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Chapter Thirteen

Tomorrow came, repeatedly. Steve's arm and shoulder healed sufficiently for Rob to increase his exercises. He started eating more or less as he wished, and had regained some of the lost poundage. Pleased with his patient's progress over the first week, Jesse decreased his dosage, and was encouraged to decrease it further when Steve sailed through the transitional period with minimal adverse symptoms. Mark stopped in at least once a day, and, until the civil case against Wyler started to heat up, Randy had visited daily as well. She had subsequently cut back to less frequent visits, which actually eased the strain between the two somewhat, ironically improving the time they did spend together.

The only fly in the ointment was the dream. Despite all of Steve's efforts to forestall its return, it kept coming back. Almost every night, he was jolted awake by it, to sit trembling until his heart stopped racing, summoning every resource he could imagine to calm himself. He had become very skilled at rising in the morning as if nothing untoward had happened, and had fortuitously discovered that a little seltzer water under his eyes concealed the circles enough to avoid arousing suspicion. He was starting to wonder, however, if the dream was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

He was enjoying an unusually quiet hour in the common room one afternoon, with only another patient and the customary security guard for company, when Jesse came looking for him. "Steve, I need to talk to you," he said, clearly disturbed.

Panic flickered briefly as Steve tried to remember if he had done anything dubious enough to have caused his friend's distress. He couldn't think of anything which qualified. Puzzled, he stood up and followed the young doctor to one of the offices in the unit. "What's wrong, Jess?" he asked nervously.

Jesse caught the anxiety in his friend's voice. "Steve, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to think you did anything."

Steve sagged with relief. "Good grief, Jess. Don't scare me like that."

"I said I was sorry." Jesse fiddled with the stuff on the desk until Steve was ready to whack him. "Jesse, please talk to me."

Jesse messed about with the desk pad, aligning it carefully. "I got a call from a doctor at Fairview Hospital."

Steve sat up with a jerk. "Rachel! What happened to her?"

"Whoa, Steve, hold on," Jesse exclaimed hurriedly. "She's okay -- I mean, nothing's happened." He scrutinized his best friend's face, trying to decide how to tell him. Straight out was probably best. "She's conscious. And asking for you."

His insides made a bold attempt to perform backflips and tie themselves into a gargantuan knot, as his initial excitement at the first part of Jesse's final sentence transformed itself swiftly into something else entirely. "She's what?"

Jesse spread his hands. "She wants to see you. I told her doctor that I'd need approval from Mark -- and you know the requirement for any out-of-facility visits."

Cuffed and guarded. Yeah, he remembered. Not that she hadn't seen him like that before basically -- "Jesse," he asked hesitantly, "did she say why she wanted to see me?"

Jesse shook his head. "Mark's supposed to be on his way down here. He was going to call and see what he could find out."

"I'm here," Mark declared as he came in and sat down. He looked tired, and Steve felt a pang of guilt at his part in causing his father's weariness, especially now that he was going to add to it.

"Dad -- please tell me what's going on," he pleaded.

His father took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and replaced the eyewear. "Apparently, Rachel's been asking for you since she woke up a couple of days ago. Her regular nurse, the one you saw, was out of town until this morning, and the relief nurse didn't make the connection. Anyway, her nurse today realized that she recognized your name, and they tracked me down, but I was in a meeting, so Jesse talked to her doctor. She wants to see you. She apparently hasn't said why." He glanced at his silent son, who seemed to be cast in stone. "Steve?"

Steve had been staring down at his hands, unable to speak, feeling oddly disconnected for the first time since starting his therapy. Now he looked up, eyes full of pain. "Dad -- what should I do?" he asked.

Mark frowned, somewhat at a loss. "What do you mean? I thought you would want to see her."

"I don't know," Steve said miserably. "I can't figure out why she'd want to see me."

His father looked even more perturbed. "If she's conscious, she could exonerate you."

"Or fry me," his son whispered.

Jesse, listening to the bewildering exchange, realized Steve had not told his father about his recurring dream. Come to think of it, Steve hadn't said a word about it to him for several days either. He suspected suddenly that the nightmare was making an extended appearance, and that his best friend/patient had not bothered to share that little detail with him. With only natural irritation, he said as much. "Still having that dream, Steve?"

He was rewarded with a simultaneous "What dream?" from Mark and a flash of anger in Steve's eyes. "Never mind," Steve said shortly.

Mark gave his obviously annoyed son a shrewd look. "Have you been having that dream about Rachel again?" he asked. "Why haven't you told us?"

Steve had done so well for so long. He had adapted to the enforced regimen, followed the rules, done as he was told, and held his temper when the rage threatened to boil over. He lost it now. "All right, then! I've had it every night, not a night's break, I wake up in the middle of the night and I can't breathe, can't see anything but her face -- and no matter what I do, how I try, it comes back. Every night. It comes back. And now I'm supposed to go up there and see her? What the hell do I say to her? Rachel, I'm so sorry I broke your face, I was tripping out, I didn't know? Or, Rachel, I'm sorry, it's my fault, you got hurt because of me, and Rachel, by the way, I lo--" He choked to a stop, appalled by what he had almost blurted out.

Jesse was staring at him, open-mouthed. He'd obviously blown it, had lost his place here, was heading to prison for sure. Right now, his soul in turmoil, he didn't care. He held his wrists out to his stunned friend. "Go ahead, Jess. Make the call. I tried. I really tried."

His best friend's confusion grew. "What are you talking about, Steve?"

Mark had had it. "Steve, that's enough. Sit down and settle down. We are not calling anyone -- at least because of you losing your temper just now." He made a visible effort to lessen the bite in his voice. "I just need to know whether you want to go see Rachel Pauling or not."

Steve hid his face in his hands, concentrating on making the viciousness which had boiled up go back to that darker recess in his mind. "I don't know," he mumbled finally. He scrubbed his hands across his eyes, then looked despairingly at his father. "Dad, please help me," he begged.

Mark flicked a glance at Jesse, who suddenly remembered an urgent errand and departed. Steve barely noticed. "Dad --"

"Steve, look at me."

He wasn't going to try to fight that battle again. He let his anguished eyes meet his father's worried ones.

"Steve," Mark said with infinite gentleness, "If you think you love her, you owe it to her to go up there and see her."

Steve sat silently, focusing on nothing.

"Son?"

Still no answer. Mark debated, then leaned forward tiredly and propped his elbows on the desk, chin on his hands, waiting for Steve to work it out. Finally, when he thought he was going to have to divine some way to prod his conflicted son, Steve stirred.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son."

Steve looked exhausted, the bruises under his eyes in stark contrast to his pallor. "Dad, I need to see her. Will you go with me?"

"Of course I will, son," his father replied, wishing not for the first time that he could wave a hand and make his son's cares disappear. There was another silence; then Steve mumbled something.

"What did you say?" Mark asked, detaching himself from unsettling thoughts.

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I don't suppose I'll be able to see her -- alone."

At least this time he could give his son a little good news. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Actually, Dave and I also spoke with Judge Wharton. Incredible woman," he remarked, momentarily diverted. "Under any other circumstances --"

Despite his chaotic mental state, Steve had to smile. "The same thing occurred to me."

Still distracted, his father misunderstood. "Son -- not to put too fine a point on it -- but don't you think you have enough woman trouble at the moment?"

Now he did laugh, genuinely. "Not for me, Dad," he clarified affectionately. "For you. Even while I stood there that day, quaking in my boots, I noticed a certain something which would appeal to you."

Mark grinned back at his son. "Trust you to notice something like that." He exhaled. "Maybe my irresistible charm worked somewhat. She was very impressed by your progress so far, and she's agreed to waiving the requirement for the guard -- totally -- as long as you understand that any --"

"Attempt to misbehave is going to rearrange my housing situation," his son finished drily. "I understand, Dad. I promise to behave myself."

His father cleared his throat, suddenly ill at ease. "However -- she reiterated that she wouldn't waive the other requirement."

Steve's face stilled, although he caught himself before the chill swept over him. "I understand, Dad," he repeated, trying to convince himself that he did. "I wouldn't have expected her to be that trusting. And, given a choice, I'd rather be without the audience."

A sudden thought occurred to Mark. "You will call for me, though, if Rachel is willing to give any kind of statement clearing you?"

Steve smiled at the eagerness in his father's voice. "You'd better believe it, Dad."

Chapter Fourteen

One the drive up the next day, Steve found himself wondering whether the expedition was wise after all. Even with his meds, he had been too keyed up to sleep, and the appearance of the dream, after he had finally dropped off, effectively put an end to any additional rest. He was drowsy now, but his nervousness had communicated itself to his stomach, and the queasiness was just substantial enough to keep him from getting too comfortable. He also had to admit, brave words of the day before aside, the handcuffs didn't help. The mere touch of the metal on his skin sent a compelling invitation to the unwelcome icy chill he had worked so hard to bury, not to mention to the incipient nausea. He stretched his neck, wishing he could find a position which would allow him to sleep, and sighed.

