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Chapter Twenty-Three

Steve reported to Jess the next Saturday morning to find his father waiting for him as well. "Hi, Dad. What's up?" he asked curiously, settling himself for Jesse's examination.

Mark had been reading Steve's progress reports, which were certainly encouraging. "How are you feeling, son?"

Steve shrugged. "As well as could be expected, I guess. I'm still waking up every night for the same reason, if that's what you're wondering."

Mark nodded. "Among other things."

"Blood pressure's a little high," Jesse remarked. "How much coffee did you suck down at breakfast?"

Steve flicked his fingers at him. "One cup, Jess. That's not it." He looked up to meet his father's inquisitive expression. "I'm just a little nervous. Even with Dave's and Ron's assurances, I wish I could feel that certain that this time next week I'll be a free man."

"Morgan's in jail," Mark pointed out. "And subpoenaed for your trial."

"I know," his son said tiredly. "I'll just feel a lot better when it's all behind me."

Jesse had been making notes. "Well, the good news is that you're doing really well, Steve."

"And the bad news?" his friend inquired sharply.

Jesse looked uncomfortable. "The bad news is that I really don't feel right about taking you completely off the methadone. You don't need to be dealing with any adverse reactions when you're facing the jury." He held up his hand to forestall Steve's retort. "But the other good news is that all you'd need would be a minimal, and I mean itty-bitty minimal, dose. That should keep the edge off and you out of trouble and still keep your mind sharp."

Steve looked mutinous; his father put a calming hand on his shoulder. "Son, Jesse's right. You don't need any additional difficulties right now."

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be persuaded. "All right, Dad, Jess."

Mark coughed. "Steve. Dave called. You have to be in court at 9:30 Monday morning, so we need to go up the day before." He paused, trying to find the right words for what he had to tell his son next.

Steve pre-empted him, having a fairly good idea what was coming. "Silver's sending separate transport for me." It wasn't a question.

Mark wondered briefly how his son could even tolerate the thought, much less the reality, of the required restraints when it made him feel almost physically sick. "Right. But Dave did make him agree to let you stay at the hotel with us, with a guard posted outside, obviously."

Steve shrugged one shoulder. "About to be expected." He stood up, unwilling to explore that particular subject any further. "Rob's waiting for me -- I have to go, Dad."

Frowning, Mark watched his son leave, then glanced at the reports in his hand with a sigh. Steve had done incredibly well during his enforced rehabilitation. He just hoped his son would survive this next ordeal intact, so he could complete the process of healing.

* * *

Steve stretched tiredly out on his bed and concentrated on the painting on the wall, wishing wholeheartedly that he was looking at the real thing. He often wondered whether he was actually part sea creature, considering how often he found himself needing to have the salt air in his lungs. Although, he reflected now, he would have settled for any kind of a view as long as it wasn't from behind a locked door; he'd had enough of those to last several lifetimes. He snapped off the light, and lay drowsily in the quiet darkness, much as he had his first night, except now the cool comfort of the methadone was barely perceptible.

As on that first night, there was a soft knock, then his father's head poked around the door. "Still awake, son?"

Steve allowed himself a small smile at his father's predictability. "Yeah, Dad. Come on in."

Mark pulled one of the chairs closer to the bed and settled into it with a tired sigh, feet propped up on the edge of the bed. Steve glanced at him with concern. Even in the darkness, his father's body language spoke volumes. "Tired, Dad?"

"A bit. It's been a long day."

They shared a comfortable silence until Steve finally stirred. "Dad."

"Yes, son?" his father replied, rubbing his neck absently.

"I'm sorry I've been so -- difficult. I know this has been hard on you, too."

Mark smiled. "It's all right, Steve. You know, under the circumstances, you've done remarkably well." He sat up a little and peered at the figure on the bed. "Are you sure you're up to this?"

Steve grunted. "No. But there's not much I can do about it, so I'll just grit my teeth and get through it." He was silent for a moment, then said, with a bitterness he couldn't quite subdue, "It's funny. It's not the trial that disturbs me right now as much as --" he couldn't make himself say it.

"As having to go up there in handcuffs," his father finished soberly.

Steve nodded. "Yes. I didn't realize it would bother me so much, still." He moved his head restlessly. "I wish it was over, Dad."

"So do I, son," his father replied. He shifted in his chair, stretching both legs out farther across the end of the bed. Amused, Steve listened as his father's breathing slowed into a regular, even rhythm punctuated by an occasional snore. He rolled onto his side and reached over to touch the hand he had held so often as a boy. "Good night, Dad."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Amazingly, he managed to sleep for a few hours before the customary nightmare jolted him to awareness. His father must have awakened and left at some point earlier, because the chair was empty. Steve scrubbed his hands across his face and rolled over, trying to stretch out taut muscles, and watched his thoughts chasing each other aimlessly until he finally dropped off to sleep again. He rose at his usual time, and applied himself to his customary routine, although, if anyone noticed he was pounding on the punching bag harder than usual, no one mentioned it.

They were all waiting for the Fresno County sheriff's office to arrive when the call came in. Mark listened intently, then flagged down his son, who had been prowling around the room after finding himself unable to sit still. "Steve -- they're here."

He had allowed some of the chill inside him to seep outward, preferring the numb sensation it provided. He drew on it now as reluctance washed through him involuntarily. "Dad -- can we meet them downstairs in the garage? I don't think I can --"

Mark nodded in full agreement. The rest of the day was going to be bad enough without deputies parading his manacled son through the halls of the hospital. He spoke into the phone and nodded again. "Okay, Steve. We'd better go down."

They determined that Mark and Dave would walk downstairs with him, then meet the others for the drive up to Fresno. Steve collected hugs, kisses and handshakes, then gathered his wits and his not totally unwelcome inner companion, squared his shoulders, and went to meet his escort, who turned out to be reasonably sensitive to his situation. Rather than using the sort of apparatus customarily utilized for transporting prisoners, they merely cuffed his hands behind him, settled him in the back seat of the cruiser as comfortably as possible, and fastened his seat belt for him. Then, after a short conversation with his father and his lawyer, they were on their way.

The deputies even tried to start innocuous conversations with him a few times. While he appreciated the effort and the underlying apparent vote of confidence, it was harder than he expected to remain calm while the skin on his wrists shrank away from the metal, and his treacherous stomach was starting to respond to his inner tension. The deputies obligingly opened the windows so he would feel less claustrophobic, and, when he finally conceded the battle to the incipient nausea and requested the opportunity to deal with it, they pulled off at the next rest stop. After the first deputy removed the cuffs, Steve headed for the privacy of a stall at a fast clip. Too preoccupied with his own misery, he failed to hear a soft thud and softer grunt of pain.

