The Longest Road, Part II - The Long Road To Clarity

Free Web Hosting Provider - Web Hosting - E-commerce - High Speed Internet - Free Web Page

Chapter Fifteen

It was a decreased drug cycle, and he was morosely contemplating the prospect of the
next several hours, which promised to become much worse, when the door opened and Rachel
slipped in.

She had been silently watching him on the monitor while her boss was working on his
notes, thinking only that it was a pity such measures were necessary, until she glanced up and
caught the look of avid enjoyment flitting across Morgan's face. She wondered briefly, but thought
nothing more of it until she saw it happen several more times, apparently all when he was also
watching her favorite patient. The queasiness she had been experiencing off and on since the
combination drug experiments had started came back with a rush. Muttering an excuse about
making rounds, she excused herself quickly, releasing a noiseless breath of relief when Morgan
nodded without looking up from his papers.

Instead of the patient wing, however, she headed for the offices. Once at the
transcriptionist's desk, she called up the computer notes on Steve, only to shudder with revulsion
as she absorbed the full extent of Morgan's and Wyler's infamy. After regaining control of her
nerves, she returned to the lab, where she told Morgan she would close up shop for the night,
assuring him she would stay to keep an eye on "Mr. Miller," and would call him if anything
noteworthy happened. She then managed to lower the speaker volume level for Steve's room,
thinking that she was going to have to come up with some way of obscuring the camera, and
quickly made her way there. She wasn't sure what she was going to do next, but she was working
on it.

Steve's initial anxiety on hearing the door fled as he saw Rachel's face, to be replaced
by an involuntary feeling of betrayal when he realized her hands were unburdened by any alluring
silver needles. He dropped his head onto his raised knees so she wouldn't see the need in his eyes.

Rachel stood there, irresolute. "Steve?" she asked hesitantly.

She'd never called him by his first name. Intrigued in spite of himself, he lifted his head
to peer at her curiously, noting her awkward stance; suddenly, he realized she was trying to block
the camera, and sat up a little straighter. "You called me Steve," he said, feeling a little foolish.

She nodded. "Steve, I'm so sorry. I didn't know what Morgan was really doing -- your
chart's been doctored --"

"To reflect what I am now?" He sounded bitter. "Life imitating truth or truth imitating
life?"

"Yes," she said simply, knowing she couldn't really excuse her part in it. "And it says
your name is Steve Miller, and --"

"Forget about it," Steve interrupted. He waited with a terrible patience as a particularly
severe wave of cramping rode through his body. "You know otherwise," he added when he could
speak again.

It was a statement, not a question. She nodded again. "Steve, I can't do anything about
the meds. I can't sneak you any methadone because Dr. Morgan's monitoring you too closely.
Tell me how else I can help you." He winced as she mentioned the narcotic. Even the sound of
the word called to him, fired that all-encompassing need, and it was getting more and more
difficult to concentrate on anything else at all. His voice strained, he said, "Rachel -- please, call
my father -- Mark Sloan -- and tell him where I am. He'll take care of everything."

"Where --?"

He concentrated, hard. "He's the head of internal medicine at Community General
Hospital in L.A. -- call him there, it's probably safer --"

"But --"

He grabbed her arm, of necessity with both hands. The blue eyes did burn, she realized.
"All right, Steve. I promise." She squeezed his hand, then ran to the door; on impulse, she turned
back, but he had already withdrawn into himself, huddling on the cot, rocking slightly back and
forth to cope with the pain. She slipped out and sped down the hall, back to the office, where she
yanked out the appropriate phone book, found the number, and hurriedly dialed it.

"Community General. How may I direct your call?"

"Dr. Sloan, please," Rachel whispered, not daring to speak any louder.

There was a brief pause, then the voice returned. "I'm sorry, but he's not available. Dr.
Travis is taking his calls."

"Dr. Travis?" Rachel asked, starting to feel a little hysterical.

"That's right, Dr. Jesse Travis. I'll connect you."

Before the hysteria became full-blown panic, she realized the name sounded vaguely
familiar. Chasing down the memory, she succeeded in remembering sitting with Steve and hearing
him mutter "Jesse" a few times in his less lucid phases. Maybe it would be all right, she thought
anxiously. A young man came on the line, but he had no sooner identified himself when she heard
footsteps farther down the hall. "Steve. Clinic. Morgan," she blurted, and hung up, hoping it was
enough.

Chapter Sixteen

Jesse tore up the stairs to the beach house, not wanting to trust the news to a phone.
"Mark!" he yelled, panting. "I've got something!"

"Steve -- clinic -- Morgan," Mark repeated thoughtfully. "But why did she call you?"

"She didn't!" Jesse announced triumphantly. "As soon as she hung up, I checked with
the switchboard. Annie told me the woman asked for you first." He looked smug, pleased with
himself.

"Have you ever heard of a Morgan Clinic?" Randy asked, looking up from the discovery
motion she was drafting.

