The doctor gave him an amused look. "Just what makes you think I'd tell you?" he
inquired with a trace of derision in his tone.

Steve spread his hands as far as his restraints would allow. "Do I look like I'm going
anywhere?"

"Point taken," the doctor conceded. "I suppose it doesn't make much difference -- and
it might be interesting to see how well you succeed in retaining the details over the course of the
study."

A chill sliver slid down Steve's spine at Morgan's careless comment, but he forced
himself to look expectant. "Aubrey and I were in college together," the doctor explained. "We've
worked together periodically, although we don't always agree philosophically. Occasionally, we
have invested in each other's interests."

"Like your clinic?" Steve asked innocently.

His casualness wasn't wasted on the doctor. "Nosy, aren't you? No, Mr. Miller, I'm not
going to enlighten you as to the business structure involved. Just take it from me that the path
from Aubrey Wyler to my clinic is extremely well hidden. You'd be more likely to die of old age
waiting for the Feds to figure it out."

Steve stared at him doubtfully. The room felt suddenly chilly, and he shivered, hoping
the information confiscated from Wyler would indeed lead some bright agent to figure out the
route to Morgan's nasty little operation. That, he realized with a flash of insight, would explain
this "Miller" nonsense -- patient lists, on the face of them, wouldn't necessarily reveal his
presence. But that didn't explain why they kept up the pretense to his face. "Hey, doc? Why do
you keep calling me Miller?"

Again the raised eyebrows. "What do you think we should call you?" the doctor asked
calmly.

"My name is Sloan. Steve Sloan. Lt. Steve Sloan, LAPD."

Morgan gave him a pitying look. "I'm sorry, but it's Steve Miller. You were with the
LAPD. You've been sent here to deal with ongoing problems with substance abuse; they've
affected your performance, gotten you suspended. This place is your only hope of getting your
life back."

The speech sounded wholly sincere. The expression on the doctor's face was not. He
watched Steve's reaction with malice in his eyes, enjoying his patient's discomfiture.

"You and I both know you're lying," Steve finally said tightly.

"Doesn't matter what either one of us knows right now," the doctor said indifferently.
"All that matters is what you'll eventually come to believe, and that the world follows suit. That
will justify my efforts." As Steve stared at him in silence, the doctor gestured at his knee.
"Haven't exactly given this a chance to heal, have you?" he inquired.

Under the circumstances, the last thing Steve wanted to discuss was his knee. He said
nothing, viewing Morgan with suspicion. Rachel chose that moment to return. "Mr. Miller --"

"My name isn't Miller!" Steve exploded, trying unsuccessfully to get some kind of
purchase or grip on the cloth crosspiece in order to rip it apart. The design prevented any such
attempt, however, and he knew it. He let his shoulders slump back and regarded his visitors with
hostility. "Sloan. Steve Sloan," he muttered grumpily.

Rachel shrank back from the intensity of his gaze. It really was a pity; maybe the
research study would help him overcome his addictive tendencies. She exchanged a long look with
the doctor. "Initial delusions, sir?"

Morgan wore a small, secretive smile. "Hard to tell yet. If he gets those in the baseline -
-"

They were interrupted by an annoyed patient. "Could you discuss my medical condition
somewhere else?"

Rachel turned towards him, a placating look on her face, when Morgan stopped her.
"Send one of the attendants in and wait outside, please, Ms. Pauling," he commanded.

Steve's head came up as he caught an odd expression in the doctor's eyes which made
him uneasy. His instincts were accurate; the attendant who entered was his previous acquaintance,
the mountain. "Oh, no," he said with resignation. "Not again." He glowered at Morgan. "What
the hell kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

The doctor gave him a remote look. "A curious one. It's the learning which matters
most." He nodded at the mountain man, who grinned hugely and whitely as he approached. Steve
bared his own teeth in response and considered his options. Launching an offensive attack would
salvage his pride, assuming he could actually do any damage to the behemoth; he could just sit
still and take the punishment; or he could try to delay the eventual battering by trying to imitate
a very slowly moving target. The mountain put a rapid end to his debate. At a signal from the
doctor, so fleeting that Steve, watching suspiciously, was unable to interpret it in time, the
mountain grabbed his knee, and, smiling gently, exerted pressure and squeezed.