Mark glanced over at his son, trying to avoid the sight of the cuffed wrists. "We've got another hour yet. Why don't you try to rest? You don't look like you got much sleep last night."

"I didn't," Steve said shortly. "And I don't think I'm likely to be able to get any now, either. I don't feel real great, Dad."

Mark stole another quick look while trying to keep his eyes on the road. His son's face was an interesting shade of greenish-white. "I think I'd better pull over," he commented, and did so, just in time. Steve jerked the door open and flung himself out of the car. Mark got out more conventionally and hurried around to the passenger side, to find his son on his knees, bent almost double with the effort of losing the entire contents of his stomach. He held Steve's head until the spasms subsided, then helped him to sit against the car, waiting for his breathing to calm.

"Sure you want to go through with this, son?"

Indignation tried to rear its ugly head, but Steve didn't have enough energy to fuel it. "Not really, Dad. But we've driven this far, and I said I would come," he replied wearily. "And -- even with the uncertainty -- I need to see her again. I have to tell her."

Mark's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. Steve would find out soon enough how receptive Rachel was likely to be to whatever he had to say. He scrutinized his son's face, relieved to see some faint color seeping back into the still-thin cheeks. "Come on, son. We'd better get back on the road."

After a startled look at Steve's manacled wrists, the receptionist at Fairview paged Dr. Freeman, who appeared shortly thereafter. He led them to his office first, waving them into chairs. "I thought it might be best if I spoke with you first, prepare you a bit."

Prepare? Steve thought apprehensively. What could possibly be worse than what he'd seen before?

"We performed the first surgery last week --"

"Wait a minute," Steve interjected. "I thought she'd only just come out of the coma."

The doctor shook his head. "No, she did that earlier. Of course, she was still very groggy and in a lot of pain. It was virtually impossible for her to talk, and she really wasn't awake sufficiently to communicate coherently any other way." His eyes were kind. "There was no delay in finding and contacting you once we were able to understand her request."

"Thank you," Steve said, somewhat thickly.

"You're welcome," Dr. Freeman replied. "As I was saying, we've done the initial repair to her left cheekbone and jaw. She was incredibly lucky. It looks like any damage to her eye will be minimal. She's going to need to have regular screenings at closer intervals than normal, but she seems to have no diminishing of vision."

The nausea was threatening to return. Steve willed it away with an effort, concentrating on the doctor's words.

"We performed an arthroscopy on her knee. Her internal injuries have healed for the most part, although we're still keeping an eye on the damaged kidney. She's still having some discomfort from her collarbone, but that and her left wrist are coming along well."

Something was missing. Steve tried to mentally recreate that first ghastly description of the damage, when he had been chained to one of this same hospital's beds, listening in horror to Captain Newman's deliberate tones. "Wasn't there something else?" he asked hesitantly.

Dr. Freeman gave him a sharp look. "We're not sure she'll regain full use of her right hand. There was extensive nerve damage when her wrist was shattered. She's going to have to undergo a long regimen of therapy to have any chance of it healing properly."

He saw that same hand again, stroking his feverish forehead, as he battled the effects of methadone deprivation. Her skin had been blessedly cool, the graceful fingers infinitely soft and gentle. She -- he couldn't deal with this; he dropped his head into his awkward hands and fought desperately to regain his composure.

The doctor glanced at him with concern, then turned to Mark. "Is there something --?"

Mark shook his head. "Just give him a moment. This has hit him very hard."

Dr. Freeman rose and walked around his desk to put a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. "Don't misunderstand me, Lt. Sloan. Ms. Pauling should be able to make a full recovery from the majority of her injuries. Our biggest concerns are, obviously, her wrist and the additional facial reconstructive surgeries she'll need --"

"Surgeries?" Steve questioned sharply, shocked at the plural.

Dr. Freeman was an old-fashioned doctor. If he had to deliver bad news, he was going to be as considerate as possible of his listener's feelings. "Yes. It's less stressful for the patient if we separate the repair and the cosmetic portions." He leaned back against his desk and regarded Steve with sympathetic eyes. "I understand this is difficult for you. But my primary concern is Rachel's recovery. And she's made it abundantly clear, very firmly, that she wanted us to find you, and she wants to see you. So, unless you sincerely believe you have some difficulty --"

"No," Steve interrupted in a bleak, quiet voice. "Not if that's what she wants. I owe her that much at least." He lifted his head and met the doctor's eyes squarely. "Would you take us to see her, please?"

Mark looked closely at his son's face as they walked down the hall. It wasn't always easy, but he had spent a lot of time observing him over the last weeks. The signs of strain were there, but so was the renewed clearness in Steve's eyes. Once more, he had struggled with the chilly bitterness inside him, and once more it appeared he had held his own. Mark let go of the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding with relief, once more feeling that ineffable sense of pride.

Dr. Freeman stopped outside a closed door. "I understand you asked to see her alone. I'm going to ask the nurse to step out, as long as you agree to call us if Rachel needs any attention."

Steve nodded, his throat tight. The doctor smiled at him reassuringly and stuck his head inside. A moment later, the nurse Steve remembered emerged, and gave him an encouraging nod. "She's waiting for you."

He started to move, then stopped. "Wait. I don't understand."

"Understand what, Steve?" his father asked.

"No offense, Dr. Freeman," Steve ventured cautiously, "but everyone here has been -- well, not to sound crass, but are you always so -- welcoming to accused felons in handcuffs?"

"Steve!" Mark exclaimed, shocked at his son's question. He would have said more, but Dr. Freeman shook his head. "No offense taken, Lieutenant. And, if it makes you feel any better, ordinarily we might not be."

Steve's eyes were still wary. "But --?"

The nurse smiled at him. Another woman with kind eyes. "I think you'll understand once you've talked to her." She gave him a small push. "Go on. Get in there."

Chapter Fifteen

At first, it seemed that the only change was that she was in a private room instead of a bed in ICU. She looked so small, so frail, in the midst of all of the tubes and bandages. Her eyes were closed, and for a craven moment he seriously considered edging backwards through the door before his presence registered, but then she stirred, and he knew he couldn't disappoint her. He moved over to the chair by her bed and perched on it cautiously, wondering how she was going to be able to communicate with him.

There was a beep, and he involuntarily glanced up at the monitors, only to gaze with astonishment at one of them. Intrigued, he read the words aloud. "With this, silly -- Rachel, is that you?" he asked, feeling slightly foolish.

[Yes. I have a pad, like a ThinkPad, under my left hand. It's slow, but I can talk.]

His gaze swiveled down from the monitor and found her eyes, open, aware, and smiling at him. His heart thudded into his throat, making it even more difficult to speak.

There was another beep, and her eyes were laughing now. [My jaw's wired shut. What's your excuse?]

The telling color washed up his neck; he was momentarily transported back to the clinic, guiltily enduring her mock-lecture for not holding still after fussing at her to shave his scruffy beard. "Rachel, quit picking on me," he complained automatically, and almost jumped when the beeps came faster. He didn't need to look at her or the screen to know she was gleefully enjoying his discomfiture. He looked down towards his feet to compose himself, and was immediately reminded of the hardware on his wrists which he didn't want her to see.

Another beep. Preoccupied with his need to hide his hands, he didn't look up until the machine beeped again, almost wistfully. [Steve?]

A wave of guilt washed over him. He was supposed to be talking to her. "I'm sorry, Rachel. This takes - a little getting used to." He shifted in the chair, trying to find a less uncomfortable position. "I'm not accustomed to talking to you with a more or less clear head," he commented ruefully.

Beep. [Please try.]

He supposed it was only fair that he should have to reveal what was in his heart without having any clear idea of what her feelings for him might be. At least, she hadn't had him thrown out yet. Maybe his faithless voice would cooperate. "What do you want to know?" Not yet, if the feeling that his vocal chords were being squeezed painfully was any indication.

[Everything.]

Doing his best to ignore the sounds of the machinery and the slight gasping of her breath, he told her, hesitantly at first, then with more fluency, what had happened to him during those final hours? days? he still didn't know -- at the clinic, his subsequent arrest, arraignment, and rehab arrangements, his voice deceptively quiet throughout the narrative. Somehow, he succeeded in omitting the details of the charges against him, and wound up his story with a certain amount of relief. "So, here I am."

Oddly, the beep sounded querulous. [You left out a lot], she told him impatiently.

His startled glance flickered to her face, and his heart plummeted when he spotted the all-too-familiar sternness in her eyes. "What do you mean?" he faltered, stalling for time.

[Do you always wear handcuffs to make hospital visits? I'm certainly not in danger.]

He could have sworn the damn machine had burped sarcastically at him. He met her eyes again, this time with reluctance; it was clear that she wasn't going to let him off the hook. "All right, Rachel, you win," he conceded grimly. "They haven't just charged me with going after Morgan." No. He couldn't do it; obviously, she didn't know, and he was damned if he was going to be the one to tell her.

Her eyes were starting to well up with tears as she sensed his discomfort. [Tell me, please, Steve.]

Oh, God. What he would do to hear her say his name aloud instead of having to read it on the screen. "Rachel -- please, you have to understand, this is hard. Very hard."