Finally, the turmoil in his recalcitrant insides eased, and he shakily reached for the door, only to fly forward, off balance, as it was abruptly yanked open, sending him tripping over the deputy's recumbent body. Dazed, he was unable to prevent rough hands from seizing him and smashing him brutally into the wall. Before he could recover from the impact, a fist rammed into his ribs, followed by a kidney punch which sent him sprawling, gasping for breath. He had yet to even catch a glimpse of his assailants.

A foot caught him hard in the ribs as he crouched on the floor, windmilling him onto his back. The size of the hand which swept downwards into his line of vision triggered a nasty feeling of familiar apprehension, which doubled as the hand grabbed his shirt collar and hauled him upright. Holding him up was the largest man he had ever seen, and one whom he had fervently hoped never to see again.

"Flores, old buddy," he wheezed. "Long time no see."

Flores opted for a repeat of one of their old games. He opened his massive paw, and Steve crashed floorwards once more. He managed to sit up, prudently determining to stay put instead of confronting the less enjoyable qualities of gravity once more.

The voice of the deputy who had originally stayed in the car addressed him. "Listen to me very carefully, Lieutenant. We have a very specific message for you."

He squinted upwards. "Is that what you told your partner before you took him out?"

The deputy waited until the coughing spasm resulting from the impact of Flores' foot with Steve's ribs subsided. "More? No? Then pay attention."

He had Steve's attention, fully and indubitably. Steve surreptitiously felt for any indications of breakage in his torso and listened, glowering.

"First -- any attempt to call for help -- or even if you make too much noise shortly -- and the first person through that door catches a bullet. Fatally. Understand?"

Steve wasn't sure he cared for the sound of that "shortly," but his options were rather limited at present. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak; he could feel the rage inside starting to bubble as it sensed an opportunity, and clamped down on it hard. He was going to control it this time instead of the other way around, and try to use it effectively when the opportunity arose.

"All right," the deputy said. "This is a friendly little reminder to watch very carefully what you say in the next few days, especially on the witness stand. Mr. Wyler has been annoyed enough as a result of the activities of you and your friends. And a certain attorney's name, or that of his office, had better go unmentioned."

Steve blinked. Obviously they knew nothing of his deal with the FBI. "And Morgan?" he growled.

The deputy shrugged. "Morgan screwed up."

"I take it that's the answer to my question," Steve said drily.

"That's correct. And I'm sure you realize that this entire conversation never happened. You were never threatened. As far as the rest of it goes, understand this also. You're not the only potential target for any kind of -- retaliation." As Steve stared at him, the angry heat inside gaining strength, he added, "Anyone close to you could be affected by your making the wrong decision. Even those two handsome little boys belonging to your charming friend Amanda."

Now he focused and aimed the rage, and erupted off of the floor, hoping the element of surprise would get him close enough to the deputy's weapon. His plan would have worked, too, except he had forgotten the incredible speed of Flores' reflexes. The big man literally plucked him out of mid-air and flung him hard into the marbled edge of the sink. He tried to muster the coordination to recover, but his muscles seemed to be unwilling to work in cooperation with each other. He tried anyway, and got as far as turning around to face his attackers, before Flores contemptuously placed a hand on Steve's chest and pushed him back. The edge of the sink this time caught him in the same place as the initial kidney punch, and drove the air out of his lungs with an explosive gasp.

"We don't have time for this," the deputy snapped. Flores picked Steve up again, one meaty arm wrapped around his throat in a choke hold, the other forcing his right arm flat against the wall. The grip was like iron, and Steve realized very quickly that any attempt to break it would not only be pointless, but would most likely be rewarded with pain. Considerable pain. He wasn't feeling that brave or that lucky.

The deputy pulled out his nightstick. "This is to make sure you do remember."

Flores' paw clamped down hard, and Steve barely succeeded in suppressing the sounds deep in his throat as the weapon slammed into his right elbow. Before he could assess the damage, the stick connected again. This time, he not only felt but heard the bones snap, and the subsequent sickness, along with the effort to stifle the ugly noises which threatened to emerge, made his head swim. A third vicious blow, and Flores released him to sink to his knees, hunching helplessly over his injured arm.

The deputy strode closer. "I'm going to advise your father, who's undoubtedly pacing out there, that you had an unfortunate accident. I suggest you don't try to convince him otherwise." He turned away, then swung back. "By the way -- it could have easily been your left arm. Remember that."

He wasn't sure how long he crouched there, sobbing for breath and nursing his arm, trying to persuade himself that it wasn't shattered beyond repair, and just as uselessly attempting to convince himself that the fear in the pit of his stomach wasn't real. His arm was definitely broken in two separate places, however, slightly below the elbow and just above his wrist. The sick feeling increasing, he realized that his regular dosage of methadone from the night before was in no way capable of dulling, much less masking, the intensifying pain. The door looked light years away.

Somehow, he pushed himself upright, although he almost passed out when he inadvertently tried to balance himself with his useless arm. Swearing softly, continuously, monotonously through his teeth, he crawled up the wall until, what seemed like years later, he was more or less perpendicular with the floor. He took a hesitant step, and grabbed for his right wrist as the weight of his arm swung it away from his body and the broken bones scraped against each other horribly. The dizziness easing, as he clutched his wrist and tucked the damaged elbow as close to aching ribs as possible, he cautiously ventured towards the door, hoping fervently there were no anxious motorists in dire need of a pit stop on the outside. Naturally, when he more or less leaned through the door, he found his father literally on the other side of it, looking for him.

Mark caught his son as he swayed off balance. "Steve! What happened?"

Steve's tenuous grip on steadiness was fading by the second. "There's an injured deputy in there," he managed to whisper; then he lost his precarious control over his body and slid bonelessly through his father's arms towards the ground. His father succeeded in halting his sudden descent, and eased him down carefully, stripping off his jacket to bundle it under Steve's head. "Give me your jacket, Dave," Mark ordered. "He's going into shock."