Steve practically came off the cot, choking back the sounds which threatened to leap from
his throat, trying vainly to dislodge the big man's powerful grip. The mountain sneered at his
puny efforts and squeezed again, and Steve's world went gray, then black, then shrank away
altogether.

Chapter Eight

He came around to nurse Pauling wiping his face with a cool cloth. He had no sense of
having passed out, and was disturbed by his inability to remember. She was still calling him
Miller, but he didn't have the energy to address the matter. Waking up also brought an increasing
awareness of white-hot fire in his knee, worse than any pain before. A moan escaped him as the
flame shot through his leg, and Rachel looked up from her work. "Mr. Miller? Are you in pain?"

He wanted to tell her that the question was pretty stupid, but was afraid the noises
hovering in his throat would escape if he opened his mouth, so he settled for nodding, hoping she
would understand and make the pain stop. She did. He felt her working the buttons, then a needle
in his arm, which he shrank away from at first until she succeeded in calming his fears, sent 20mg
of methadone, twice the customary dosage, through his body.

The drug was working. Rachel's face had acquired an artistic blur, much like the
techniques they used in old movies for love scenes. He felt like he was wrapped in soft, soft
cotton. Ordinarily, the level of his disorientation would have bothered him, but the relief to his
throbbing knee overruled any other concerns. Don't let this stop, he thought confusedly, and
smiled muzzily at Rachel before sleep overcame him.

She stayed for a while, watching him sleep. She thought she preferred him that way, with
those dangerous eyes closed. She wondered if she would want to be the recipient of a passionate
glance from those intense blue eyes, and decided it could very easily burn her alive. He looked
like the type of man who took his serious moments very seriously indeed. He was definitely sexy,
though, she admitted, tempted for a moment. Then her natural caution kicked in; somehow she
knew he was not the type of man who took sex lightly either. She shook herself mentally and
turned away. Watch yourself with this one, my girl, she told herself sternly, and went to see to
one of her less distracting patients.

Some time later, Steve's nap was interrupted by the mountain, who shook his head,
presumably reassuringly, when Steve, only half awake and still dazed by disturbing dreams,
backed up against the wall so he could maneuver his restrained arms around drawn-up knees to
provide them with what little protection he could. It rumbled something and held up a syringe.

"What is it?" the man on the cot asked with suspicion.

Another rumble, which eventually was decipherable as something approximating, "Time
for your medication."

Although he was leery at first, Steve's careful prodding at his knee produced a very nasty
feeling. "Just meth?" he questioned, not sure what his alternatives were if it wasn't. The mountain
nodded, and expended some effort in attempting a kindly expression. The hell with it, Steve
decided abruptly. It wasn't as if the guy was likely to take no for an answer, and he'd rather
minimize any possibility of providing an excuse for one of those "taps." He shrugged and held
out his arms, then looked sidelong at Junior, as the attendant started to unbutton his sleeve. He
tensed, ready to try to rip out of the damn thing as soon as he had any opening at all, and felt the
mountain tap his arm, no doubt bruising it on impact. He turned his head to receive the full glare
from the huge attendant's toothy grin, and saw in it a promise he didn't want to see kept. Ever
so slowly, he let out the breath he had been holding, and his tense muscles relaxed. The mountain
smiled and nodded at him approvingly, although Steve fancied he still saw a tinge of
disappointment in the man's eyes. He administered the injection quite gently, however, secured
the sleeve, and left without inflicting any additional damage, leaving Steve to float back into his
semi-stupor.


Chapter Nine

He had received yet another dose before Dr. Morgan returned. Barely able to focus,
Steve had glanced up when the door opened, giggled, and inanely requested a beer. The doctor
smirked at him. "Are you quite comfortable, Mr. Miller?"

Steve started to flap a hand at the doctor but stopped, frowning, when both hands flapped
instead. "That's stupid," he observed grumpily. He was scowling at his hands, spreading his
gloved fingers back and forth, when the doctor intervened. "Come on, let's sit up."

He tolerated the procedure with barely concealed impatience. "Whaddya want?" he
slurred.

"We're going to try another experiment, Mr. Miller," Morgan explained. Steve blinked
at him owlishly. He had a strange, indefinite feeling that the doctor's statement should bother him,
but he was having a hard time concentrating on anything for any length of time. "Okay," he said
simply, brightening considerably when he saw Rachel enter. She was going to give him another
of those shots that made everything nice and fuzzy, and nothing hurt. He held his arms out so she
could unbutton his sleeve and grinned at her foolishly.