The electronic tyrant sounded a little more sympathetic, but not much. [I understand, Steve. I wouldn't ask you if I couldn't tell that you need to tell me.] There was a pause; he didn't dare take his eyes off the words on the screen. [And it's important to me to know how you feel.]

He felt the heat rising on the back of his neck. Despite his resolve to focus only on the monitor, his treacherous gaze slid stubbornly downwards to her face. The warmth in her eyes wrapped itself around his heart, his soul, and tugged at them delicately but insistently. He couldn't breathe; he stood up abruptly and turned away from her, hands braced against the wall, head down, fighting for self-control. There was a long silence, finally ended by a rather plaintive beep. He knew he could no longer delay telling her, and turned back to her before he changed his mind.

"Rachel, I --" he broke off guiltily as he saw a tear follow one which had already trickled down her cheek. "Oh, Rachel, I'm sorry," he exclaimed, reaching to wipe them away.

A peremptory beep. [TELL ME PLEASE, STEVE.]

He inhaled deeply, then slowly let out his breath, trying to steady his nerves. "Okay, Rachel. I can't make this sound better. They've also charged me with the attack -- on you."

Horrified, Rachel made a ghastly noise of protest, fright, revulsion, and all hell broke loose as the machines all screamed with her attempt to absorb the shock. Before Steve could act, a cyclone whirled into him and slammed him into the wall; only his instinctive guarding kept his face from direct impact, although he felt his lip split as his mouth encountered the handcuffs. He had a vague sense of other bodies in the small room, someone bending urgently over the woman in the bed, but, when he tried to turn his head to see, his unknown assailant shoved him up hard against the wall again, and he subsided until he could determine what was happening more clearly.

The furor near the bed diminished, and Steve heard a staccato series of angry beeps. He used the distraction to wrench away from his captor's grip, to stand, shaking, staring at Dr. Freeman and the nurse. "You didn't tell her," he accused thickly, around the swelling of his mouth. "No wonder she was willing to see me -- she didn't know!" The chill in his chest was gathering itself gleefully, waiting for the right moment. "How could you possibly not tell her?" he demanded wrathfully.

The doctor rubbed his eyes. "Lt. Sloan," he said quietly, "we didn't tell her because she's been asking for you insistently ever since she could make herself understood."

The words flung themselves into Steve's soul like knives. He swung around violently and stood scowling at the wall, fists clenched, still trembling, the metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth.

"Steve." He hadn't noticed his father come in. "You're upsetting Ms. Pauling. She's asking for you."

He hadn't noticed the frantic beeping either. He flung himself back around, face muscles taut with the effort of controlling the anger which threatened to rampage throughout the room, take out his rage at the unfairness of it all on its inhabitants, not least the damnably uncomfortable chair. Mark gripped his son's arms tightly, willing calm into him. Strangely enough, it worked. Steve felt the tension in his body ease, and his breathing quieted. He forced himself to meet Dr. Freeman's critical gaze. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset Rachel."

The doctor nodded, but gave no indication of leaving. Steve tried again. "I promise I'll tell her what she needs to know. And I promise you won't need to come back in here."

Mark intervened. "Come on, Bill. He'll be all right now." He shepherded the small crowd out, not without fixing his son with a sharp glance, clearly expecting Steve not to shatter the fragile peace.

Chapter Sixteen

He stood, irresolute, searching for the right words. Words of apology. Words of explanation. Words of affection -- he shoved that last thought aside. Not until he had kept his promise. He settled once again by her bedside, wishing there was some way he could take her hand while he said his piece instead of settling for her fingertips.

"Rachel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Her eyes were luminous with tears. He didn't wait for her awkward rendering of the question he knew was coming. "Rachel -- do you remember anything -- what's the last thing you remember?"

She remembered trying to comfort him that terrible night, holding him while he slept, and waking to the sound of her pager. She had a vague recollection of arguing with Morgan; then nothing until she awoke in the hospital. Once she had been able to comprehend why she was there, her anxiety for Steve's safety had escalated until she had browbeaten the hospital staff into finding him.

Steve dropped his forehead on his restrained wrists. "Damn."

A curious beep.

"I was hoping -- you could say for certain that it wasn't me."

Puzzled beeps. [Why are you uncertain?]

"Rachel," he said patiently, "what I told you before is true. I go to trial in two weeks for attempted murder, assault and battery, not just on Morgan, but on you." For all his earlier reluctance, now the words rushed out headlong. "They found you in my room. Along with those -- muffles" (God, even the thought of the word, much less the sound of it, nauseated him) "spattered liberally with blood. Yours." He winced. "And, Rachel -- I can't even say for certain that it's not true."

Beep. He forced himself to look. [That's ridiculous. I know you couldn't possibly ever harm me.]

His throat constricted. "Rachel, you can't be sure of that. Look what I tried to do to Morgan."

Beep. [Do you feel the same way about me as you do about him?]

The abyss yawned; those brilliant eyes drew him in, and he went willingly, relieved in an obscure way to have the decision taken out of his hands. "No," he whispered.

[How do you feel about me?]


He couldn't pull his eyes away from the depths of feeling in hers. "Like I'm drowning --" He came to a screeching halt and shook his head. "Rachel. I don't know that my judgment is particularly sound right now. I have conflicting feelings -- for you, for Randy -- and, if I end up going to jail, how I feel may be totally academic."

[You're not serious -- about jail, that is. I refuse to allow them to convict you.]

"Rachel, dearest, if you can't remember --"

[What did you say?] The beeps came so fast that they seemed to splatter.

He sank his face in his hands, wryly appreciating the irony; it had been easier to talk to her when he was a prisoner, ill and mostly incoherent. Now, with his mind all too clear, he could see the quagmire surrounding him, no obvious or unobstructed path through the emotional tangle to be seen. Yet -- much as he loved Randy, he had an instinctive feeling that she would never be wholly comfortable with the aspect of his personality he had discovered during his captivity; and he intuited equally strongly that Rachel's natural serenity would be able to absorb and temper it into something they could both endure. Whether he truly loved her or loved the nurturing she had given him was another question.

Rachel was starting to worry; he had been so still, his shoulders hunched slightly in a way she recognized only too well. [Steve, TALK to me!]

The beeping brought him back to himself, and he shivered, glancing first at the screen, and then flushing as he realized where his thoughts had taken him. Carefully, he slid his hands under her fingers once more. "Rachel, believe me. I would never hurt you willingly. And I keep thinking I would remember something if I had done it while -- while under the influence -- at least something more tangible than a dream --"

[A dream?]

Haltingly, he told her about the recurring nightmare, the vividness of it; his initial pleasure when her face appeared transformed into horror by what followed. How he was starting to fear that it was in fact his memory of the act itself.

She moved her head restlessly, and the beeping grew agitated. [You listen to me, Steve Sloan. I know you can't have hit me. And I'll tell anyone and everyone if I must.] There was another silence. Finally, noting the tension in his face, she sent, somewhat wistfully, [You haven't asked me how I feel about it -- and about you.]

An alarm went off in his head. Did he really want her to answer that question? He risked a glance at her eyes sideways through his lashes, only to tumble into the warm depths again. "Rachel," he managed, his throat getting tighter by the second, "I don't dare ask you a question like that."

She moved restlessly again, this time with irritation. He captured what he could of her fingertips. "Shh. Listen to me. I can't ask you because, no matter how much you and I and everyone else may try, I could still end up in prison for a long time. Or, if not that, permanently barred for ever working as a police officer again. Rachel, that's what I do. It's all I know to do. I dread the possibility of never being able to do it again." He grimaced. "I don't even know if I have a job waiting for me if we do win." He squeezed her fingers very lightly. "So, how can I ask you a question like that, no matter how desperately I want to know the answer?"

[Steve --]

"Please, Rachel. Let me finish before I lose my nerve again." He knew the chair couldn't possibly have become any more uncomfortable; he shifted a little, trying to accommodate muscles which were tired of the strain on his shoulders from the position forced by the handcuffs. "For the better part of three months, you were my shield against the hallucinations, the delusions, the pain, the whole damn nightmare. Especially towards the end, when Morgan started mixing the stuff -- the only reason I could scrabble onto any sense of a world that really existed, was still there, was you. After you -- went away, or so I thought then, that's what he told me, I almost lost what tenuous grip I had on reality whatsoever, if it hadn't been for --" He definitely didn't want to go there, and backtracked hurriedly.

"I remember coming out of it once -- I must have ended up on the floor, because it seemed like you were hovering over me, so high up -- and the light was behind you, and I couldn't tell if you looked like an angel or the angel looked like you." That same face was regarding him with the same expression he remembered. "That's when I fell in love with you." His mouth twisted. "My life was already a shambles; what right do I have to pull you into it?"

She waited, sensing he wasn't quite finished. He saw it in her eyes and threw up his hands. "You're not going to let me off easily, are you?"

Now her eyes were full of a terrible pity. [No, Steve, I won't. I can't.]