"No," Mark replied, "but that doesn't necessarily mean one doesn't exist. And Morgan
could be a doctor's name. I think I'll look into this." He pulled his laptop over and went online.
After a few minutes, he had narrowed the field down to three doctors: a urologist ("Highly
unlikely," he commented); a chiropractor ("Don't think so," contributed Jesse), and a psychiatrist,
one Frank Morgan, M.D. Mark's radar went into ultra-sensitive mode. Tapping the laptop with
his finger, he stated, "Something tells me this is our man."

Jesse looked dubious. "But we haven't run across him in any of Wyler's papers, have
we?"

"Not yet," Mark answered, "but we've only scratched the surface. At least now we can
do a cross-reference search." He picked up the phone and dialed. "Cheryl? Mark Sloan. Here's
someone I'd like you to check out -- Frank no middle initial Morgan, M.D. Psychiatrist. Born
1952, med school looks like somewhere in the Caribbean, 1977. Let me know. Thanks." He
listened a few more minutes, thanked her again, and disconnected.

Amanda had entered in time to catch the last part of the conversation. "What about a
Medline search on him?" she asked.

"That's a good idea," Mark commented. "We might get a clue or two from what he's
published." He was soon searching the Medline archives. "Hmmm. Seems to have done some very
promising work early on, on psychotropic drugs; then there's a gap for a few years -- that's
strange --"

The others looked at him curiously as his voice trailed off. "What is it, Mark?" Jesse
wanted to know. Mark raised his eyebrows. "Looks like he went out on a limb a bit here in his
research. There's an article from two years ago promoting the therapeutic value of phencyclidine."

"PCP?" Jesse asked in astonishment.

"Yes. There was a school of thought some years back that it could be used beneficially
in treating manic depressive disorders, but the theory was discarded after more thorough studies
indicated it did more harm than good. Apparently, Morgan disagreed. Let's see here --" He surfed
for a few more minutes, then whistled.

Amanda leaned over his shoulder. "Looks like he got a little too attached to his pet
ideas."

Mark nodded. "And attracted a lot of flak from some very big psychiatric guns because
of it." He scrolled down, until suddenly his hand went still. "I bet this is it."

"What?" Jesse demanded, craning his neck to see.

Mark's tone and face were grim. "His most recent submission here involves combining
PCP with a variety of narcotic drugs, apparently with the goal of reducing the paranoid
symptomatology. He specifically mentions methadone."

"Oh, my God," Randy's voice floated over from where she was working. She stood up
and walked over to the table, bending over to peer at the screen. "It's all my fault."

The trio stared at her in shock. "What are you talking about, Randy?" Amanda asked.

Randy ran her hands through her hair. She had gone back to blonde and pulled it up in
her usual fashion. "He promised he'd take it if I stopped nagging him about it." Her listeners still
looked confused, so she explained. "He was in pain the night before, but he wouldn't take any of
the meth Mark had given him. So I made him promise he'd keep it with him the next day, just
in case. He must have still had it in his pocket when they caught him." She sagged into a chair,
looking distressed. "It's my fault."

They were attempting to reassure her when the phone rang; Mark snatched it up. "Mark
Sloan. Hi, Cheryl. There is? Good. No, not just yet. Let me work on it. Okay. 'Bye." He
elaborated for his impatient listeners. "Cheryl found a connection between Morgan and Wyler.
Apparently they both own stock in several small boutique companies, a couple of which the Feds
have been successful in tracing to Wyler's operation. Since they were only just starting to look
at those companies, they hadn't targeted Morgan. Yet. When Cheryl did the specific search, the
hits came up." He looked at the notes he'd scribbled. "He's got a clinic up near Fresno." Mark
looked up, hope blazing in his eyes. "That has to be it, but we need to be sure before we have
the police go in."

Amanda gave him a shrewd look. "What do you have in mind, Mark?"

"Jesse, didn't you do a rotation in psychiatry?"

The young doctor nodded. "Yeah. Lot of weird stuff. I suppose I could toss the jargon
around if I had to."

Mark smiled the famous Sloan smile. "I think we should have a bright young doctor with
a promising future investigate internship possibilities in Fresno."

Chapter Seventeen

Dr. Morgan was in the observation lab when the intercom buzzed. The monitor behind
him showed Steve Sloan, sleeping fitfully. "Doctor, a Dr. Travis is here to see you." Morgan
surfaced from his concentration. "Oh, yes, the one inquiring about an internship. I'll be there
shortly."

Jesse was wandering slowly around Morgan's office, examining the various journals,
collectibles and other items stacked almost compulsively neatly everywhere. He turned as the door
opened. "Hi! I'm Jesse Travis!" he beamed, sticking out a hand.

"Frank Morgan. Sit down, make yourself comfortable." He settled into his desk chair.
"What interests you in my clinic specifically?"

"Well," Jesse said engagingly, "I've done some research on you, and I think the work
you're doing has a lot of merit, and I'd like to learn more about it."