She didn't meet his eyes as she swabbed his arm and stuck in the needle. After
refastening his sleeve, she turned to the doctor. "May I go ahead and move him now, sir?" she
asked, quietly, not knowing whether Steve could hear her. Morgan nodded. "Probably easier now
while he's more or less cooperative," he commented. "Is the mirror in place?" She nodded and
took Steve's arm, pulling at him. "Come on, Mr. Miller, we're going to give you a new room."

He started to protest; then some small sense of self-preservation surfaced. He wasn't
supposed to upset her. She gave him the good stuff to keep him from hurting. Reluctantly, he
allowed himself to be guided out of his small, white room and down the hall, hoping there would
be speckles.

Speckles there were. White walls also. Almost a duplicate of his previous
accommodations, except everything looked soft. The cot had lost its legs to downsize into
something resembling a futon, and the small toilet area had a heavily padded covering on the
porcelain parts. The same speaker grille. There was, however, a significant addition, an
unbreakable plexiglas mirror inserted in one wall. Rachel released his arm, and he wandered
around, touching the material on the walls wonderingly, eventually coming face to face with the
mirror. "Whoa," he remarked. "Fella needs a shave." Losing interest, he turned away, continuing
to wander, while Rachel and Morgan watched him silently.

He didn't feel so hot suddenly. What had they given him for lunch? He couldn't
remember. The nausea increased anyway, and he decided abruptly that he wanted to sit down, not
hearing the door quietly snick closed.

Morgan observed with barely concealed excitement as the hidden camera in Steve's new
digs pitilessly relayed every subsequent image. His patient was not having a pleasant experience,
which tended to support his theory concerning chasing methadone with PCP. He watched as the
sufferer writhed on the floor, arms apparently warding off something or someone only he could
see. The doctor licked his lips and started making notes.

Steve was convinced his arms were being turned into rubber hoses by the thing he saw
squatting in front of him. He kept protesting that he couldn't play piano with rubber hoses. The
thing apparently didn't care. A remote corner of his brain, somehow untouched by the
hallucination, pointed out that he couldn't play piano anyway. Confused, Steve managed to lurch
semi-upright, and stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, only to
see it disappear as Morgan's research assistant touched a button, veiling the plexiglas with the
same material which surrounded it. Startled, Steve touched the padding, and froze as it
disappeared in its turn. There crouched a shaggy-haired, gorse-chinned, wild-eyed maniac,
clutching at him with extended paws. He backpedaled hurriedly, tripping and falling backwards;
when he lifted his head, it was gone again.

Morgan stood up and stretched. "Keep that up for fifteen minutes more and record
everything. I'll be back." The assistant nodded and pressed the button again.

The game finally got old. A highly disoriented Steve had followed along in the insane
variation of peek-a-boo, yelling and gesticulating at the phantom when it appeared, until he finally
rushed it, only to bounce off the padded wall with considerable force to lie stunned, face down,
for several minutes. Finally, he managed to roll over, then decided it was too much trouble to get
up. He glanced up, searching for his friends the speckles, and screamed as the bugs came back.

Chapter Ten

Mark took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. While he was grateful for being
allowed to participate in the paper chase portion of the search for his son, he couldn't help
wishing Wyler had felt the need to insert his fingers into fewer corporate pies. He only hoped they
would be able to find some clue to Steve's whereabouts before -- no, he told himself sternly, he
wasn't even going to entertain such defeatist notions. They would find Steve. Alive and hopefully
well.

"Mark, dinner." Amanda Bentley gently tugged at his shoulder, determined not to take
no for an answer. "Come on. Otherwise, I'll enlist Randy and we'll both nag you."

Mark stretched. "Heaven forbid. That woman has way too much energy. You won't see
me looking for trouble!"

"I heard that!" Randy called from the kitchen. She came into the dining room, though not
quite with her customary breeziness, deposited a steaming pot of curry on the table and sat down.
"Eat, everyone." After a few minutes of blissful enjoyment, Jesse took a swig of his beer and
turned to Mark. "How are those printouts coming?" he asked.

Mark crossed his eyes. "Aside from the strange tendency of the type face to become
increasingly smaller, I'm not sure. I think we can probably rule out the high-tech end companies,
but I'm not sure we should necessarily concentrate on the shipping and warehousing operations
just because they would be more obvious choices." He shook his head. "I have a feeling I should
be able to figure this out, but I'm missing something somewhere."