So he told her what had happened to him after she had been hurt, of the pain and fear which accompanied the subsequent drug trials, and his discovery, simultaneously appalling and exhilarating, of the frozen bitterness within him which paradoxically burned white-hot with rage. How he had crawled into that icy vengefulness so willingly, relishing it so completely. "I'd never known I was capable of that -- that I had it in me," he said ruefully. "Even when Dad was threatened last year, I kept control of myself at least, kept it together for him. But this -- Rachel, what worries me is that it felt so good, so incredibly satisfying, that I didn't want to let go of it." He had found something fascinating on his hands. "That's why I can't help wondering if I could have -- done this" (with a quick, guilty motion towards her) "during one of those times when I --"

BEEP!!! His head lifted in surprise, and he was positive he'd seen her eyes flash angrily. She was definitely irritated. [Steve Sloan, I'm not going to tell you this again today. You did NOT do this.]

He had to tell her the rest. "Rachel," he said quietly, evenly, "there's more." Her expression grew perplexed as she saw a stillness surround him which was slightly unsettling, and he glanced at her absently with eyes the blue of a north Atlantic storm ocean, containing no warmth whatsoever. Then, with a visible effort, his face changed and relaxed back into more familiar lines. When he turned back to her, she saw the eyes she knew, the shadows under them even more pronounced.

"Just one more complication," he said tiredly. His shoulders sagged with weariness, but he faced her squarely, mentally holding his breath. "It's still there. I can control it, with effort, but I can't beat it. I don't know that I will ever be able to get rid of it. Some days, I'm not sure I want to." He scrubbed his joined hands across his eyes and forehead, just now aware of the mother of all headaches. "You don't deserve that. Hell," he added savagely, "you don't deserve any of this." Just in time, he recognized the rage lurking eagerly, grabbed at it and shoved it back whence it came.

[Steve.] The beep sounded almost subdued. He wrenched his eyes away from her face to the monitor. [I do have some responsibility. I should have stopped him long before.]

He shook his head. "No," he said, with an air of finality. "How would you have known before -- before Morgan started enjoying himself too damn much? As far as you knew, I was just an ex-cop junkie." The bitterness reared its ugly head even as he fought to suppress it. "And that may not be so far off the mark now."

[Steve. Look at me, please.]

He didn't have the energy to refuse. His weary eyes focused on her face, surrendering to the light in her eyes. He didn't need any words on a screen to understand their promise.

The monitor indicating Rachel's vital signs at the nurses' station slowly transformed to a calm, steady rhythm; Mark noticed the change first. "Looks like she's been asleep for a while, Bill. I suppose I should roust Steve out of there and let you all get back to your routine. We've got a long drive back."

They opened the door to find Rachel was indeed resting comfortably. Sprawled half on the chair, half on the bed, head pillowed on his arms close enough to feel the brush of her fingertips on his hair, his son slept equally soundly.

Chapter Seventeen

Dusk was just starting to curl through the early evening sky when they reached Los Angeles. Mark glanced over at Steve, who had been staring pensively out of the window, lost in his own thoughts, for the better part of the last hour. "You holding up all right, son?" he asked.

Steve merely nodded and returned to his apparently intent observation of the world passing by outside. Mark allowed himself a small smile as he deliberately turned off I-5 to the southwest towards the coast. It would be interesting to see just how long it took for his son to actually notice the scenery rolling by them.

As it was, they had been on PCH for some time before Steve stirred from his abstraction in astonishment at the sight of waves breaking below. "Dad -- what's going on?"

His father's grin was mischievous. "I thought we'd play a little hooky."

"What?"

"You know, take the low road instead of the high road," his father said obtusely.

"Dad, speak English. Don't I have to be back at rehab?"

Mark looked even more smug, if that were humanly possible. "I have a little pull with the program coordinator." He stole a quick glance at his son, who merely looked more confused. "I know you like that picture, but I had a feeling you needed the real thing."

Steve hoped the conversation was not really as circuitous as it seemed, although he wasn't sure if it was actually heading anywhere. "Well, yes -- but what's that got to do with my rehab schedule?"

"Just a sec." Mark was concentrating on negotiating the turnoff. Apparently, the next minute or two required the same degree of concentration; his intrigued son finally admitted defeat and subsided, gazing at the approaching ocean with equal parts bewilderment and hunger. Mark finally pulled to a stop and surveyed the surrounding dunes happily. "Plenty of time before you need your meds," he stated with a certain degree of satisfaction. "Besides, I need to stretch."

Steve got out slowly, forbearing to point out that they would already have been at the hospital if they had gone that way, and followed his father's deliberately aimless route along the shoreline. They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes; then Steve pulled himself away from the thoughts chasing themselves in circles. "Okay, Dad, let's have it."

"Have what?" his father inquired artlessly.

"Whatever you've been itching to say since we left Fresno," Steve clarified, hoping this wasn't going to become one of those types of conversations which required quick repartee and quicker thinking; his head still hurt.

Mark slanted a sideways look at his son. Fatigue had shadowed his eyes and cheeks, accenting the prominence of nose and jaw. The nap in the hospital hadn't been long enough. "Actually, son, I had the distinct impression there was something you wanted to tell me."

Steve stopped still in his tracks. "Dad, I'm exhausted. While this breath of fresh sea air is wonderful, and I definitely appreciate you giving me the chance to get it, I'm not up to any kind of mental or verbal exercises." He bestowed a look of affectionate exasperation upon his father. "Would you please just tell me what you want to know?" he asked.

Mark gave him a critical look, then relaxed. None of the tell-tale signs of pending rage were there; Steve really was just tired. "All right, son," he said softly. "Did Rachel give you any useful information?"

Steve made a curious sound which could only be described as a small, painful laugh. "I suppose in some ways." He kicked moodily at a piece of shell, watching the sand puff outwards from his shoe. "She doesn't remember it, Dad," he said flatly.

"The beating?"

He nodded. "The last thing she remembers before the hospital is a screaming match with Morgan. He threatened to report her alleged complicity to the authorities if she blew the whistle on him."

Mark looked at him soberly. "Complicity?" He waited, watching Steve fasten a look of utter concentration on two seagulls contesting possession of a bit of flotsam. "Son -- did she know what he was doing?"

Steve drove his foot into the sand, suddenly and viciously, startling the squabbling birds, who flapped away, commenting rudely on his character. "No, she didn't!" he snarled; then, slightly calmer, he added, "Not really. Morgan had created a false chart for me. She thought I really was an ex-cop with a severe drug habit. My behavior certainly supported that theory often enough." Tired of abusing the sand, he sank to his haunches against a dunelet, sliding down to sit fully, knees drawn up loosely, hands dangling over them. "She was starting to wonder, though; she thought his interest in some of the nastier combinations was a little -- unhealthy, and she was having more and more trouble convincing herself that she was imagining things, that the end result would be worth all the -- all the pain and misery I was going through." He turned his head to meet his father's eyes. "She's not responsible for anything, Dad, except for helping me. And that was really my fault."

Mark ignored the last bit of guilt for the time being. "All right, son. You know I'll support you fully on this." He deliberated briefly. "So what are you going to do about the memory problem?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know, Dad. I don't know."

They sat for a while longer, each immersed in his own thoughts, watching the sun conclude its long, slow descent into the ocean, reds and golds washing purple as they met the deep blue of the Pacific. Steve wondered idly if, should he sit still long enough, he would be able to completely absorb the salty tang of the air, the alternating crashing and whispering of the waves, the occasional wild cry of a lone gull skimming over the surface of the water, to last him for the rest of his life. To know he might not have the opportunity for a fearsomely long time was a daunting prospect; yet, as he felt the sea's rhythms settle into his soul, balancing the white heat, he knew he would do everything in his power to be able to return.

Chapter Eighteen

If he had been asked whether his client had a reasonable chance of fulfilling his desire, Dave Harbrook would have been hard put to be especially positive. He had listened to Steve's description of Rachel's recollection with growing concern; once the short, grim tale was told, he leaned back, fidgeting with his pen and looking disturbed.

"If she doesn't remember," he pointed out as diplomatically as possible, "I don't think she's going to be able to help you very much."

Steve looked mutinous. "You don't understand, Dave. She's determined to make herself heard. And she made me give her my word that we would call her to testify. Even if Edding does his damndest to try to discredit her, I'm not going to break my promise to her."

Harbrook folded his arms patiently. "Steve, listen. She's not an impartial witness. Once you take away any possible testimony based on actual recall, you have a woman who's been through a major trauma and who's obviously in love with --" He broke off hastily as Randy walked in.

Her appraising glance swept over their faces, both men attempting to look noncommittal, and both failing miserably. "Discussing the key witness?" she inquired acidly.

Dave and Steve exchanged uncomfortable looks, and the lawyer swiftly got to his feet. "We'll discuss this more tomorrow, Steve," he said hurriedly, and made his escape before the storm hit.

Steve eyed his visitor warily. After Dave's discouraging remarks, he wasn't sure he was particularly in the mood for excess drama. "What have you been up to?" he asked diffidently, hoping to deflect her from pursuing the previous topic of conversation.