Steve's recollection of the next hour or so was hazy. There were several figures rushing about; and then he was being carefully lifted onto a stretcher. Gentle hands examined his arm, asking him questions which he apparently was able to answer, although he promptly forgot both questions and responses. He saw his father talking to the paramedics, and caught the word "methadone," but an incautious movement started ribs and arm screaming, and he forgot what he had heard. Then a cool softness wrapped itself around him, and he drifted off, no longer aware of the pain.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The right forefinger tapped, almost of its own volition, as Judge Wharton scanned the faces before her. The two attorneys looked confident; the defendant's expression could only be described as strained; and the spectators oozed expectation. Her gaze snapped back to the tall man with the arresting blue eyes. They were much clearer than on his previous visit to her courtroom, although weariness still lurked in their depths. The sling on his right arm puzzled her; it couldn't possibly be due to the same gunshot wounds six weeks earlier.

"Lt. Sloan," she asked curiously, "what happened to you this time?"

He flushed. "One of those careless slips and falls they warn you about on TV, your Honor. I just landed badly."

She noted the flicker in Mark Sloan's eyes, but decided not to call them on it. Not a bad story, necessarily; just not the right one. She filed that thought away for future reference. "I take it your medical condition has improved sufficiently for you to stand trial?"

His neck still slightly tinged with red, he assured her he was fine, although she sensed another slight ripple in the reaction of the group before her. She pondered a moment, then beckoned the attorneys to approach. "Gentlemen," she said in a voice too low to be heard beyond where they stood, "I'm going to say this only once. Any foolish surprises or grandstanding, and you're in contempt. Do you understand?" Startled, they nodded, and she addressed Dave again.

"Mr. Harbrook, I want your assurance that your client is well enough. Otherwise, I'm continuing this proceeding."

Dave pushed air into his throat. "He's fine, your Honor."

The gimlet eyes bored into him. "He hasn't yet completed his rehabilitation, has he?"

"No, your Honor," Dave replied carefully, "he hasn't. He's maybe a week, two weeks max, away. It's my understanding also that the dosage is minimal, and that Dr. Travis ordered it continued primarily due to the injuries to my client's arm when -- he broke it." He hoped his expression was sufficiently open and reassuring. "He's more than well enough to deal with this."

Judge Wharton's gaze travelled from Dave's face to that of his tense client, to the noncommittal countenance of D.A. Edding. "All right, gentlemen," she conceded. "Bailiff, bring in the panel."

To Steve, unfamiliar with the initial portions of the judicial process, it seemed like an indecently short period of time passed before a jury was selected. He told Dave so when they broke for lunch, and was shocked when his attorney laughed.

"Steve, we've got a good group out there. They're educated, reasonably sophisticated, and they look like they're capable of listening to evidence and evaluating it intelligently. That's not always easy to find." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I think the blonde in the front row is attracted to you; don't overdo it, but don't be afraid to make eye contact with her periodically."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "You're kidding," he said finally.

Dave shook his head. "No way," he replied with a grin. "You'd be amazed at what works. All you need is one juror who starts to feel a little more critical of the prosecution, and you can achieve a lot."

Steve shrugged and agreed to follow his lawyer's instructions, although he couldn't help but take note of the irony. Right now, it seemed like he was attracting more female interest than he could handle without adding to his difficulties.

The prosecution's case, he thought sourly, was fairly pathetic. He couldn't figure out how Edding, even with presumable marching orders from Wyler, could have justified the investigation which had targeted him, much less actually filing charges. As far as Steve could determine, the only actual physical evidence which could be used against him in the attack on Rachel were the bloody restraints. Dave demolished that quickly and neatly, forcing the state's witnesses to admit that Steve had hardly had the necessary freedom of movement to give his jailers the slip and attack his nurse in his room, all without anyone seeing him.

But, Edding argued, Steve's attack on the doctor was obvious evidence of his uncontrollable rage and desire for revenge, and therefore it was not inconceivable that Steve could have perceived Rachel as a willing accomplice. In fact, the D.A. implied shock that Steve had not agreed to a plea of insanity. Dave leapt to his feet then, objecting, but the judge was already shutting Edding down. Steve wondered, however, if the damage had already been done; the words, once spoken, couldn't be unsaid. He wasn't totally sure himself that a good argument for temporary insanity couldn't have been made, at least with regard to his attack on Morgan, which he had to admit had been so close to the edge as to almost push him over it.

That one was at least less problematic for the narrow-faced prosecutor. That Steve had assaulted the doctor couldn't be denied; but the twin spectres of severely extenuating circumstances and fear for one's own safety had raised their bothersome heads, threatening his case, and Edding knew it. He dragged out the state's presentation as long as he could, but finally had to concede the stage to his opponent.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Due to the lateness of the afternoon, the judge recessed until the next morning. Steve was escorted back to the hotel by two newly selected and thoroughly screened deputies. The group assembled in the sitting room of the suite Mark had reserved for what began as a strategic planning session and rapidly devolved into splinter conversations as Steve lost interest in chewing over the events of the day. He had only picked at, and finally given up on, the Chinese takeout they had ordered, and now prowled the suite, unable or unwilling to settle anywhere for very long.

Mark watched him with increasing concern and irritation. "You're making me dizzy, son," he complained, only half joking.

Steve had stopped temporarily at the window, to stare outside moodily. "Can't get comfortable, Dad."

Mark gave him a closer look. Steve's ribs and back were obviously troubling him; he was standing with shoulders hunched, good hand jammed into his pants pocket. "Arm bothering you too, son?"

Steve sighed noiselessly, and eased into an armchair across from his father. "Yeah. I guess so."

Despite the presence of other people in the room, it was almost as if he and his father were insulated from their conversations. "Do you want to tell me what really happened to you, son?" his father asked, very quietly.

"No," Steve said shortly.

His father just looked at him, brows slightly raised, wise eyes regarding him so calmly. He squirmed. "Dad -- I can't. Please don't ask me."

The eyebrows slid higher, but his father seemed undisturbed. "All right, Steve. I'll be right here when you're ready to tell me."

Much later, as Mark woke for the umpteenth time, attuned to his son's restlessness, he couldn't help wishing that he'd been a little more aggressive in his approach. He almost got up himself several times, each time changing his mind, recognizing Steve's need to work through it on his own. Finally, however, he got out of bed and started searching through his medical bag.

The voice from the window was icily quiet. "Thanks, Dad, but I don't want any."

Mark wasn't inclined to cooperate. "You're not going to get very much."

Steve sighed. "I can't afford to take any chances with tomorrow, Dad. I need a clear head."

"I'm trying to make sure that's what you have," his father retorted. "All I'm going to do is make sure you get some rest first." He flicked the light on so he could measure the dosage.

Steve started pacing again. "Dad, I'm serious."

"So am I, son." His father gave him a searching look, then apparently relented. "I have a proposition for you. I won't insist on you taking this if you tell me the truth about your arm."