The telephone rang; he excused himself, then brought the phone to Randy. "It's for you,
dear." They watched with concern as an uncharacteristic wave of red spread over her face; she
thanked the caller tersely and set the phone down, simmering. They waited, watching her anger
rise, until Amanda finally asked quietly, "What was that about?"

Randy started to sputter. "That -- that -- despicable, overinflated, dyed in the wool,
sanctimonious, overbearing -- fake!" She continued in this vein for several minutes, to the rapt
fascination of her companions. Finally, she ran out of breath and expletives, and gasped to a stop.
There was a long pause.

"Uh - honey?" Mark ventured tentatively.

She was still visibly steamed. "It's not legal," she stormed.

"What's not legal?" Jesse asked, puzzled.

Amanda shot him a one-more-stupid-remark-and-I'll-hurt-you look. "You mean the
marriage certificate?" she asked helpfully.

Randy nodded. "That was the only good part of that whole damn day," she grumbled.
"First that son of a bitch kidnaps my husband, then I find out he's not really my husband." She
rose and started to pace, or maybe prowl, muttering to herself, then snapped her fingers. "I've
got it!" she crowed.

"Got what?" the confused trio chorused.

She had that too-familiar dangerous look. "I'm going to file a class action suit against
Aubrey Wyler and the Enlightenment Ranch."

"That's right!" Jesse exclaimed. "It's not just you and Steve, there's all those other people
who got suckered into thinking they were married when -- well," he amended, finally noticing
Amanda's pointed glare, "you know what I mean."

Mark started to smile. "Might have some good nuisance value, and be another way to
force Wyler to disclose all of his interests, corporate or otherwise." He patted her arm. "Go get
him. And let me know any way I can help."

Chapter Eleven

There followed a bleak period of existence which led him to wonder, during his more
clearheaded moments, whether Morgan had been right, and he was buried so completely in
Wyler's corporate labyrinth that his family would never have any inkling what had happened to
him. His less lucid periods ranged from speculating if he had somehow outlived everyone and was
lost forever in these white walls to a total inability to indulge in any coherent thought whatsoever,
and all sorts of variations in between. All the while, whether it was an experiment day (using the
term quite loosely, as he had lost all sense of time or its passing), or whether the needle brought
him much-needed relief from the pain which always hovered just beyond his reach, waiting for
a moment of weakness, he clung to the good moments for as long as possible. During those
intervals, he found himself repeating, over and over, a desperate litany of "Sloan. Sloan. Steve
Sloan. Randy. Dad. Amanda. Jesse," hoping to lock the names in his drug-clouded mind, safe
from the looming mists; but when his tenuous grip on reality started to slide, he couldn't
remember any of them.

He was curled up on his bed, arms clutched tight against his chest, legs drawn up
slightly, staring at the place where the creature made its peripatetic appearances. He had given up
on the speckles. The dark-haired woman watching the images relayed by the camera lit a cigarette
and flipped the match into the garbage. "Can he talk at all?" she asked.

Morgan shrugged. "Sometimes, though he's not been very talkative since day one,
coherent or otherwise. What did you have in mind?"

Her lips tightened. "Aubrey needs to know exactly what they stole."

Morgan snorted. "Hasn't Aubrey already received a pretty accurate representation of that?
Considering the Wolfe woman and Sloan's father have been pounding him into a pulp in court,
I don't see how Sloan could add anything useful. Besides," he added, shuffling some papers about
on his desk, "I wasn't planning to leave this level of the study yet."

"So try the PCP in conjunction with someone in methadone withdrawal," she suggested
impatiently. "And then I can try to get some answers, either before he gets the PCP or after,
whichever scares him more."

He regarded her for a moment, then smiled. Steve would not have appreciated it. "Not
a bad idea, Tanya. Not bad at all."