His conversational gambit sank like a stone. Seating herself next to him, she put her hand on his, looked him straight in the eye, and declared, "Steve, once the trial's over and you've been exonerated, I think it would be best if we -- pursued other interests, so to speak."

His heart twisted, but he sat mutely, only too aware of the potential damage which could result from such a discussion. His distress must have communicated itself to her, however subtly; her expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry, Steve. I know you don't want to talk about it. But I don't think any good purpose would be served by postponing --"

"What's to postpone?" he asked bitterly, hurt more than he would have expected by her unilateral action. "You've already made the decision for both of us."

She tried to disregard the accusatory tone, and reached for his arm in a conciliatory fashion, but he pulled away, studiously avoiding her eyes. "Steve --"

He turned back to her, that alien trace of ice in the blue eyes. "Randy, don't. You're right. If it's over, it's over. At least this way you won't have to feel ashamed about breaking it to me after the guilty verdict comes in."

Randy flinched as the vicious words, spoken so coolly, hit home. "That's not true, Steve, and you know it!" Her temper was starting to rise to match the heat she could sense seething under his studied pretense of calm. "How can you sit there and even suggest that I'm running out on you --" Her voice trickled off as she recognized the unfortunate irony of her words; then her anger sparked once more. "I am not going to stop working to clear you, and to put Aubrey Wyler and Frank Morgan where they belong, just because --"

"Stop it, Randy." His tone held that steel edge she had heard that day which now seemed like years ago. "You've done the damage. Quit jerking the knife around in the wound. Can we drop this mostly one-sided conversation before someone really gets hurt?"

A little voice was telling her to agree, that their tempers were too close to flash point to continue. She chose to ignore it. "What makes you think that hasn't already happened?"

It was his turn to recoil from the verbal assault, and his nerves, still frayed from the Fresno trip and his recent consultation with his lawyer, weren't equal to the task of maintaining the brittle calm. "I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate," he remarked coldly.

"I wasn't the one who fell in love with someone else while my spouse was out of their mind looking for me, wondering if I was dead," she retorted devastatingly. There were tears in her eyes. "You made me leave you. I didn't want to leave you. I told you I didn't want to leave you. Then you disappeared, after you promised you'd be waiting --"

He realized that she was always particularly incoherent when she was upset, but this was patently unfair. "I tried to get out of there, dammit, Randy, I didn't exactly go looking for that Solario woman and invite her to stick a gun in my back and a needle in my arm!"

She wasn't inclined to be rational about it. "You disappeared. I thought I was going to go out of my mind, not knowing if you were still alive or not -- and then, after I found out our marriage wasn't legal in the first place, after turning myself into a closet caffeine fiend insomniac, staying up half the night working on the lawsuit, you finally turn up, no thanks to any efforts of mine, and you're in love with another woman! Is that sufficiently elaborate for you?" she demanded furiously.

He was still stung by the insinuation that he should somehow have escaped. "Didn't you forget something?" he asked, his words virtually encased in ice.

"Like what?" she snapped, glaring at him with luminous eyes.

The suspicious hazel brightness hit him like a sledgehammer, and he abruptly lost any stomach for continuing the fight. The white heat protested, but he dumped the mental equivalent of a load of sludge on it and steadfastly pushed it away. "Never mind. I was out of line, Randy. You're right; it's my fault. I'm sorry."

She wasn't convinced, nor was she feeling as non-combative. "No, Steve. I want to know what you meant."

He started to tell her to drop it, to let it, let him be, until he sneaked another look at her face. The tears made him feel even more wretched. He thought, savagely, that all it seemed he could do lately was make women cry. "Randy, damn it, please. I'm sorry. Please, Randy, stop crying." He watched miserably as she made an ineffective attempt to dry her eyes with her fingers; somehow, she was in his arms, and he was stroking her hair. "Shh. It's going to turn out all right. Please, sweetheart, stop crying."

Eventually, she calmed, and relaxed into his shoulder, listening to the rhythmic thudding of his heart. She didn't want to disturb the fragile peace, but he had asked a legitimate question. She owed him an answer. "Steve, I --"

His hand froze, then resumed its soothing motion. "Forget it, Randy. I had no right to ask."

"Yes, you did. I'm sorry for what I said." She extricated herself gently, so as not to upset him. "I suppose I was trying to blame you so I wouldn't feel so guilty --"

"About Dave," he finished quietly. "Randy, listen to me." He took her small hands in his larger ones. "I understand. I know how he feels about you -- much as I do, but more clearly. And, given my -- uncertain future and major psychological -- problem -- which I've discovered lately, I think you two are much better suited, and you'll be much happier. I know he'll take good care of you." She was starting to tear up again. "Randy. Would you please stop crying? I pour out my heart to you, give you my blessing, and this is what you do to me?" Somehow, he mustered up a real smile for her, then kissed her wet eyelids, her nose, and her mouth, one last time. He held her close, inhaled the soft hints of jasmine in her perfume, then let her go and stood up, somewhat shakily. "Randy, I hate to do this, but Rob will be here in a few minutes. Do you need anything?"

She shook her head, unable to speak, and rose also, still swiping at her wet eyes with her hands. Wordlessly, she touched a gentle finger to his cheek and then to his lips, and left, still without a word, leaving him to sink back into his chair, staring at nothing in particular.

Chapter Nineteen

Holding a bottle of juice in one hand and his pill in the other, Steve stood before the seascape in his room, as if looking to find some guidance in the painted waves. While the picture usually at least had a soothing effect, tonight it held no specific answers. He switched his attention to the tablet in his hand. It promised sleep at least, although not necessarily for the entire night; but he had felt foggy all morning, and he wasn't sure his dullness hadn't been a precipitating factor in the strains of the afternoon. On the other hand, Jesse might not be pleased if he arbitrarily accelerated the next phase of his recovery. Yet, he thought with some resentment, the sooner he was clear of the drug, the better; at least he might be able to think clearly enough to find a way to save himself. The pill hand clenched briefly on that thought; by all rights, Morgan and Wyler should be the ones facing criminal charges. He needed to pursue that with Dave, he mused, and came to a sudden decision. He walked over to the wastebasket and started to drop the tablet, when, for some reason he couldn't explain, he drew his hand back, weighing the pill, then deposited it in the nightstand drawer.

Paradoxically, he slept no worse that night than he usually did. Once again, he woke following the recurring dream of Rachel, to eventually fall back to sleep, to slip into a long, complicated dream; the following morning, all he could remember of it was Randy crying. However, he rose feeling vaguely troubled, sufficiently distracted that he neglected his morning seltzer trick. He had also totally forgotten the pill in the drawer.

After intercepting a third critical look from Jesse during his morning check-in, Steve grew restless. "What is it, Jess?" he asked diffidently, not certain he wanted to receive an answer.

Jesse treated him to another sharp look. "Sleep all right last night, Steve?"

Steve shrugged. "About the same as usual," he said noncommittally. "I dream, I wake up, I go back to sleep. Why?"

Jesse tapped one knee, then the other, checking his reflexes. "Some serious bags under your eyes," he commented. "And -- I can't quite put my finger on it -- something's not quite right."

Steve shook his head. "Jess, I'm about as fine as I'm going to be right now. I'm just a little on edge. I don't have much longer before my -- trial." The word tasted like sand in his mouth, and for a minute he felt a trace of guilt for his deliberate attempt to sidetrack his friend in such a shabby fashion. It worked, however; Jesse dropped the subject altogether and finished his exam, sending Steve on his daily routine, which was more or less normal until Dave Harbrook arrived.

"There's something I want to know before we get started," Steve announced as they went into one of the consultation rooms. Dave felt his neck muscles tense as he waited for his client to make some accusation concerning Randy. He was disappointed. "Why haven't Morgan and Wyler been charged yet, with kidnapping at least?" Steve demanded, starting to pace.

Dave blinked at him in surprise. "Steve, we've had this conversation. Nothing's going to happen until Edding is finished with you. Even though prosecuting kidnapping charges would come under the FBI's jurisdiction rather than the local authorities, the Feds aren't going to interfere just yet. They want to ensure their own case against Wyler and his organization is air-tight, and not necessarily target the alleged victim in an ongoing case until they can be sure that won't compromise their own investigation. And Edding has made it clear that he will actively oppose any investigation, much less authorize one, into any charges against our boys until you're done."

Steve stopped circling for a minute. "You know, it occurred to me at the time, but I was so damned scared I forgot all about it. Edding seems a little too enthusiastic to suit me. Do you suppose he has any personal interest in getting me out of the way? After all, Wyler's influence was pretty widespread."

Dave looked thoughtful. "You may have something there. I could see arguing potential tainting of evidence in support of postponing the investigation, but Edding has been pretty rabid about getting his way." He made a note. "Your partner is liaising with the FBI, isn't she -- Ms. Banks, isn't it?"

Steve nodded. "Cheryl Banks." He smiled wistfully. "Best partner I've ever had. Tell her I miss her, would you?"