Steve flung himself into a chair, twisting awkwardly at the last minute in order to avoid jolting the appendage in question. "Dad -- I can't."

Mark leaned against the table, rolling the syringe between his fingers. "Can't or won't?"

Steve blew out an explosive breath. "Either one, Dad. I'm not exactly in the mood for games." He started to fiddle with his cast, avoiding his father's eyes.

"Steve."

The voice was quiet, authoritative, and inexorable. Unwillingly, he glanced up, to find his father standing before him, frowning at him.

"I've given you considerable license. I understand you have to travel your own road in order to recover properly. But this will not do." Mark paused, hoping not to have to say more, but his son's mulish expression set him off. "Do you have any idea what went through my mind when you came staggering through that door, face white as a sheet, blood dripping from your fingertips?" he asked angrily.

Steve winced, but said nothing.

Mark's ire escalated. "For that matter, do you have any inkling, glimmering, concept whatsoever, of how we felt while you were missing? Not knowing where you were, what condition you were in, if you were even in any condition at all? Or," he demanded, "having you do your damndest to shove us away?" He saw his son's body jerk with the impact of his harsh words, and wished heartily that they weren't necessary; but he couldn't afford to ease up on Steve now. "It's hard enough living with the knowledge that that one terrible phone call is always a possibility, without having to second-guess whether you're planning on being fit for polite company as well."

He would have continued in this vein longer, but Steve suddenly capitulated. "All right.-- All right, Dad, I can't stand this any more. I'll take the medicine."

Mark fixed him with a quelling stare. "After you tell me."

"I thought you were offering a deal."

Mark shook his head. "That was a one-time offer for a limited amount of time. You've run out. Now talk."

There was no perceivable way out of this conversation. He took a deep breath. "Dad -- please understand. You don't know any of this."

"I know," his father agreed, then thought better of his response. "Wait. I know; no, I don't know. What don't I know?" he asked, with only natural exasperation.

"If Wyler finds out I talked, he won't necessarily go after me," Steve said grimly. Slowly, with some difficulty, he related the sordid little story to his father. "So, Dad, you see, I can't -- I can't just arbitrarily assume everyone will be safe. And --" He stopped, searching for the right words.

His father had no such compunction. "And you're going to let yourself be intimidated into keeping your mouth shut. This isn't you, son."

Steve's head came up, anger sparking the blue eyes. "Dad, I'm not me. I'm not the same person who drove away that morning. I have to learn to live with what's happened to me. And this is hard enough without you giving me grief about it." His eyes went hard. "I don't like being threatened by Wyler either. But I can't --"

"You can't permit threats against you or me to keep you from doing the right thing," his father stated bluntly.

"Dad, it's not just that!" he almost shouted. "Weren't you listening?"

Hearing the note of increasing strain in his son's voice, Mark relented slightly. If he let Steve get too excited, any medication would be ineffective, which more or less would make this entire exercise pointless. "All right, son," he said as calmly as possible. "Tell me again."

Steve rubbed his eyes, starting to feel the fatigue. "They didn't limit themselves to either of us, Dad," he said tiredly, unhappily. "They included the whole group -- even --" His throat felt thick; he took a deep breath and pushed the ugly words out. "Even Amanda's boys." His fists clenched. "I can't take that chance, do that to her. And I couldn't live with myself if anything happened."

"Oh." Mark sagged back against the chair cushion. What a mess. As he had done so many times since finding his son lying in a puddle of blood in that hellhole, he wished Wyler or Morgan were within arm's reach; his fingers itched to strangle them both for what they had done to Steve, for this long, difficult road they had made him travel. He put a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder, automatically kneading the tense muscles. "I understand, son. We'll find a way to get through this and keep everyone safe." He started to get to his feet.

"Dad?"

"What is it, son?"

Steve looked exhausted. "I think you're right about getting some rest." With difficulty, he started to ask, "Would you --?"

Mark nodded. "Go lie down."

He sat by his son's bedside, as it seemed he had been doing so often lately, and watched as the drug took effect. Steve's arm had definitely been bothering him, because he shifted awkwardly, then more easily, as he slowly relaxed into sleep. Mark waited until his breathing had deepened into a steady rhythm, then crawled back into his own bed and willed himself to take his own advice.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dave started the defense aggressively by calling Jesse as his first witness. Painstakingly, he walked Jesse through his fateful visit to the clinic, making sure the jury received the full, disturbing effect of the young doctor's initial reaction to what he found. Steve himself sat numbly, trying to keep a tight rein on his thoughts, as his best friend described his dismay at Steve's condition and related his subsequent conversation with Rachel about Steve's care and impending rescue. He wasn't sure which was worse: having to tell his story himself, or being forced to listen to Jesse's simple narrative, told in a voice rough with emotion. It was a potent reminder that his family and friends had been put through considerable trauma themselves, and the guilt for being the cause of that pain washed over him again. He shut his eyes for a minute, willing himself to be calm, and opened them to meet the concerned gaze of the woman Dave had mentioned earlier. Uncomfortably, remembering Dave's advice, he held her eyes momentarily, then looked away.

Asked by Edding if he thought Steve would have been capable of the vicious attack on Rachel, and barely restraining the urge to call the D.A. an idiot, Jesse stated grimly that, among other things, it was highly unlikely that Steve would even have had the strength for any kind of sustained physical activity, much less systematically battering someone into oblivion. "I don't mean to sound brutal or callous," he added earnestly to the jury, trying to get a grip on his own feelings, "but it's a simple fact. He was in no shape for something like that."

Dave ran the young doctor through a description of his rehab treatment program. This was easier. Jesse testified calmly and clearly, even keeping his cool when Edding, on cross-examination, tried to relate Steve's addiction to the prosecutor's continued attempts to call Steve's sanity into question.

Dave, however, had had enough. "Your Honor, the defense has made no attempt, nor do we intend, to plead an insanity defense, and any representations we make as to state of mind at the time are simply that, no more."

Judge Wharton agreed. "Mr. Edding. I'm not going to say this again. You will restrict any questions along this line to state of mind, and that's as far as you go. Do you understand?" she asked acidly.

The D.A. flashed a resentful look towards his opponent. "Yes, your Honor." Frustrated, he wrapped up his cross-examination, and sat down.

Dave asked Jesse a few questions on rebuttal, then indicated the doctor was finished. He then called Dr. Morgan, immediately going on the offensive by asking the doctor to justify his rationale for his research. "Please enlighten us, doctor," he asked bluntly, "just what beneficial effect you could possibly hope to accomplish by combining a potentially addictive narcotic with a known dangerous halllucinogen?"