Amused, Morgan inquired, "How did you get interested in this area?"

Jesse grinned at him broadly. "Started as a fraternity brothers' discussion on the merits
of various mind-altering substances; I won't go into details as to why it started --"

Morgan laughed. "Got you. Go on."

"Well," the young doctor continued, "the next thing I knew, I was defending using them
for medical purposes. Then, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made." His smile grew
even more self-deprecating, if such was humanly possible.

Morgan smirked back at him, vanity duly stroked. "How about a tour, young man?"

"This is my observation lab," Morgan stated, waving a hand at the various monitor
screens. A pretty brown-haired nurse stood frowning at one of them. As Jesse glanced at her, he
could have sworn that her hand lifted very casually and sprayed something on the screen, but,
when he blinked, she didn't seem to have moved at all. He filed that thought away and
concentrated on Morgan's discourse. "We can monitor as closely as necessary; some of our
patients are on very precise regimens." The doctor put a hand on the nurse's arm and drew her
closer. "Let me introduce one of our invaluable nurses, Rachel Pauling. She's the patients'
favorite, hands down. Rachel, this is Dr. Jesse Travis. He's looking into doing an internship with
us."

Somehow, she managed to avoid dropping anything, and she hoped to God she hadn't
revealed anything in her expression. She thought furiously while she shook the newcomer's hand
and made polite noises. She had to find a way to get him alone and into Steve's room, especially
now that she had been able to smear up the monitor enough to obscure the images somewhat. Now
all she needed was a distraction.

Luck for once hadn't taken the day off. Her eye caught frenetic movement on another
screen. "Doctor, Mr. Collins --"

Morgan glanced at the screen and swore. "Jesse, you're going to have to excuse me.
Rachel, how about you give him the rest of the tour?" He started off. "Meet me back in my office
when you're done, my boy, and we'll talk."

Jesse smiled broadly at the attractive nurse. This was great -- except now he was getting
the distinct impression that she was extremely nervous about something. He made an incredible
intuitive leap. "You're the woman who called, aren't you?"

She nodded and grabbed his arm. "Come on." She led him down the hall, and yet another
one, before stopping at a door. She paused before opening it. "There's something you should
know."

The blond doctor, who had seemed so young moments earlier, looked at her with kind
eyes far older than his years. "It's all right, Ms. Pauling. It's been almost three months, after all."

Even so, he was not quite prepared for what he saw. Steve was sprawled on the bed,
hobbled arms outflung, weariness and resignation evident in the lines of his body. He was shaking
intermittently. He had lost weight; there were deep hollows above the scruffy beard, and his face
was all sharp planes and angles. The prominent jaw was like a knife edge. Jesse thought he could
see ribs under the grimy T-shirt. Shocked, he said the first thing that came into his head. "My
God, don't they even get clean clothes?" He dropped to his knees and felt for his friend's wrist.
Steve's pulse was threadier than he would have liked, his breathing uneven, but until he had a
clear idea of what kind of junk had been pumped into his friend's system --

He must have muttered something along those lines, because Rachel said defensively,
"He's been a bit -- difficult lately." As Jesse, forgetting momentarily that she was on Steve's side,
turned, eyes blazing, she snapped, "You don't understand. Morgan's had him on a virtual drug
seesaw; off the drugs, on them, back off again. It's all I can do to get him calm at all, much less
do things like shave him when he insists, even though he can't stop shaking while I'm trying to
do it. Clean shirts tend to become optional."

Mouth open to retort, Jesse felt Steve flinch uncontrollably at the sharp tone, and softened
his own voice accordingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you were -- well, you know," he
stammered, flustered. The expression on her face as she stared down at his best friend spoke
volumes. He wrenched his gaze away from her stricken face and turned his attention to the man
on the bed. "Steve? Steve, it's Jesse. Can you hear me?" He reached to check the supine man's
eyes, when another tremor ran through the thin body, and Steve moved his head, coughed, and
opened his eyes, to stare in befuddlement at the apparition leaning over him.

"Steve?"

A hoarse voice Jesse had feared he would never hear again croaked, "Oh, God. Bad
enough I'm seeing people who aren't there -- now I'm hearing them too." He closed his eyes
wearily.

Jesse tried again. "Steve, it's really me. Come on, wake up. We don't have much time."
He put a hand on Steve's arm and shook it gently.

The bruised eyelids fluttered open tiredly, and clouded blue eyes blinked at the young
doctor. "Jess?" The raspy voice cracked, and Jesse's throat ached in sympathy. "God help me.
Jesse. I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

"No, Steve," Jesse answered, a little thickly. "Look, Mark sent me up to check Morgan
out because we thought he might know something. We weren't sure you were here. But I'm going
to bust you out of here now."