"Of course, Steve." Dave watched with concern as his client continued to prowl around the room. "Steve, relax. In the meantime, I'm taking Morgan's deposition the day after tomorrow. I intend to get something out of him one way or another to impeach him at trial." He popped stiff neck muscles. "Sure wish they'd find Wyler. I'd like to slap him with a subpoena as well. Then we could go after both of them."

Steve kicked moodily at the carpet. "With me helping from a jail cell."

Dave looked annoyed. "Give me a little credit, will you? And would you please quit stalking about and sit down? You're giving me a headache." He watched with furrowed brow as his client slammed his body into a chair and started drumming his fingers on the table. "What's going on, Steve? You feeling all right?"

"No," Steve said shortly. He rubbed his eyes hard and took a series of deep breaths. "Don't worry about it, Dave. I'm sorry. I'm just starting to feel a bit edgy." He deliberately avoided mentioning Randy.

Dave continued to give Steve the occasional surreptitious glance, not so sure he should believe him, while he walked his client once more through his recollection of his unplanned stay at the clinic. He could discern by the tension in Steve's face that the story had not grown easier in the telling. Finally, he put his pen down and stretched. "That should do it. We'll see just how well the good doctor performs under oath tomorrow." He stood up and briefly clasped Steve's shoulder. "Don't worry. One way or another, we'll get him."

Steve continued to feel an indeterminate irritation through his workout, despite his efforts to banish it with semi-violent exercise. He succeeded in holding it at arm's length, however, until dinner, when it rapidly and suddenly shifted into something else entirely. The trays had been brought in, and he and the five other current program participants had taken their respective places. Rob, who was on duty that evening, had just passed out glasses of water when Steve lifted the cover on his tray, took one look at his food, and turned green as a dreadfully familiar nausea struck.

"Steve? Are you all right?" Rob moved over to Steve's side of the table, just in time to keep the other man from falling as he bolted up and found the room spinning.

"No," Steve gasped, grabbing for the table to steady himself without letting his eyes fall on anything presumably edible. "Rob, please. I need to --"

Rob had already paged Jesse, who appeared within seconds, having been just down the hall from the unit. To the dazed Steve, fighting waves of dizziness, it seemed like an eternity before Jesse slid a supporting shoulder under his arm. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you where I can take a look at you."

Too nauseated to protest, Steve allowed himself to be led away. A short exam and several questions later, Jesse rubbed his neck and debated how to approach the subject.

"Spit it out, Jess." Steve's voice was ragged.

"I don't understand, Steve," Jess said, frustrated. "We haven't decreased the dose. You shouldn't be having these symptoms."

Somewhere in his spinning head, something twitched, but he was unable to bring it to the surface. "I don't know, Jess. I felt fine until just now."

Jesse peered at his eyes once more. "Feel strange at all today? Anything at all unusual?"

Steve just wanted to fall down, preferably close to a bucket. "Jess, can't this wait? Either give me some meth or let me lie down, okay?"

Muttering to himself, Jesse prepared a syringe. "I'm not going to give you very much right now. I want to check you again before lights out, and I'll give you your regular meds then. Something about this isn't right." A sideways glance at his friend was not reassuring. Instead of avoiding the sight of the needle, Steve watched it approach a little too eagerly, the tension in his face visibly relaxing as the plunger went home. Jesse wondered if he could have started skipping his medication, but then he would have expected to see some type of more definitive reaction earlier. He sighed, deciding he would simply have to wait and see. "Come on, Steve. Let's get you to your room."

He still had an hour or so to go before curfew, when he woke with a raging thirst, which, when he tried to move too impetuously, was supplemented by the return of the twitchiness he had felt all day, as well as a sudden sneezing fit out of nowhere. He reached a hand into the nightstand drawer, where his questing fingers found what further inspection proved to be one of his pills. Too groggy still to analyze the possible reasons for his find, he came to the not illogical conclusion that he hadn't yet had that day's medication. Why it was in the drawer, he didn't know, and he didn't have the energy to make the effort to find out. He got up slowly and carefully made his way to the refrigerator, gulped down most of a bottle of juice and his pill, and lay down again. When Jesse came in to check on him later, he roused sufficiently to submit to a short examination and take his meds, then dropped off once more.

For the first time in weeks, he slept through the night without dreaming. And, for the first time since that crowded initial day in rehab, he slept through the alarm, not waking until frantic hands shook him repeatedly. Somewhat irritated, he forced one eye open, only to see two worried faces staring down at him. His father and Jesse; so nice of them to wake him up, he thought, and smiled at them sleepily.

Mark and Jesse exchanged looks. "How do you feel, son?" Mark asked, while Jesse checked Steve's eyes.

Steve considered the question at length. "Sleepy." He reached up and pushed Jesse's penlight away. "Jess, stop it. That light's really annoying."

"Too bad," his best friend replied, peeved. "Steve, buddy, I'm going to take some blood, okay?"

"Whatever." He grinned at his father foolishly. "What are you doing here, Dad?"

Mark had that slightly grim measuring look. "Jesse told me you'd been having some problems, and I thought I'd check in." His eyes narrowed. "Son, have you changed your meds -- skipping them, anything like that?"


Steve blinked. The same elusive trickle of memory he had experienced the day before tried to put in an appearance and failed. "I don't think so. I took my pill last night."

"That's right," Jesse said. "I gave it to him myself."

Steve shook his head, still drowsy. "No, Jess. You weren't here. I was thirsty --" His voice trailed off as he started to drift again.

The doctors' eyes met; then Mark leaned over his son once more. Steve had fallen asleep, his breathing even, his face peaceful. He hated to wake him.

They woke him anyway. Steve resisted for a while, but their combined ingenuity and ruthlessness finally triumphed. "Dad, Jess, if I promise not to fall asleep, can I please sit down?" he complained. "I'm tired of walking in circles."

Jesse eased him into a chair, sat down across from him, and looked at him expectantly. "All right, Steve. Tell me when you took your meds yesterday."

Steve shrugged. "I woke up, and I started sneezing. I reached into the drawer for some tissues. My pill was in the drawer. I don't know how it got there. I just -- oh."

His father gave him a sharp look. "Remember something, son?"

Steve looked slightly shamefaced. "Uh -- yeah. I -- didn't take it the night before." He met their perturbed glances defiantly. "I felt logy all day that day, like I was getting too much meth. And then -- I thought I could have handled the fight with Randy better if I'd had a clearer head, so I didn't take it." Prodded to elaborate about the argument, he finally told them, albeit reluctantly.

His father put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry to hear that, son. I had really hoped -- but never mind. I want your promise that you'll talk to Jesse first the next time you get the urge to unilaterally change your dosage, all right?"

"I promise, Dad. I'm sorry I worried you." He fought a yawn, and lost. "Can I please go back to sleep now?"

The other two traded glances again; Mark made a desultory gesture, and Jesse scowled. "I'm going to let you have another hour, two hours max, Steve. Then I'm sending Rob in here."

Steve shuddered in mock horror. "I'll be up, I promise!"

Chapter Twenty

Steve was almost finished with his workout that afternoon when Rob returned from taking a telephone call. The therapist was frowning. For one ghastly moment, Steve thought the slave driver was going to run him through even more strenuous exertions than he had already been given as his punishment. While he really didn't mind the opportunity to whack the hell out of the punching bag, there was a point at which he merely deflected his anger rather than resolving it, and he was tired enough to have reached that plateau now. "Please tell me you've forgiven me for oversleeping," he requested, only half-joking.

Rob pretended to consider the request for a moment. "All right. I can't think of anything else to do to you. Besides, you've got a visitor on the way up."

"Who is it?" Steve asked, surprised.

Rob shrugged. "Reception didn't say. Go ahead and use Interview 1."

Steve shrugged in his turn, and wandered off to await the mysterious arrival.

Cheryl Banks followed the directions given her without any difficulty, idly speculating as to how well her partner was really doing. Her assignment on the Wyler case had required her to spend the last three weeks at FBI headquarters in Quantico, so she hadn't seen Steve since shortly after he entered rehab. She felt a ripple of anger at the memory of how thin and ill he had looked then, and wished Wyler or Morgan was within clobbering distance. After receiving Dave Harbrook's telephone call, she had convinced her FBI counterpart that her recalcitrant partner was determined to see Morgan prosecuted, and she was needed urgently at home to try to persuade him otherwise so as not to risk the integrity of the Wyler investigation. She had her own opinions in that regard, but had decided to talk to Steve before she tried to present them as any kind of official recommendation.

He was sitting at a table, head down, concentrating on his hands, which were clasped loosely between his knees. Although he had definitely improved, she could see even through the window in the door the physical marks the stress of the last weeks and months had left on him, and could only imagine the psychological scars. She would have to tread carefully to avoid adding to his troubles. Even though their working relationship, as well as their friendship, allowed for a considerable amount of lighthearted teasing, there was also a substantial layer of affection between them as well. Dave had made sure to relay Steve's last comment, and Cheryl, taken slightly aback, was not quite sure how best to respond to it. Now she looked at the bent head, and wondered at the odd little catch in her chest. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

His head came up, and his expression, which had been guarded initially, changed so swiftly, so radically, that she, on the receiving end of the light in the blue eyes and the glad smile, never had a chance. She should have worried about her own psyche, she thought ruefully, as Steve crossed the room in two strides and hugged her till she thought her ribs would crack. "Cheryl, I am so glad you're here!" he exclaimed. "Please tell me something I'll want to hear!"