Morgan's thesis, as Mark had discovered earlier, was weak on paper. It held up even less well in open court. The expressions on the faces of the jury ranged from shock to outrage. The blonde woman in the front looked particularly upset, Steve realized. He had discovered it was easier to watch the jury's reactions while he listened impassively to Morgan's stumbling testimony than it had been during Jesse's passionate answers, when he had simply wished the ground would swallow him up where he sat.

And Morgan made a terrible witness. Highly defensive about his pet project in any event, he became more and more evasive and ineffective as Dave pounded him repeatedly, frequently tripping him up by pointing out inconsistencies between his statements at deposition and his current testimony. Despite Edding's attempts at damage control, Dave came off the clear winner in that round.

Steve was not allowed to feel relieved for long, however. Over lunch, his attorney filled him in on the plan for the rest of the day.

"I gave some thought to what you told me about Ms. Pauling, Steve," Dave said, cutting his chicken into manageable pieces.

Steve looked up in alarm from the chopped sirloin he had been more or less pushing about on the plate. "What do you mean?"

Dave gave him a level glance. "You made her a promise, you said."

The eyebrows were starting to slide downwards. "And as I recall you weren't interested."

"Changed my mind," Dave said flatly. "I'm calling her as the next witness."

Steve stared at his lawyer, his food forgotten. "I thought you said her testimony would be suspect because of her -- feelings for me."

Dave took a bite of chicken and maddeningly chewed it thoroughly before replying. "That was before we got this jury and I had the opportunity to pulverize Morgan. Besides, I talked to her last night."

Steve choked on his water, and began to cough uncontrollably, wincing in pain as the spasms pulled at his sore ribs and back. "You did what?" he sputtered finally.

"Talked to her," Dave replied calmly. "She phoned my office yesterday, and I called her back."

"She can actually speak now?" Steve asked, unsure how to feel about this latest development.

Dave nodded and swallowed. "She told me in no uncertain terms that she planned to come, and she expected to be able to take the stand."

Steve slid his unoffending plate aside, appetite having done a vanishing act. His lawyer glanced at him with concern. "I thought you wanted her to testify."

He sighed. "Dave, right now I don't know what I want. I have basically two modes -- scared and numb. I'm not sure I'm particularly capable of critical analysis." He made a feeble attempt at a grin. "That's why you're here."

Dave looked doubtful. "As long as you're sure you're okay with this, Steve. Don't get me wrong; I think her testimony's important, but I'm not going to force you to agree to it." He gave his client a critical look. "You may not be allowed to see her first, you know."

Steve rose and started prowling around the small room, temporarily arousing the curiosity of the deputy posted outside the door. "And after?" he asked.

Dave shrugged. "Depends."

Steve grunted, worrying at the thought like a dog with a bone, still pacing. There was a knock at the door, and he glanced up, expecting to be told it was time to go back, but the deputy motioned to Dave.

"Mr. Harbrook? You're needed out here for a moment."

Steve had stopped prowling to lean against the wall with his good hand, much like a runner stretching, when the door opened again. "Time to go?" he asked, without turning. There was a strange whirring sound, and he caught a faint trace of wisteria in the air, evoking a flash of cool hands, warm eyes, and soft voice. Half afraid of what he would find, he swung around.

She was sitting in an electric wheelchair, a brace on her left knee and her right forearm in a cast up to her knuckles. Hesitantly, he let his eyes travel to her face. There was bruising from her recent surgery, and the suture lines were unavoidable, although the wiring was gone. But her mouth was smiling, and her eyes still held that elusive pull which had engulfed him before. He made to speak, and realized his vocal chords were being constricted by the same fierce hand which had wrapped itself around his heart and lungs. Wordlessly, he went to her and took both her hands in his good one, still unable to force any sound from his throat.

"Steve? Are you all right? What happened to your arm?" Her speech was slow, but recognizable, and still the same soothing voice which had calmed him so many times during his trip through hell. The sound of his name as she spoke it made him tremble.

"Rachel," he managed finally, still leaning over her, clutching her hands. His abused ribs ultimately took exception to his stance; he hooked a chair over with a foot and sat facing her, still not releasing his grip. Belatedly, he registered her question. Both questions, actually. "I'm all right. I just got careless, broke my arm." He winced inwardly at the lie, but he definitely wasn't going to tell her about Flores. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

She gave him that stern look. "You made me a promise, remember?"

He tried to soft-peddle it. "Neither one of us was thinking very clearly that day, Rachel. I don't expect you to --"

"To testify on your behalf -- looking like this?" she asked shrewdly.

He flinched at the reminder, but held firm. "Yes."

Rachel smiled at him. "But I intend to -- now and again when Morgan goes to trial. I owe you that much."

The words, spoken lightly, nonetheless hit him like a ton of bricks. His heart constricted even more, if that were possible. "Is that all it is?" he asked diffidently, steeling himself for the answer.

She stared at him, searching for the right words. Finally, when he began to despair of receiving an answer, she made up her mind. "No, Steve, it's not," she said firmly.

His head came up, eyes glinting. "And?" he asked hopefully.

"I -- care about you, Steve," she replied, a tinge of red staining her cheeks.

"About? And -- for?" he asked, not taking his eyes from her face.

It wasn't fair, she decided. He was doing that burning thing with those incredibly blue eyes, and she had no ability to muster any defenses to it whatsoever. "For, too," she replied in a small voice, trying desperately to keep her head as those eyes blazed with the intensity of his reaction. Then she felt the touch of his mouth on hers, tentative at first, then more firmly, as he leaned forward and kissed her, and lost all semblance of objectivity.

Steve was drowning and totally unwilling to save himself. Unconsciously, his good hand came up to cup her cheek gently as the lips beneath his turned silken, promising sweetness to come, the heady scent of wisteria filling his senses.

A slight cough pulled them apart, and Steve looked up guiltily to see his lawyer standing in the doorway, a slight smile on his lips. Dave nodded at him. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's time to go back. Ms. Pauling, may I give you any assistance?"

"Just a sec, Dave," Steve said hurriedly. He turned back to her. "Rachel, I --"

She put the fingers of her good hand to his mouth. "Steve, you don't have to make any decisions today. We have plenty of time to explore our feelings."

Wonderingly, he fell into those astounding eyes again, wisteria everywhere. More to clear his head than for any other reason, he kissed the fingers at his lips. "All right, Rachel, but that's another promise I intend to keep."