He started to rise, but Steve's hands pulled at him. "No, Jess." He struggled to sit up,
an awkward process which was painful to watch. Jesse grabbed at him and helped him to lean
back, shocked at how easy it was for him to manhandle his larger friend. Steve was panting as
if he'd run a marathon and shaking uncontrollably. "Jesse, listen to me. Rachel's right. Morgan
keeps flipflopping the drugs. I don't know how long I've got before this time gets really bad, and
there's no way you could get me past the mountain and his pals."

Jesse frowned, alarmed by references to mountains with friends and what "really bad"
meant, considering Steve's current condition. He got a grip on himself. "Steve --"

"No, Jess. I don't have the strength. Go home, get help, come back. I'm obviously not
going anywhere." He sounded exhausted.

Jesse contemplated his friend, then glanced up at Rachel. "You'll take care of him?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

Still unhappy about the decision, Jesse pressed on. "Can you at least get those things off
of him?" he asked, indicating Steve's restraints. Rachel started to answer, but Steve stopped her.
"Leave it, Jess, please," he said tiredly. "I don't want to attract Morgan's attention if I don't have
to." He reached for Jesse's arm; the young doctor gripped the gloved hands and said huskily,
"Hang in there, buddy. We'll get you through this and out of here."

The man on the bed slowly let out his breath, willing taut muscles to relax. It didn't
work. "I believe you, Jess. Just don't wait too long. Much as I adore Rachel's company, I want
to go home." Despite his best efforts otherwise, his voice cracked again on the last few words,
and Jesse found himself blinking suddenly moist eyes. "We won't, Steve. We'll be back for you.
I swear."

The cramps were getting worse, and he didn't want Jesse to see. "Thanks, Jess." He
closed his eyes, suddenly spent. "Tell Dad -- tell them all I love them."

Rachel tugged Jesse out, and they made quick arrangements for contacting each other.
Then he returned to Morgan's office and thanked him for his time. "I'll run this by my adviser,
and he'll be in touch," Jesse stated, thinking wryly that this dubious statement actually came pretty
close to the truth, and, to use his vernacular, hauled major convertible butt down the road home.

Chapter Eighteen

He would have expected the knowledge that he hadn't been dropped in a hole and buried
out of all worldly ken would have helped him handle the increasingly more frequent attacks of
nausea and cramps, given him something positive on which to focus. One would have thought,
he mused bitterly, that it would have made the pain easier to tolerate. His abused body insisted
otherwise, as yet another violent fit shuddered through him. His response to each successive
episode of methadone deprivation was getting worse.

He looked up hopefully as Rachel came in, then had to avert his gaze from the tray she
carried. Food was definitely not in the picture. She noticed his discomfort and put the tray down
as far out of sight as possible. "Steve?" she ventured softly.

"Mmm?"

She perched next to him, ostensibly checking his vitals. "What will happen when your
friend returns?" she asked, still too quietly to be picked up by the monitoring system.

He grimaced. "Hopefully, no one will get hurt. I go home and try to put myself back
together again. Go back to my life -- and my job -- try to build them back again --"

"With Miranda," she guessed.

His jaw muscles tightened, not only from the physical pain. "Randy. If she still wants
me." His gaze dropped to his hands in their Siamese twin approximation. "I don't know that I
would --" he broke off, gasping, as a particularly vicious wave of nausea swept through him.

Rachel wasn't sure what to say. Somehow, despite her firm resolve, her need to keep him
at arms' length had evaporated. "She cares for you?" she asked, wondering why they had never
discussed the subject, even after Wyler and Solario had finally lost interest in pursuing the matter
of Steve's wife.

"I -- I don't know anymore. It's been so long --" Diverted, he gave her a startled look.
"How long have I been here, anyway?"

She debated whether to tell him, and how to tell him. "Almost three months," she said
finally.

There was a silence, potent and heavy. She waited, watching him spread and curl his
fingers, as if by habit, not paying any attention to his hands. Finally, he spoke. "Three months."
His voice was remote. The hands clenched and stayed that way, the cloth stretched tautly across
the big knuckles. "Three months caged in here, Morgan's trained rat. Give me a needle and watch
me run." The bitterness was overwhelming; Rachel's chest hurt in sympathy. He lifted his arms
and stared at the material securing his wrists. "I tried every way I could think of to get rid of
these, even trying to bite through them, did you know that, Rachel?" His mouth twisted as he
turned back to look her in the eyes. "And do you know how often I finally fell asleep, if you can
call it that, thinking of my wife -- and woke dreaming of you?"

Hand to her mouth, she stared at him, speechless. He didn't seem to notice her reaction.
"I can even understand the logic behind these things," he continued, studying his hands. "Plenty
of times I would have ripped my own guts out thanks to Morgan's nasty little obsession." He was
mumbling now, the words harder and harder to understand. Rachel leaned closer, and let out a
startled gasp as he grabbed her arms. "Rachel, promise me -- when they come -- you'll give me
whatever's necessary to get me on my feet so I can take Morgan out myself." He fixed those
burning eyes on her; she felt like a paralyzed rabbit. "I have to --"

A fresh torrent of pain slammed through him; the onslaught left him panting and
swearing, totally distracted from his previous train of thought. The desire for the drug was
merciless. He could taste it, feel it, touch it almost; his world was rapidly shrinking down into
one crystal clear need. Sweating, he subsided onto the bed, shivering. Rachel reached over and
brushed the hair from his forehead, wondering how she had gotten herself into this predicament.
Her beeper went off but, before she could even check it, he had grabbed her arm again with a
grip like a vise. "Rachel. Please -- don't go, stay with me."