She couldn't help but respond to his obvious delight, and a small portion of his brain filed the brilliance of her answering smile away for future reference. For now, he was concentrating on her in her role as bringer, he hoped, of good news.

They sat down and worked their way through the obligatory status report on his health. Steve knew better than to try to snow his partner. "I'm okay more or less, really. This last transition has been a little rough for some reason, but Jesse thinks he's got it under control."

"And how are things going with Randy?" Cheryl asked, unaware of the most recent developments, and saw with dismay the shutters come down in his face. "Steve, I'm sorry. I didn't realize --"

He shook his head and took her hand. "No, you wouldn't have known -- you've been living it up in Washington high life --" He gave her a little grin to take the sting out. "This has been hard on her, on both of us. And, at the end of it all, it seems that we really don't suit well enough past the initial attraction as it is, much less with the type of stress which has been put on the relationship. She put me out of my misery the day before yesterday." For some reason he couldn't define, he was reluctant to mention his ambiguous feelings about Rachel to his partner.

A rogue corner of her mind registered the implications of this statement; she pushed the thought away resolutely. "I'm so sorry, Steve. I really thought you two would be happy together." Without thinking, she put her free hand on top of his in sympathy.

Again the flash of a smile. "Thanks, partner." He sat up a little straighter. "Now have pity on me and tell me what you've got."

Cheryl leaned back in her chair. "Well, one thing we've definitely discovered is that Wyler was involved in an alarmingly large number of corporations, most of which are affiliated with a variety of very influential lobbies and lobbyists."

Steve moved restlessly. "Business as usual. So he was after political clout; we basically knew that."

"Yes, but we didn't know the extent to which he'd been able to broaden his supporter base," his partner pointed out. She leaned forward again. "Steve, I have to tell you something you're probably not going to like, but please bear with me."

He felt the chill stir, and shoved it aside. Not yet. Not to her. "What do you mean?"

"The FBI wants Wyler, as well as several of his best cronies, very badly." She looked uncomfortable. "But the degree of money and power involved will make it difficult to prosecute their cases thoroughly."

He was fairly certain he knew where the conversation was heading. "And they don't want the careful development of their case disturbed or, heaven forbid, destroyed, by a recovering cop with a grudge, is that it?" he asked with scorn. "I can't see that letting me have Morgan would adversely affect the larger investigation, and it would certainly make me feel a hell of lot better."

Cheryl fixed him with a look. "Steve -- I know what he did was -- traumatic. But I've got to have more than your desire for vengeance in order to sidetrack these guys. They're just going to tell you to seek professional help and learn to live with their decisions." He started to reply, but she cut him off. "Listen to me, Steve. Give me something to work with, and I will do everything I can to get you your miracle."

He blinked at her. "Didn't Dave tell you?"

She looked slightly chagrined. "He was nervous about giving me a lot of detail as to why I needed to come home; I got the feeling he wasn't on a particularly secure line."

Steve was still puzzled. "But didn't you talk to him before you came here?"

Now she was actually starting to blush. She hoped he couldn't see the heat rising in her cheeks. "Ummm -- I got his voice mail."

He had noticed; there was the beginning of a twinkle in his eyes. "So you came straight here to see me?"

She recovered fast. "Oh, now don't you go starting that innocent little-boy stuff on me. You know I hate it when you do that." She smiled anyway, and he knew he was safe for the time being. She allowed him to enjoy himself for a minute, then asked curiously, "So why did Dave Harbrook call me?"

Steve rubbed his eyes, wishing he could shake his fatigue. "First, Cheryl, please understand. I need for Morgan to pay for what he did. I don't even care so much about Wyler; a rabid dog is a rabid dog, after all. But Morgan -- he's a doctor, for Christ's sake, he's supposed to heal people, not harm them --" He had to stop; the words stuck in his throat like overcooked molasses. He rose, went to the water cooler, and gulped down several small cups of water before returning to the table. "I want you to investigate Samuel Edding for any connections to Wyler or Morgan," he said flatly.

She raised an eyebrow. "I was given the impression that had been done already," she said carefully.

Steve gave her a sharp look. "Something about the way you said that --"

Cheryl spread her hands. "It was handled by a different office -- at least, that's what I was told."

He looked at her quizzically. "And the results?"

"Non-conclusive." She took a breath. "Steve -- just so you realize -- Edding could be trouble. Big trouble."

His eyes were cold. "I don't care. If he's obstructing any criminal investigation on Morgan while he's simultaneously doing his best to destroy my life, and if he's part of Wyler's bunch of hoods, I want his hide too."

She caught a glimpse of something foreign in his expression, and wasn't sure if it was cause for alarm or not. "Steve -- I didn't say I wouldn't do it. I just want to make sure you understand what we're dealing with."

Without thinking, he moved his hand to cover her fine-boned fingers. "I understand, Cheryl. And I'll understand if you aren't in a position to do anything." The glimmer of a twinkle again. "I want to come back to my job knowing you're there waiting for me."

Underneath the light words, there was a layer of tension, too subtle for either one to specifically detect, but sufficiently perceptible to be disconcerting. Cheryl slid her hand out from under Steve's and tried to cough into it. "As long as we're clear on that."

"Clear," he agreed. "If Edding's clean, I'll cooperate with the Feds and hold my peace until they're ready. But, if he's got the least speck of dirt on him, I want Morgan. If necessary, I'll waive speedy trial and sit in here as long as it takes, if it means I can look him in the eyes and watch him go down." He became aware of the bitterness even as he tried to suppress the instinct to trigger it, and hoped she hadn't noticed it.

Whether she heard the nuance or not was debatable; but she definitely felt the temperature of the room dip suddenly. She shivered, and he immediately stood. "I'm sorry, Cheryl, I didn't realize you were cold. Let me get you some -- there's coffee, tea --"

She shook her head. "I'm all right, Steve. Don't worry about it."

He was watching her with hopeful eyes. "So -- will you do it?"

Cheryl sighed. Her usual response when he gave her that puppydog look notwithstanding, she really couldn't muster any resistance. "I can't believe I'm saying this. Yes, I will." She held up a warning hand. "Watch the ribs. I can break."

Although he had a sudden, irrational desire to kiss her, Steve wrapped her in a hug instead. She returned it quickly, then extricated herself. "I've got to go down to the station anyway. I'll come back later and let you know what I've found."

Encouraged by the absence of the word "if" from her statement, he settled for her hand. "Thanks, Cheryl. You're the best."

She tossed him a grin as she started toward the door, wondering just what was going on between the two of them, when he called her name. She turned, her expression inquiring.

"Did Dave tell you what else I said?" he asked diffidently.

She raised an eyebrow, debating whether to leave him dangling, until he managed to successfully reproduce the puppydog look. "I've missed you too," she told him quietly, and fled.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was still dinnertime when Cheryl returned, so she settled to wait in the same room as before. Steve appeared shortly thereafter, with a quick energy he hadn't felt in a long time. "Cheryl, be good to me," he requested hopefully.

She made a sincere attempt to look serious, but the gleefulness started in her eyes and blossomed into a blinding smile. "We've got him, Steve."

She had been looking forward to giving him the good news, but had not anticipated the unbridled enthusiasm of his reaction. Delighted, he grabbed her and swung her around, and unthinkingly planted a huge kiss on her unsuspecting mouth, which turned into something else entirely as they both reacted instinctively to the touch of each other's lips. His arms wrapped around her more or less without any conscious thought on his part; equally without volition, her hands coasted lightly up the long muscles of his back, savoring the sensation.

Just as suddenly, both internal alarms shrieked into major alert, and the two jerked apart, to stand staring wordlessly at each other, neither one quite willing to be the first to break the compelling silence. It grew and tautened, until Steve finally loosed the breath he hadn't realized had collected in his lungs. "Cheryl --"

Her hand had drifted to her mouth, unconsciously resting at the spot where his lips had just been. Still staring at him, she shook her head slightly. He started to protest, but caution intervened. He certainly wasn't in any position to further complicate his affairs, he thought with a certain degree of regret. He raised his hands in mock surrender and sat down. "So what did you find?" he asked, wondering why it was so difficult to maintain a neutral tone.

Cheryl helped herself to a cup of tea, grateful for the opportunity to recover her composure. Sipping it seemed to help calm the unexpected racing of her heart. "It took a little while, but one of the Quantico boys had a bright idea while he was doublechecking Edding's educational background. Apparently he was the recipient of a full scholarship not only to college, but to law school as well."

"Let me guess," Steve said drily. "Sammy got them from one of Wyler's foundations."