Numbly, he watched her move away, chair whirring gently, not even paying attention when his guard replaced the cuffs and escorted him back to the courtroom. His father noticed his preoccupation, and would have inquired further, but Dave's first statement following the judge's return satisfied his curiosity.

"The defense calls Rachel Pauling."

And there was no denying that she caused quite a stir as she wheeled up to the witness stand, limped into it, and took the oath in her slow, deliberate voice, all eyes staring in fascination at her scarred face. With only occasional nudging from Dave, she told her story concisely and as clearly as possible under the circumstances.

"So, Ms. Pauling," Dave said pleasantly, aware of the rapt attention of all in the room, "please tell us whether you believe the defendant to be the man who attacked you."

She gave Steve a small smile, and faced the jury squarely. "No. Absolutely not," she declared firmly, and listened with considerable pleasure to the consternated reaction of the spectators. Although Edding then did his level best to shake her testimony, she remained firm, and her calm, quiet demeanor made a substantial impression on her listeners. The prosecutor finally exhausted his ingenuity, and Rachel was excused. She wheeled herself out with a dignity equal to her entrance, all eyes again riveted to her as she departed.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dave then put first Amanda, then Mark, on as character witnesses, following his testimonial one-two punch with Captain Newman, who presented a succinct but compelling account of Steve's career record. As Newman read the list of awards his most capable officer had received, Steve tried to watch the jury's reactions without looking too obvious about it. It was clear that they were impressed, and it certainly seemed that they were troubled about the validity of the charges against him. For the first time since the trial started, possibly even in the last several days, he felt the tight band of pressure around his lungs ease slightly, as some of the tension in his muscles dissipated, and he actually allowed himself to hope that Dave's plan of attack would work.

Edding didn't even try to put much effort into cross-examination of the trio. There really wasn't much to be accomplished; Steve's professional credentials were outstanding, and the D.A. stood nothing to gain by attempting to discredit either Mark or Amanda. He had his sights set on the primary target anyway, since Steve had already stated his intention of testifying on his own behalf.

It was getting late, however. Judge Wharton inquired as to remaining defense witnesses, and, when Dave indicated only Steve remained, she decided to recess until the next morning rather than break for the night in the middle of his testimony.

They were debating the virtues of pizza compared to barbecue from the local purveyor when there was a knock on the hotel suite door, interrupting Jesse, who was advocating barbecue as the only sensible business decision. Cheryl was closest, and answered the door.

The soft voice Steve had heard tantalizingly in his head all afternoon spoke. "May I come in?"

Cheryl flicked a quick glance at the lawyer. "Are you going to need Ms. Pauling as a rebuttal witness, Dave?" she inquired.

He debated briefly, then shook his head. "No, that shouldn't be necessary. She made her point quite clearly this afternoon." He rose and went to greet her. "Ms. Pauling, thank you again for your help. I hope it wasn't too much of an ordeal."

She smiled at him, and he could easily see why she would have attracted Steve's attention. "I'm just glad I could come. And please call me Rachel."

He returned the smile. "Rachel, this is Cheryl Banks, Steve's partner; his father, Dr. Mark Sloan; Dr. Amanda Bentley, a very good friend of the family; you remember Jesse; and of course," grinning now, "you know Steve." He glanced around, hoping to get through a potential difficult moment as quickly and painlessly as possible. "Where's --?"

"She was talking with one of the other lawyers working on the class action, and said she'd be down as soon as she was finished," Cheryl replied, observing Rachel surreptitiously but thoroughly. As a peculiar byproduct of her close working relationship with Steve, she had developed the ability to sense the electricity when a woman was interested in him, and this one was definitely emitting little tiny sparks. As Steve moved by her to greet Rachel, she felt the heat coming from him as well. For some reason she couldn't quite pin down, however, she felt vaguely perturbed instead of humorously tolerant. Because he had kissed her that day? No. She shook herself mentally, and pushed the distracting thought aside; grudgingly, it slid away, tabled but not forgotten.

Steve had taken Rachel's hands and was smiling down at her, heart, as well as danger signs, in his eyes. She squeezed his fingers and gently extricated her hand. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," she explained, "and I was hoping to meet your family." She glanced up at the distinguished-looking doctor with the kind eyes who had been introduced as Steve's father. "He did mention you, you know," Rachel said gently, "only unfortunately not coherently enough until the night he told me how to reach you. But it's clear to me now that you all were in his thoughts often."

"My ravings, you mean," Steve remarked wryly.

Mark shot him a mildly reproving glance and treated Rachel to his version of the famous Sloan smile, which she realized was as perilous as his son's in its own way. "Thank you for taking care of my son," he said simply, and, on impulse, leaned down and hugged her.

Just then the door opened, and Randy came in quickly, irritation apparent in the cadence of her step. "Would you believe Wyler's still underground?" she demanded of the inhabitants of the room in general. "I really wish --" Her voice ground to a halt as she took note of the newcomer and the expression on Steve's face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Dave was there suddenly, kind, worried eyes glued to her as he took her hands and kissed her lightly. "Randy, my dear," he said, with only a slight warning glance at her, "this is Rachel Pauling. Rachel, Randy Wolfe, another good family friend."

Rachel looked puzzled, and Steve realized with horror that somehow he had never had the chance to explain his new-found state of non-marriage to her; and he wasn't sure this was the best time to try. Randy saw the sick awareness in his eyes, and the hostility she had felt since walking into the room evaporated. She had come to terms with the whole mess, and had made her decision, which, as she recognized the extent of her feelings for Dave, had ultimately been the right one. In all fairness, she couldn't keep penalizing Steve for a mistake they had made together. And this woman had obviously paid a much higher price for her feelings.

"We were posing as an engaged couple in order to find out what had happened to my sister. Since Wyler never had the legal authority to perform weddings, we were never actually married." She smiled at Steve, who let out the breath he had been holding with not quite noticeable relief. "I told Steve what we'd discovered once he was well enough, and we agreed to simply be very good friends." She switched her attention from the gratitude in those intense blue eyes to the woman in the wheelchair. "Thank you for everything you've done for him."

Rachel was becoming visibly uncomfortable with all the attention. Mark glanced at Steve, who was looking at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, and therefore was not likely to be of much practical help, and took pity on her. "Rachel, we were just discussing the relative merits of barbecue as compared to pizza. Would you please join us and help solve the dilemma?" He waggled his eyebrows at her hopefully.