Chapter Twelve

Steve awoke from the fitful sleep he had fallen into when the speckles had started to blur.
He hadn't planned on observing them, but he had sprawled on his back earlier to find himself
without the energy to change his position, and had eventually dozed off. Now he surfaced, feeling
a vague disquiet. Something was different, wasn't right. He concentrated for a moment, trying
to think which part of the routine he last remembered. A meal, lunch, he thought, had been
brought by Rachel, who had apologized for not being able to stay and talk to him as she usually
did. He realized suddenly that she had left without giving him any injections, which meant he
hadn't received any methadone, or PCP for that matter, for several hours. He tried to calculate
just how many hours, but gave up when his head started to ache. In any event, he was
considerably overdue if they had him on any kind of schedule. He sneezed suddenly, the force of
it shaking his entire body, and bringing with it an immediate uproar from most of his muscles,
not just his knee. He rubbed his eyes to clear them, and the blurring dissipated, but the aches did
not. Instead, he became aware of a slowly increasing throbbing throughout his body, almost like
flu symptoms. That's ridiculous, he thought distractedly, how could I possibly get flu in here? He
struggled to sit up, but movement only made the aching worse. With a sigh, he subsided back onto
the bed and drifted into a light doze.

His confusion as to the progress of the day increased a little later, when Rachel came in
with a tray of what was undeniably breakfast. Roused by the sound of her footsteps, Steve stared
at the food and then at his nurse. "What happened to dinner?" he demanded, hoping to get to the
bottom of this particular mystery at least.

Startled, Rachel replied, "You refused to touch it and threw it at the wall. I had tried to
get you to eat just a little, you tossed it away, lay down, turned your back and refused to talk to
me. So I had it cleaned up, and I left." She looked at him sternly. "Are you going to eat your
breakfast, or do you plan to trash that also? Because if you do, I'm removing it now. Swabbing
that wall is not what I'm trained to do."

Taken aback, Steve shook his head and mumbled something.

"What was that?" Rachel snapped.

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. Rachel, always so gentle, so kind, so understanding,
had turned on him like an irritated hen, and he had no idea why. He couldn't remember seeing
dinner, much less flinging it across the room. But -- "I'm sorry," he said meekly. "I didn't mean
to make more work for you."

Mollified only slightly, she crossed her arms and gave him another stern look. "So, are
you going to eat this?"

Given the amount of time which must have passed since he last ate, he should have been
ravenous. His appetite, however, had suddenly deserted him. Food definitely was not an option
at the moment. "Uh -- I think so." And, as her brow furrowed in a frown, he added hastily, "I
just woke up. My stomach's not awake yet. -- I'll eat it in a little while, I promise."

Rachel relaxed. "All right. But if I find it on the wall again, you're cleaning it up
yourself." She gave him a quick exam, mostly looking for any changes from the reduced dosage.
Then, she patted his cheek and turned to leave, without, he realized, giving him any medication.

"Rachel?" he blurted.

She turned back, looking at him inquiringly. "What is it, Mr. Miller?"

In his anxiety, he forgot to correct her. "Aren't you going to give me -- well -- you
know, my meds?" he asked awkwardly, feeling suddenly foolish. Dad had had to practically tie
him down in order to get him to take any kind of painkiller; and here he was practically begging
for the stuff, and he didn't really even understand why.

She felt a twinge of guilt, but Morgan had warned her this might happen and given her
strict instructions. "Are you having any pain?"

Reluctantly, he denied any specific pain; when he raised the issue of the body aches, she
shook her head. "You're probably just stiff from sleeping so long after all the jumping about you
did yesterday. And that doesn't require medication, you know that."

He couldn't determine why this conversation was making him uneasy, but it was.
Unhappily, he watched her leave and the door close. Even though his instincts had dulled in some
ways over the course of his captivity, his gut was telling him in no uncertain terms that something
was definitely wrong. Unfortunately, it wasn't being nearly as forthcoming as to what that
something might be. With a sigh, he picked up the breakfast tray, and immediately dropped it as
that same gut heaved in revulsion. He barely reached the toilet before bringing up what little was
still in his stomach, and continued to dry heave off and on for several minutes. Got to be flu, he
thought, painfully, then retched again as his eyes fell involuntarily on his scattered breakfast.

He crawled back onto his cot, somehow managing to avoid the sight of now doubly
scrambled eggs, and shut his eyes tightly, trying to slow the roiling in his stomach, which seemed
to be getting worse instead of better. Sweat broke out on his forehead as one particularly nasty
cramp seized him, then developed into a bout of shivering. Maybe that last shot wasn't meth but
some kind of bug? he wondered crazily, then lost track of anything except the turmoil in his
system as another bout of cramps hit. Somehow, he made it to the toilet, then collapsed on the
floor as weakness overtook him.