The blue eyes didn't burn; they swallowed her alive. "I'll stay," she whispered.

Chapter Nineteen

A tiny beeping, like an electronic gnat, roused her. She realized with a small shock that
she had drifted off for a while, sitting there on the bed, although her hand was still automatically
stroking his hair. He slept like one dead, head in her lap, both gloved hands hanging grimly on
to her other hand. A twist of her head gave her a view of the pager. Sighing, she dislodged Steve
gently but firmly, rubbed her eyes, and slipped out to answer the call.

She faced a furious Morgan nervously, perspiration starting to trickle down her back.
"What the hell were you doing?" he raged. "I've been paging you for over an hour!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she stammered. "I was so tired, I dropped off for a little while and
didn't realize it."

He opened his mouth to shout at her, but paused, starting to pace in a small, tight circle.
"You've been with me a long time, Rachel," he said suddenly, making her jump. She said
nothing, afraid to speak. "You've always helped me unquestioningly, provided me unconditional,
invaluable support," he continued, still pacing.

Oh, no. He was going to fire her, before she could see this through. How was she going
to convince him to change his mind? She opened her mouth and closed it again as he held up a
cautionary hand. "I realize that it's difficult sometimes to keep from caring too much about your
patients," Morgan went on, "but you have to realize it's for your own safety."

Stung to speech finally by his condescension, she retorted, "They trust me -- more than
they trust you. They can tell I have their welfare at heart!"

"Unlike me?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm sure the Board of Health would remember that
if and when you ever found yourself the subject of an unethical practices review, wouldn't you
agree?"

She stared at him, aghast. "You'd pull me down with you, wouldn't you?"

He snickered, then seized her arm and pulled her close to him, no humor in his eyes.
"You've been with me too long, Rachel. You belong to me, not to some drug addict ex-cop who
doesn't know enough to keep his nose out of other people's business." His grip tightened as she
instinctively tried to pull away. "I'm reassigning you. You won't be taking care of Miller any
more."

In her fury and her fear for Steve, she forgot all caution. "Miller?" she inquired,
emphasizing the name heavily.

Morgan's face started to purple. "Just how much do you know?"

"I know his name's not Miller!" she snarled. She tried again to pull away, but his grip
was too strong. "You bitch," he said quietly, menacingly, grabbing for her mouth as she opened
it to scream for help. She bit him; the next moment, her vision went black as he swung a fist and
connected, hard.

He stared down at her where she lay crumpled on the floor. She was still breathing, but
it looked like he had broken her jaw. She could have ruined everything, he thought; suddenly
furious, he started kicking.

Chapter Twenty

Steve paid little attention to the door when it opened. After all, the options for any
surprises were fairly limited. Nevertheless, he was startled when Morgan came in with only the
mountain in tow. "Where's Rachel?" he asked blurrily, as the attendant unbuttoned his sleeve.

"She's dealing with a crisis," the doctor answered shortly. Steve digested that for a
moment, wondering why he was feeling a small flicker of alarm. He persisted anyway. "She'll
come later?" he asked hopefully.

Morgan slanted him a quick glance, then returned his attention to the syringe he was
preparing. "Depends," he said, holding it up. The flash of metal caught Steve's attention; despite
himself, his eyes fixed on it and refused to budge as he hungrily watched it approach, until he
became aware of Morgan's avid gaze. He tore his eyes away with an effort and tried to project
indifference, but he doubted he was particularly convincing. Morgan smirked and injected him
with the solution; then, suddenly, coldly furious with the man who had suborned his best nurse,
he added, "You won't be worrying about her for a while in any event."

Even though his perceptive abilities had been dulled significantly by Morgan's brutal
concept of drug therapy, he instinctively knew that something was wrong, and danger lay ahead.
He debated whether to respond, finally opting to keep his mouth shut, until Morgan stepped back
and ordered, "Lie back on the bed."

The worrisome itch started to smolder into a three-alarm fire. "Why?" Steve asked, no
longer sure silence was wise. He watched, fascinated, as a muscle started to jump in the doctor's
jaw, until a sudden unexpected movement from the mountain slammed him onto his back. Shocked
and winded, with the added disadvantage of the huge hand pressing him down, he was totally
unprepared to discover that the padding in the bed contained similarly padded restraints, at chest,
elbows, knees and ankles. "What the hell is this?" he growled, as the nausea from the drug
mixture started to hit.

Morgan loomed over him. "It's for your own protection, Miller."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "That's what you said about these things," he objected,
trying to wave his hands.