She couldn't help but laugh. "That would be lovely, as long as the pizza contingent doesn't object. I vote with the barbecue faction, hands down."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mark came awake suddenly with the vague sense of disturbance which invariably strikes in the dim, grey-black hours before dawn. His initial confusion was speedily resolved, however, by the sounds drifting into the room despite a firmly closed bathroom door. Somehow, he didn't think it was because the barbecue dinner had disagreed with his son's digestive system. This was the third time that night; he flipped on the light and waited patiently.

Steve eventually emerged, shakily, moving as quietly as possible until the lamplight registered and he threw a slightly shamefaced look at his father. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to wake you."

Mark waved a hand. "Not a problem, son. I just wish you'd get some sleep."

Steve shook his head and leaned against the window, staring out into the darkness. His bare chest was damp with sweat. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Dad."

His father wisely said nothing, sensing his need to talk, but also understanding intuitively that it needed to be at his own pace.

"I keep telling myself that I can get through it, that in a few days I'll be able to -- to go home," Steve said painfully. "And then the panic hits, and I'm not so sure." He put his left fist precisely against the glass, as if measuring its potential resistance to a blow. "It's almost like the worst of the withdrawal; I can taste it, smell it, touch it, do everything but actually have my freedom." He was on the move again, prowling around the suite like a caged animal.

Mark gave him a worried look. "I don't think it's advisable to give you any additional meds at this point, son."

Steve laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Wouldn't do me any good anyway, Dad."

"Hmmm." Mark started rummaging in his suitcase. "This may seem hokey, but it's worth a try. Park yourself in the recliner over there," he ordered.

Steve had already tried out the piece of furniture in question; it was a massively overstuffed, incredibly comfortable beast of a chair which literally swallowed up the person sitting in it. It was also virtually impossible to get out of it without determined assistance. "Little shop of horrors?" he asked with a trace of a grin.

His father nodded. "Sit. And if it says, 'FEED ME', I don't want to know."

The grin emerged properly, and Steve cautiously descended into the recliner's depths, giving his father a dubious look as the latter approached.

"Close your eyes," Mark commanded, and he obeyed, although not without question.

"Dad -- what are you doing?"

Mark smacked him lightly upside the head. "Quiet. You'll find out. Eyes closed?" He bent to make sure his son wasn't peeking, then set and adjusted a set of earphones on Steve's head.

Intrigued in spite of himself, Steve obediently kept his eyes closed. Whatever his father had in mind, he thought, was fine as long as it made him happy. A small, oblong box was pushed into his good hand, and he felt a button moving. It felt like a -- tape recorder? He started to open his eyes; then he heard, slowly, the sound of waves rolling in to break on the shore, followed by the shriek of a gull and more waves. "Dad -- what --?"

"I set up the tape recorder down on the beach a few afternoons ago."

His throat closed. "Our beach?" he asked thickly, opening his eyes to stare at his father.

Mark nodded. "Yes. I thought you might want to hear it at least."

Steve closed his eyes again. "Dad -- I don't know what to say. *Thank you* sounds so terribly inadequate."

Mark put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Maybe to you. To me, having you here to say it, it means all the world." He yawned. "Try not to stay up playing with that for the rest of the night, will you, son?"

Steve chuckled. "All right, Dad. Good night."

Mark awoke briefly a little later, glancing automatically over at the omnivorous chair. His son slept soundly, good hand dangling, an occasional soft snore escaping him. Mark allowed himself a smile and rolled over, to soon fall asleep himself once more.

Chapter Thirty

True to his word, Ron Wagner arrived the next morning, precisely and fortuitously in time for breakfast. "Bad enough the cat drags you in," Steve remarked jokingly, "but with unerring accuracy at mealtime." They shook hands, and he added, "I take it you're here to help me keep my end of the bargain?"

Ron grinned at him. "For now. We still have to keep an eye on you when it's Morgan's turn; and then, once Wyler surfaces, you'll really get a taste of it."

Steve winced theatrically. "Had to remind me, didn't you?" He slapped the other man on the back. "Come on, get something to eat. I think Dave's the only one you haven't met in person."

Mark watched the three men discussing strategy, glad of the opportunity to observe his son in peace, and also thankful for Ron's presence. The two had become reasonably good friends following the Sweeney case, despite the fact that they seemed to be determined to harass each other mercilessly. He supposed with amusement that it might have something to do with the frequency with which they had encountered explosive devices together; they must have landed on their heads once too often. In any event, the need to pick on Ron and defend himself against predictable retaliation had done Steve good. The lines of tension, although still discernible, had eased substantially, and Steve looked relaxed for the first time in days.

Watching the other two men clowning around, Dave was thinking much the same thing. He hated to break it up, but it was time. "Uh, gentlemen -- I'm afraid we need to wrap this up."

There was a knock, and Jesse and Amanda came in. She tensed slightly upon seeing Ron, but managed to give him a smile. "Ron, it's nice to see you. I'm glad you're able to help Steve." She turned to the latter and eyed him critically until he started to squirm.

"What is it, Amanda? Did I put on the wrong tie or something?"

She laughed. "Considering I know very well your father helped you with it, I doubt that." She fastened one button on his jacket and smiled at him.

He gave her a one-armed hug. "This time it fits better, doesn't it," he said affectionately. He glanced up, still relaxed enough to keep the look of strain from reappearing. "I believe my escort's waiting, so -- I'll see you all over there."

Unfortunately, there was some delay in the transportation, and, by the time he reached the courthouse, his nerves were starting to give serious consideration to the nature of the ordeal ahead of him. While waiting for the judge, he concentrated, hard, on ensuring that the lurking ice was firmly under control. He discovered, with some surprise, that losing his cool wasn't his biggest area of concern; he was more anxious about his ability to follow Ron's guidelines if cross-examination should take him into dangerous waters.

As he had done previously, he told his story in response to Dave's careful questions as simply and concisely as possible, somewhat distressed by his inability to become hardened to the telling. Describing the last portion of his life in hell, as he saw it, was still painful, and having to occasionally glance at the jury instead of fixing a blank stare on Dave's chin, as he had done before, only made it worse. He almost lost his tenuous self-control after spotting the look of sick pity in the blonde's eyes at one point, and afterwards tried desperately not to let his gaze linger for more than a moment.

Dave finished the initial questioning and requested a moment to confer with his client. Steve's hands, clasped on his lap, taut knuckles white, betrayed his tension, and the muscles of his face once more indicated the strain. "I'm going to ask for a break," Dave advised him, but Steve shook his head.

"No," he said roughly. "I want to get it over with."

Dave's eyebrows rose. "Sure you can handle it?"

Steve flicked him a glance, ice swimming in the blue depths. "Yes," he said shortly. "I'll be all right."