Chapter Thirteen

He totally lost track of time for a while afterwards. He was vaguely aware of forms
moving about, the tray being cleared and removed, someone bending down and peeling his eyelids
back to examine his pupils. He winced away from the searing light, and tried his best to evade
the investigating touch, but then other hands picked him up, and he felt himself being placed on
the bed, held down gently but firmly, while the doctor finished his examination. From very far
away, he heard Morgan's voice say, "It's not flu. He's in methadone withdrawal."

He hadn't quite digested this information when someone said something indistinguishable,
and the doctor replied, "No. Leave him as he is. I want to observe him for a while before he gets
anything else."

As the door closed, Steve struggled to make sense of what he had heard, the prickly
feeling he had experienced earlier returning in full force, until the fact sank in with cold horror.
Morgan (and Rachel too, that irritating sane corner of his mind added, although he steadfastly
ignored it) had addicted him to methadone. Now, for whatever reason, probably just for the hell
of it, they had cut him off. Cold turkey.

Steve had seen narcotics addicts in various stages of withdrawal before. Considering his
current symptoms, and what he could expect to go through, he thought he'd rather undergo a long
session with the mountain. Even worse, the decrease of the methadone gave his mind a chance
to unfog, but he wasn't sure this was the best time to have a clear head. He shivered, probably
more in anticipation, but it turned into a massive, involuntary shuddering which left him limp,
gasping for breath, when it finally ended.

The cramps and shivering had worsened steadily when, his hearing unusually sharp, he
heard footsteps, but he refused to look up when the door opened. Whoever it was could just go
away, as far as he was concerned, unless they were going to do something useful.

"Mr. Miller." It was a woman's voice. He didn't care. She repeated his name twice, each
time with more impatience, but he continued to ignore her, trying to control the tremors wracking
his body. There was a pause, and then she inquired, "Would you like me to have them give you
some methadone?"

Despite his best intentions, he opened his eyes, only to meet those of Tanya Solario.
"Welcome to the land of the living," she said mockingly.

He had already decided she was on his ten least favorite people list, so he saw no reason
to be cooperative or polite. "I wouldn't exactly call this living," he said shortly.

She shrugged one shoulder. "The degree of comfort has always been totally up to you,"
she pointed out. "No one's forcing you to lie there and hurl your guts out." Unfortunate choice
of words; the heaving started before he could control himself. He hoped he'd splattered it on her.
She had anticipated his reaction, however, and stepped back out of range. Now she leaned over
him once again. "I'm offering you a deal. You keep your part of it, and I'll see to it you get your
medication."

"My part?" he asked, closing his eyes wearily and wishing she'd go away.

"Is to tell me exactly which files you remember accessing and stealing from Aubrey's
database," she replied.

He started to laugh weakly, which turned into a paroxysm of coughing. He hung on
desperately and waited for the spasms to cease. Then, rather bitterly, he said, "You take the cake,
Tanya. You and Wyler are both certifiable. You drag me in here, beat the tar out of me, drug me,
undrug me, do everything you can possibly do to make me doubt who, what and where I am, turn
me into a raving lunatic, and now you seriously expect me to be able to think clearly enough to
remember something I saw zap across a computer screen in a universe long ago and far away?"

She started to retort, but he ignored her, enraged, pent-up hostility and his physical
discomfort spurring him on. "I have no idea how long ago that was. For all I know, it's been
years." He paused, then shook his head. "Morgan told me Dad and Randy have brought several
class action suits against Wyler, so that information's probably going to surface sooner or later
anyway." He grinned nastily at her, inordinately pleased to give her bad news. "Sorry, Tanya.
I can't help you. Tell Aubrey he's just going to have to wait; he's not going to get anything from
me."

Furious, she slapped him across the face, then collected her temper with a visible effort.
"You think you're sorry now. Just wait." She left, slamming the door behind her.

Cautiously feeling his cheekbone with his gloved hand, Steve sighed. She was
undoubtedly right; he was pretty sure he wasn't going to enjoy whatever retaliatory strike came
next, but he could only take so much, and at least he had been distracted for a short time from
the increasingly intensifying withdrawal symptoms. It was getting more and more difficult to keep
himself from thinking about his need for the drug. He hunched himself into a ball as best as he
could with his awkward arms and waited, shivering, for whatever was going to happen next.