Morgan's expression was not pleasant. "If my theory is correct, you're not going to want
to be too mobile." He leaned down to ensure that Steve could hear him. "And you won't be seeing
Rachel any more."

This was too much. Steve lunged uselessly against the padding. "What the hell did you
do to her, you bastard?" Morgan's startled reaction was not encouraging. "Where is she?" Steve
snarled, not giving up on his attempts to free himself. He winced as the mountain placed a hand
on his chest and pushed.

Morgan had had enough. "She's been reassigned. Flores here --" (Flores? Steve thought
crazily, what an incredibly inappropriate name for the gargantuan goon) "will be taking care of
you, assuming you survive today's regimen." He turned on his heel and stalked out. Flores the
mountain tendered a toothy grin and followed.

After several more fruitless attempts to break loose, Steve finally conceded defeat. The
restraints were unbreakable. He was also starting to feel extremely disoriented, and the violent
movements weren't helping any. Neither was the stone in his chest when he thought of Rachel.
He had had no right to involve her; he should have been able to cope with his own ambiguous
feelings for her without putting her in harm's way. The last thought he remembered, before he
slid through a spiraling chasm of confusion into a nightmare world, was that it was all his fault.

Chapter Twenty-One

He surfaced finally, shaking with pain and rage. His throat was raw, he assumed from
screaming; the memory of the earlier hallucinations alone was enough to make him violently ill.
Somehow, he had made it through them, even though he recognized absently that he had locked
the man who had survived the recent technicolor horror away in a small place in his mind. Slowly
taking in the dreadfully familiar white walls, he realized that his loathing for Morgan had
deepened into a icy, violent hatred. The doctor had better hope he had plenty of protection if Steve
was ever able to get free. Temporarily forgetting his inability to tear loose earlier, he strained
once more, until the tightening bands reminded him. Coldly, analytically, his mind frighteningly
clear, he began to consider his options.

Returning to the observation lab after a short break, Morgan glanced at the monitor
showing his star patient and stroked his beard thoughtfully. Something wasn't right. The monitor
showed Steve lying quietly, eyes closed, but something about the quality of his stillness betrayed
the tautness of his body, an almost fierce concentration on rest, and which made the hairs rise on
the back of the doctor's neck. Curiously, Morgan checked the readouts from the monitoring
system in the restraints themselves (a notion he had had when designing them), and his trepidation
increased. The chart showed a great deal of disturbance earlier, which apparently coincided with
the duration of Steve's latest drug experience, but the subsequent readings disturbed him. Steve
wasn't sleeping; his vitals were far too quiet for the type of turmoil which Morgan would have
expected to show on the monitors. He drummed his fingers on the table, contemplating the main
screen pensively.

His ruminations were interrupted by a voice from the intercom. "Dr. Morgan? I have the
oscillator calibrated." Morgan cheered up. This should be interesting. "Thanks, Jonathan. Make
sure the room is set up; we'll be using it soon." He returned to his scrutiny of Steve's readings,
debating what kind of mixture he wanted to utilize next. Rachel's defection had made him
nervous. It might be time to accelerate the study, if for no other reason than to ensure that
Lieutenant Sloan deteriorated to the point where he would no longer be a viable threat. He
punched the intercom and spoke briefly, then addressed his attention to the matter of the drug
solution.

Steve watched dispassionately as the door opened. Maybe now, maybe later, as far as he
was concerned, Morgan's control of the situation was coming to an end. He had not reached this
epiphany easily; it had been necessary for him to confront and subdue a demon he hadn't known
he possessed. The old Steve might never have had an opportunity to make its acquaintance. The
new Steve, having been forced to acknowledge its existence, had resolved not only to learn from
it but ultimately master it. A trace of the initial struggle and its result must have shown in his
eyes, because Morgan felt the proverbial goose walk over his grave as he entered the room. He
shook it off as excess paranoia. What did he seriously expect Sloan to do under the circumstances?

The voice from the bed was cold. "I'm not done with the last dose yet, thank you. Go
away."

The doctor stared at his impertinent patient in amazement. Sloan should still have been
semi-coherent at best. The goose wandered back the way it had come. He determined to ignore
it, and signaled to Flores. "Get him out of there, secure him, and bring him to Lab 3." He turned
towards the man on the bed. "I hadn't planned on your being quite this lucid for this experiment,
but it may actually enhance your experience. Try not to annoy Flores so much that he has to cause
you any undue discomfort."

Steve sneered at him and gave the mountain a bright, insincere smile. "Flores, old buddy,
old pal. Where are we going?"

Morgan needn't have worried. Steve was not concerned with anyone or anything except
Morgan's hide, and, to get to it, he was quite willing to cooperate with the big attendant. He
didn't resist as Flores released him, even when the muffles came off, to be replaced by leather
cuffs connected by a length of chain, and secured his ankles in a similar fashion. Nor did he
object when Flores nudged him towards the door, partially holding him upright and guiding his
wobbly steps. He hoped the mountain was disappointed.