"Give that man a gold star." She bestowed that smile on him again, and again he wondered at the intensity of his internal response. He thought ruefully that he was definitely going to have to do something about his wayward love life once more pressing matters were resolved; his present vulnerability was starting to scare the bejeebies out of him.

Cheryl was giving him an odd look. "Steve? You okay?"

He shoved the interesting but equally frustrating train of thought aside with an effort. "I'm all right, thanks. Just got distracted for a minute. My meds are time-released; I still have a tendency to zone slightly when the next amount hits the bloodstream."

Her look changed to one of concern. "This can wait if you'd rather --"

Steve shook his head. "Really. I'm fine. Go on."

"Okay." Her expression was doubtful, but she continued. "Guess who helped bankroll Edding's campaign for selection for district attorney."

"Some duly obscure similar operation, also eventually traceable back to our pal Aubrey."

She nodded. "Right again."

He made a noble effort to restrain himself from kissing her again, although that same traitorous part of his mind, still revelling in the feeling of smooth velvet lips against his own, attempted once more to object strenuously to being dismissed so summarily. "So what happens now? Are you going to go back to Quantico and tell them my game has new rules?"

She wore an unusual expression, partly perturbed and partly smug, like a Cheshire cat almost ready to grin but not totally sure if it was safe. "Nothing so direct. My plan is much more devious."

He raised an eyebrow. "Does this have anything to do with the check the Feds supposedly ran on Edding before?"

Cheryl took refuge in her teacup for a moment while she contemplated the best way to tell him. "I don't know this for sure, Steve, but I think the FBI has some connection to Edding, or he does to them."

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this, but he waited patiently. She took another sip of tea. "The initial information we were given was more or less a rubber-stamping. I found an old friend who was able to get this new stuff for me, and that was all he could give me. Even so, he told me that there were indications of additional official activity, but it was at a higher clearance level. Much higher."

Steve thought for a minute. "So -- for whatever reason, the government wants Edding in place for the time being, and it's improbable that reason is going to get shared with the likes of us. That could be awkward."

She smiled at him, totally unaware of the devastating effect. "Yes. That's why I have an idea."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Do I detect a certain note of acrimony here?"

Cheryl hesitated briefly, then decided she might as well tell him. "Don't get me wrong, Steve. On the whole, I support their approach where Wyler's concerned; he's the type you have to throw the entire penal code at in order to make it really stick. But --" She suddenly became very interested in the tea dregs in her cup.

"But what?" he asked, intrigued.

She switched her focus to his face, marvelling again at the difference a little diversion made in banishing the recent signs of stress and fatigue. "I have had a problem with how they've handled your aspect of the case, which really shouldn't be a surprise, considering I'm sitting here with you instead of in an FBI office in Virginia."

He misunderstood her. "Cheryl, I don't want you to jeopardize your own career for me --"

"No, Steve," she interrupted, "that's not what I said." She made an attempt at a deliberately lighter tone. "I want my partner back, and soon."

"Oh." Somehow, the reassurance that she was so firmly entrenched on his side made all the difference in the world. This time, he did reach for her hand, and held it as long as he dared. "Thanks, Cheryl. I know I keep saying it, but I mean it." He grinned at her engagingly, the dimples strongly in evidence. "So tell me about this scheme you've hatched."

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next afternoon, Mark, Steve, Cheryl, Jesse, Dave Harbrook and Captain Newman assembled in Mark's office, which had a speaker phone. If Newman noticed that Steve's wrists were bare of any metallic decorations, he held his peace, having already taken note of Mark's defiant expression when he intercepted the captain's glance.

The hospital operator put the call through, and Dave identified himself and the others to the FBI agent on the other end of the connection. "Mr. Williams, let me get right down to business. As you are aware, my client will be a key witness in your case against Aubrey Wyler, as he would with any case against Dr. Morgan, although it's my understanding that Dr. Morgan is not under investigation at this time."

"That's correct," the agent replied.

Dave waited for any elaboration; none was forthcoming. He gave his companions an expressive look and forged on. "I also understand that the rationale for that omission is that the Fresno district attorney's office has specifically requested the moratorium pending my client's trial."

Silence on the other end. Dave sighed. Safely extricating peanuts from a hungry elephant's trunk would be easier than this looked to be. "Mr. Edding is apparently concerned with the potential prejudicial aspects --?"

Williams sounded uncomfortable. "My instructions are only that we have agreed to defer the investigation."

Steve glanced meaningfully at Harbrook, who looked disturbed. "Is the FBI aware of Mr. Edding's connections to Wyler's organization?" the attorney inquired.

There was more silence, then the sound of a door opening. They heard muffled voices, then Williams came back on the line. "Mr. Harbrook, I've just been informed that there is a new special agent in charge of this portion of our investigation. He's going to take over this conversation."

An unexpected voice spoke. "Mr. Harbrook, my name is Ron Wagner. I'm going to be handling --"

Mark couldn't restrain himself. "Ron, you old son of a gun! How was London?"

There was a pause, then Wagner laughed. "I might have known you'd be in on this call, Mark. Who else do you have there with you waiting to ambush me? Steve, I assume."

"And Jesse, who's been handling his treatment; Steve's partner, Cheryl Banks, who's been LAPD's liaison with your outfit; and Captain Jim Newman, whom you may remember."

The usual noises of greeting were made; then Wagner got down to the matter at hand. "Steve, I realize it's not easy for you to be totally objective about this, but bear with me while I work my way through it." It sounded like he was flipping through some papers. "Hmmm. This is a little unusual."

"A little unusual?" Dave asked, not troubling to hide the sarcasm. "My client's facing serious, totally unfounded charges, the D.A.'s in bed with the target of a major government criminal investigation, and a psychotic doctor who should be locked up is free as the proverbial bird. What do you consider incredibly extraordinary, agent Wagner?"

"Hold your horses, Mr. Harbrook. Give me a minute to get up to speed." There was another pause, then Wagner said thoughtfully, "Okay. I think that should do it. Mr. Harbrook, please tell me exactly what you think the FBI should do for you."

Dave glanced around. Cheryl offered him a nod and an encouraging smile. Steve's face was starting to exhibit that all-too familiar, ominous tension. Better I lose it than he does, Dave thought grimly. "I want charges of kidnapping, wrongful imprisonment, assault and battery, at the very minimum, filed against Frank Morgan. More if you can work them in. Today. I want him in custody, no bail. I want him available for live testimony at Steve's trial."

"And you're offering us what?" Wagner inquired. If he was offended at either the gist or the tone of the demand, his voice offered no such indication.

"Steve is yours for the Wyler investigation -- which also means any testimony he gives at his own trial will not include any material not previously cleared by the FBI. We will also refrain from calling the D.A.'s potentially dirty hands into question."

Now, this was interesting, Wagner thought. "You're assuming a defense verdict, I take it."

Dave might have his internal doubts, but he was damned if he was going to reveal them to this unknown quantity with the arrogant voice, just because the Sloans evidently were on familiar terms with him. "Yes, I am."

Wagner seemed amused. "And what is your position if we don't accept this proposal?"

Annoyed, Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dave silenced him with a quelling look. "Then it's no dice all the way around, and I'll permit, hell, no, I'll actually instruct, Lt. Sloan to implicate the whole crowd, regardless of how high those accusations reach, and any detrimental effect on your investigation be damned. And I'll go after Edding myself, starting with an official complaint to the California Bar."

"I can't let you do that," Wagner said softly.

Steve couldn't restrain himself any longer. "What the hell do you mean, Wagner? Who kept your sorry ass from being blown up in that barn?"

"Steve, please." Wagner's tone was conciliatory. "Listen to me. There are reasons why we need Edding in place and left alone. That's all I can tell you at this point --"

"So you're going to let the little rat-faced son of a bitch do his damndest to lock me up for the rest of my life?" Steve demanded hotly, feeling the familiar icy warmth start to slide through him.

Dave started to intervene before the situation got totally out of control, when he was distracted by the voice from the speaker. "No, I'm not."

"What?" chorused the listeners in Mark's office.

Ron sounded impatient. "I'm not about to let that happen. I'm in charge of this investigation now where you're concerned, Steve, and I'm a strong believer in taking care of my witnesses -- even though you could have found something else to talk about that day besides ants crawling up my leg."

Steve laughed. "Yeah, but the look on your face was worth it!"

"Anyway," Ron continued, "I see no reason why we can't make each other happy. You want Morgan, you've got him. I want you. Until the Wyler investigation, which may eventually include Morgan, is complete, you're my witness. I own you. D'you understand what that means as far as your own case is concerned?"

Dave nodded at him. "Yeah, Ron," Steve replied. "Testimony has to be within your guidelines. Does that mean we're going to be seeing you personally, or are you going to be working through Cheryl?"

"Both, probably."

"What about Edding?" Mark spoke up, curious about Wagner's earlier comment.

Ron chuckled. "You don't give up, do you, Mark? Edding is off limits. We want him right where he is. And," he added, "I really don't think you need to worry, Steve. Mr. Harbrook looks to be quite capable of beating the crap out of him in the courtroom."

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