Chapter Fourteen

Slowly, steadily, the cramps got nastier and nastier. The only benefit, he thought, was
that the retching had lessened, maybe because he had lost everything in his system long earlier.
He winced as another lancing pain streaked through his stomach, and curled himself a little more
tightly against his drawn-up knees. He had tried to distract himself by counting the ever-helpful
speckles, but the effort of trying to look upward from his hunched position made his head spin
even more. He had tried talking to himself until his voice grew hoarse and he realized, shocked,
that he was carrying on conversations with people who weren't there. The thought that he might
be trying to talk to his father or to Randy triggered misery he didn't think he could stand. He
constructed an imaginary debate with Jesse over maintaining BBQ Bob's bottom line, but failed
abysmally to sustain it when he could almost hear Jesse's legitimately aggrieved reaction to his
lecturing. Try as he might, the only thought processes which he could maintain consistently
focused either on his current state of physical discomfort or his mounting need for methadone. He
wished, in desperation, that someone, anyone, would come, just so he could be certain he wasn't
truly alone.

Finally, when he had reached the point where he didn't think he could bear the acute
symptoms any longer, he received a visit from Dr. Morgan, Rachel trailing behind. The doctor
took his vital signs, lips pursed. "Hmmm. How do you feel, Mr. Miller?"

The sheer idiocy of the question took Steve by surprise, or he would have gone for
Morgan's throat right then. As it was, the doctor saw the fury blaze through his eyes and stepped
smartly out of range. "How the hell do you think?" the sick man snapped. "Moron," he added,
not quite under his breath.

Morgan crossed his arms and stared at him in annoyance. "You're not helping your
situation, you know."

Steve shrugged. "You seriously expect me to believe it makes any difference to your
quote-unquote research protocol what I do or don't do."

Morgan shrugged in his turn. "Could be."

Steve's patience was hanging by a fragile thread which was unraveling fast. "Unless
you're planning on giving me some methadone, I really couldn't care less."

The doctor smiled nastily. "Like this?" he inquired, holding a syringe just out of Steve's
reach. He pulled it back when the other man, temper seething, lunged for it anyway, barely
keeping his balance when Morgan pulled it out of range. "Son of a bitch," Steve growled, and
started towards it again, only to slam into a wide barrier of an arm. The mountain had returned,
and now held him easily in place, not breaking a sweat.

Morgan laughed, earning an distressed glance from his nurse. "Beg for it, and maybe
you'll get some," he advised nastily.

It was the wrong thing to say. For a moment, Rachel, horrified, saw murder in the
furious blue eyes; then they cleared, his shoulders relaxed, and he shook his head. "Forget it,
Morgan." He squinted up at the mountain. "If you don't mind, I'd like to lie down now." The
startled attendant glanced at the doctor, as if for approval, then guided Steve's rather unsteady
progress toward the bed.

Morgan didn't look particularly perturbed. "That's fine." He pressed the plunger just
enough to send a fine spray upward from the needle. "I believe you may appreciate this -- for a
little while."

The mountain shifted and had him pinned hard to the bed before he could react. He still
didn't understand how such a gigantic body could move so fast. He didn't have much time to
speculate, however. Before he could protest, certain now that something very unpleasant was
hovering on the horizon, the needle slid in and out, leaving him wondering, with a hint of panic,
just what to expect. He could feel the effect of the methadone, but there was something weird
about it. Instead of softness surrounding him, it felt almost like the cotton was inside his head,
his body. He held his hands up, half-expecting to see swollen balloons, but was not reassured
when they still looked like hands. He scowled at the doctor suspiciously. "What did you give me
this time?"

"A simultaneous combination of methadone and phencyclidine rather than one following
the other. I'm working on the right mixture and percentages."

Steve didn't give a damn about the mixture or the percentages. His last coherent thought
for a while was that he would have throttled Morgan if he had been able to stand up.

It appeared that the correct formula was not going to be easily determined. This must be
what hell really looks like, Steve mused at one point, staring at the padded white walls. He loathed
the periodic injections of whatever Morgan had concocted at that moment, and the resulting
hallucinations, but the clearer days came at the cost of withheld drugs and the painful misery
which followed. His world had narrowed to the point where neither waking nor sleeping held any
attraction; both were equally unpleasant. With the drugs, he didn't dare sleep; off them, his
dreams, nightmares really, were violent, ugly, and highly disturbing. He was having more and
more difficulty remembering his own name.

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