Lab 3 was a stark, sparsely furnished room divided by a double-thick plexiglas partition
stretching across most of the room. One side housed an utilitarian chair with arms. The other
contained a couple of folding chairs, a desk, and what looked like a projector sitting on a table.
Flores pushed him through the more densely populated section towards the other side.

Despite the big man's prodding, Steve stopped at the partition, reluctant to go any farther.
Something about the room and the chair, innocuous though they seemed, made his skin crawl.
Flores took his refusal to move personally, shoved him inside the room and into the chair hard,
waking memories of earlier painful encounters with the big man's fists, and secured the shackles
to it. Closing his eyes, Steve concentrated on the ice demon. Morgan wasn't going anywhere, and
neither was he. There was plenty of time.

Chapter Twenty-Two

There were moments during the subsequent interval when he found himself grimly
hanging onto that thought. From Morgan's expression while he administered the injection, and the
way it burned as it took effect, he surmised he had received a hefty amount of PCP, apparently
more than usual. Why they were performing their experiment here rather than in his little white
home away from home was less clear. At least, it was until the lights in the room started getting
weird, and images started traveling across the walls at varying speeds and irregular intervals. For
not the first time during his captivity, Steve briefly regretted not having indulged in the usual
mind-altering substances available during his misspent youth; otherwise he might have had some
frame of reference as to what to expect.

When he finally came to himself, the room was dark. He moved uncontrollably, and
discovered red heat where his wrists had rubbed raw patches from the straps. He smiled slightly,
wryly, oddly grateful for the pain; without it, he had come dangerously close to wandering away
from reality altogether. As it was, it took him several minutes to recreate the sense of self
hovering on the brink of shattering, to reforge in it that same icy chill he had embraced earlier
for survival. It was ironic, he thought; his encounter with enlightenment had actually brought him
a certain degree of it. He knew as definitely as he could feel the pain in his wrists that he was
going to get out of there, and he was taking Morgan with him.

Unaware of his patient's plan for his future, Dr. Morgan was nevertheless startled by the
clarity in Steve's eyes as he examined him. Obviously, he was going to have to increase the
methadone. "Get him out of here," he ordered, displeased by the results of the experiment.

There was no point in fighting the mountain, although Steve winced as the straps briefly
pulled tightly against his wrists while Flores released him from the chair. He stood still
momentarily, getting his bearings. Flores was standing behind him, and Morgan had started out
of the room. Steve took a surreptitious step, and then another, away from the big man and called
out to the doctor. "Hey, doc!"

Morgan turned reluctantly as Steve edged towards him as much as he dared without
arousing suspicion. "What do you want?" he asked disagreeably.

"I just want to know," Steve started to say, then deliberately let his eyes slide toward the
doctor's left side, as if someone was there, as he pretended to cough. Unbelievably, the doctor
fell for it, and Steve, summoning up reserves which he wasn't totally sure were there, fell on him.
Before either Morgan or Flores could react, Steve had the doctor literally by the throat. "You
should have had him replace those muffle things," he panted triumphantly. "I couldn't have done
any damage with them." He yanked on the chain slightly, and Morgan gurgled in protest, clawing
at it uselessly. "But this -- it doesn't matter how much strength I do or don't have -- I don't really
need much, do I?" He yanked again to prove his point, ignoring the doctor's reaction.

There was a brief, pregnant silence, while Steve considered his options and the others
waited to hear them. Finally, he said, "All right. This is what's going to happen, Morgan. You
and I are going to move this way, very, very, very carefully towards the door, and no one is
going to get in the way. When we get outside, we're going to go to your car, very carefully, same
rule applying to anyone we find out there. Then you're going to give me the key for these things."

"Let me guess," Morgan sneered. "Put them on myself, and let you drive us to the
nearest police station?"

Irritated, Steve retorted, "Something like that."

"And if I don't, you practice choking me, is that it?"

Steve was rapidly tiring of Morgan's tone. "Funny, I don't see any inherent flaw."

Morgan waved his hand. "Actually, there are two. One is the fact that there is more PCP
in your system than you realize, and you're not thinking very clearly."

Steve laughed derisively. "You've been shooting me full of the stuff for the last three
months -- why should a little more be a problem?"

Morgan was silent a moment. "Then there's number two."

"Enlighten me," Steve said with heavy sarcasm.

"What you don't know, obviously," replied the doctor, "is that we have a contingency
plan for this sort of thing. While you were expounding on your plan, our own immediately went
into effect. There are armed guards on the other side of that door, and behind those skylights,
ready to take you out as soon as the opportunity arises. I'm sure you're familiar with the
methodology." He tried to swallow, but Steve's grip was too tight. "If you're lucky, it'll only be
a tranquilizer dart; only half of the guards use bullets, and they try to avoid firing if possible. But
I can't promise anything."

The last part of his speech was a little ragged, as Steve instinctively sought the security
of a wall against his back, hauling Morgan with him. "All right, then," he growled, "we'll wait.
See how long it takes for my arms to get tired." He wasn't sure what he was going to do next,
but this would at least buy him some time to think.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Captain Newman glanced up, then groaned inwardly as he received a visitation from
Mark and Jesse. Cheryl came in behind them, excitement gleaming in her eyes. "Doctors. What
can I do for you today?"

Mark got right to the point. "We've located Steve. He's being held at the Morgan Clinic
outside Fresno."

Newman reached for the phone. "I'll alert the local authorities, and we'll have him out
of there fast. Is Morgan tied to Wyler?"

"Yes," Mark said, "and we need to be careful. There are legitimate patients and medical
personnel there, a nurse Pauling in particular." He was clearly itching to get on the road.

"All right," the captain replied. He pressed buttons and spoke briefly with a junior
officer, then soon had a conference call involving his FBI counterpart on the Wyler investigation
as well as the Fresno County sheriff on the line. Within minutes, the rescue force was on its way.

En route, Newman received a call from the sheriff. "Thanks, George. Guess we'll find
out more when we get there." He elaborated for the benefit of the others. "There's something
going down at the clinic. The sheriff said it sounded like a hostage situation, but he hadn't gotten
there yet and didn't know much. Just that the place was in lockdown, and he'd make sure we were
allowed inside."

Mark and Jesse exchanged worried looks. Hopefully, the lockdown had nothing to do
with Steve, and they would be able to liberate him without any additional difficulty. Somehow,
though, they both knew they were engaging in substantial wishful thinking.

Chapter Twenty-Four

And, smack dab in the middle of the trouble, Steve was getting tired, sore, hungry, and
extremely irritable. His wrists and shoulders burned, wrists from the shackles and shoulders from
the strain of keeping Morgan on a choke hold. He had found a position which put less strain on
the higher arm, although he would still have vastly preferred to be somewhere else altogether. He
tugged on the chain briefly, eliciting a satisfying squawk from Morgan; he was damned if the
doctor was going to be less uncomfortable than he was.

The deputy with the bull horn who had been annoying him for the past fifteen minutes
or so read his evidently prepared text into it again. "Release the hostage and give yourself up
before anyone gets hurt," he droned sonorously and repetitively.

What a moron, Steve thought in irritation. I hope I don't sound that brainless when I'm
handling this type of situation. He resolved to be a little more sympathetic to the nuances of
language, and possibly even the perp, during his next hostage crisis. In the meantime, he wished
fervently that someone would confiscate the bull horn, which was essentially superfluous anyway.
The deputy was in the next room, and the walls were paper thin. Steve would have heard him
even if he had whispered. He raised his own voice anyway. "The only way I'll come out is with
this scumbag coming with me, and the only person to whom I'll surrender is Jim Newman,
LAPD. Get him here, and maybe we'll talk."

Following the sheriff to the incident scene, an already perplexed Captain Newman heard
his name being yelled out by a voice he hadn't heard since he'd told its owner in no uncertain
terms to stay home until his knee mended. "Sloan, what in the name of all that's holy is going
on?" he bellowed.

Chaos ensued. Stunned, Steve relaxed his grip for a second, enough for Morgan to yell
something inarticulate at Flores. From the corner of his eye, Steve saw the mountain start to
approach, and instinctively flinched away, yanking on the chain. Just as instinctively, Morgan
leaned back with the chain instead of forward against it, and drove both elbows as suddenly and
viciously as possible into Steve's ribs. The resulting distance between them as Steve winced back
was enough. Just as Newman and company burst through the door, they heard the sound of
automatic rifle shots, and Steve went down, pulling the doctor with him. Flores was there
immediately, freeing the doctor, who, when the big man would have turned on Steve and pounded
him to a pulp, grabbed him and whispered something in his ear. Flores nodded; moving
unbelievably quickly for such a big man, he disappeared from the room, his exit unnoticed as the
new arrivals began to take charge.

Jesse managed to arrive first where Steve lay half-conscious, blood puddling beneath him
onto the floor. His right arm was a mess, but he smiled at Jesse serenely. "Hey, Jess. Couldn't
miss out on the fun, huh?"

Jesse made himself return the smile. "You know it, big guy. Now try to relax while I do
something about this bleeding." A shadow fell over Steve's body, and the injured man glanced up,
eyes beginning to tighten with pain. "Dad?" he said in disbelief, his voice betraying him.

Mark dropped to his knees next to his stricken son. "Steve -- son --" His throat failed
outright, and he reached for the good hand, thinking the boy needed a hospital, and fast.

Steve Sloan clutched his father's hand. It was obviously real. "Dad," he repeated, and
gave him a singularly sweet smile. "Can I go home now?"

Mark found his voice somehow. "Yes, son, it's all over." He watched his son smile
slowly again and lapse into unconsciousness with a sigh like a sick child. "You're going home."

End Part II
Part III: Coming soon