Dave shrugged. "Okay; but let me know immediately if anything changes." He stepped back. "No further questions, your Honor."

Edding rose and strolled closer to where Steve sat. "So you fell and broke your arm, Lieutenant?"

Dave leapt to his feet, objecting, and the judge agreed. "Mr. Edding. Remember what I said earlier."

But the damage was done. Steve had looked up, startled, at the question, and couldn't avoid seeing the gigantic man now standing against the wall at the back of the room, a powerfully unwelcome reminder of his own vulnerability as well as that of his family and friends. The nausea from the night before nosed its way into his consciousness, and the shattered bones in his arm ached in sympathy.

A voice rapped smartly at his awareness. "Lt. Sloan? Are you all right?"

He blinked, lifting a shaky hand to scrub it over his face, and realized belatedly that he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. "I'm sorry; I --" The color had drained from his face, and the room was starting to spin. He tried to fight it, but the effort of trying to focus his eyes only aggravated the dizziness.

Judge Wharton motioned to the bailiff. "Get him into chambers now." She directed an intent look at the courtroom. "Mr. Harbrook, Mr. Edding, you too. And --" Her gaze narrowed to see Mark and Jesse already on their feet. "Gentlemen, I believe Lt. Sloan needs medical attention."

Steve found himself sitting in the same chair as before, this time bent forward, head between his knees. Jesse had taken his pulse and put a pressure cuff on his arm. "Hang on, buddy," he said quickly, "we'll get you stabilized in a minute."

Steve stirred. "Jess, I don't feel very well." His eyes fell on his surroundings, and anxiety slid into them. "What happened, Jesse? How'd I get in here?"

Jesse pushed him gently back against the chair cushion as he tried to surge upwards. "Whoa. Getting up right now would definitely be a bad idea."

Steve seemed totally oblivious to the presence of the others in the room. "No, Jess. I need to get out of here." He was starting to shake.

Judge Wharton gave Dave a sharp look, then leaned over. "Lt. Sloan?" Amazingly, her voice had softened, acquiring an almost maternal timbre, and Dave started to breathe again. She put a gentle hand on Steve's arm; he jumped slightly, but otherwise didn't object. "I'm going to call a recess. I want you to stay right here where you are until you feel better, then we'll resume." Her eyes snapped to the waiting men. "Anyone have any problems with that?"

No one did. "Good." Now Jesse received the force of her regard. "Dr. Travis. Do your job." And she moved on to Mark, who wasn't sure how he wanted to react to the strength of her personality. "Dr. Sloan? I'm going to Judge Curtis' chambers for a cup of coffee. I'd appreciate it if you and Messrs. Harbrook and Edding would join me." It wasn't a question; fascinated, he nodded and followed her down the hall.

After dumping a low-dose painkiller, an anti-nausea agent and a few bottles of juice down his best friend, Jesse pronounced him well enough to get something more solid into him, and actually succeeded in persuading Steve to eat a little. Although he wasn't particularly hungry, the inner battle Steve had fought to retain his composure after sighting Flores had sapped his stamina, and he didn't have enough energy to spare any just for the sake of annoying the young doctor. Reluctantly, he cooperated, finally feeling human enough to venture back into the courtroom, where he tried hard not to look at the huge bearded figure in the back any more than necessary.

Edding knew he was at a disadvantage; anyone with half an eye could see that the jury was leaning in Steve's favor. He tried hard anyway, poking and prying anywhere he could perceive any kind of opening in Steve's defenses, no matter how minute, with periodic success and more frequent failure. Amazingly, however, being an unsubtle man, he missed the most potentially damaging factor at all, never seeing the gradual but inexorable chill in the eyes of his intended victim, the stillness which had slowly closed over Steve's face and body, the clenched left fist.

Which Steve ached to smash into the little rat's narrow face. He was tired, so tired, of the endless rehashing of his ordeal. And Edding kept circling dangerously closely to areas of questioning where he had promised Ron he wouldn't go, or, worse yet, places he didn't dare travel for fear of unleashing Wyler's wrath on those he loved. Finally, though, Edding ran out of steam, frustrated by his inability to shake Steve's story more than slightly. "Nothing further," he growled, glaring at the exhausted witness.

Dave stood up. "Rebut, your Honor. Just a couple of questions." He walked up to the witness stand. "I know this has been difficult, Lieutenant. I just want you to answer a few more questions as best you can."

The weary eyes focused on him slowly. Steve looked like he'd run to hell and back again. "All right," he said tiredly.

"Lt. Sloan, were you acting in self-defense when you allegedly attacked Dr. Morgan?"

The words hurt, but he forced them out anyway. "Yes. I was afraid for my safety, for my life, of what the next injection would contain."

Dave waited a beat, then asked, "And did you assault Rachel Pauling?"

"No, I did not," Steve replied as firmly as he could, considering the sickness in his stomach at the thought. "She was my only link to sanity. I could never have hurt her, unwittingly or deliberately."

Dave gave him a you're-going-to-be-fine smile. "Thank you. No further questions."

Judge Wharton leaned forward. "Lieutenant? You may step down."

Steve took a long, deep breath, then another, forcing cramped muscles to loosen sufficiently to allow him to move. Somehow, he succeeded in negotiating the miles from the witness stand to the defense table, where he quickly sank into his chair after discovering his legs still didn't work quite properly.

Dave leaned in close. "Relax, Steve. You were great, far better than I could have hoped."

"Wish I could say the same," Steve muttered. "I'd rather have gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson." He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, aware of renewed distress in his injured arm.

Dave threw him a sympathetic look. "Hang in there. We've still got closing to go; and I need you to watch the jury during both arguments."

Which was not as easy as Dave made it sound. Even allowing for the predictability of the prosecution's summing up, Edding's overwrought attempt to paint him as a half-crazed addict bent on revenge was extremely distasteful, even as Steve recognized the germ of truth buried in the D.A.'s excessive hyperbole, which made him cringe.

He wasn't much more comfortable during Dave's closing. He was thoroughly sick of analyzing and re-analyzing his motivation during those last days at the clinic. But he followed his attorney's instructions, and paid attention to the jury's reactions, giving Dave a report of his observations while they waited for the jury to deliberate. The general consensus of the defense team was that the blonde was likely to be sympathetic, and several jurors in the back row looked promising.

* * *

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping that would encourage the persistent headache he had been fighting all day to disappear. It wasn't impressed, and he sighed, frustrated. "So how long do you think they'll make us wait until they put me out of my misery?" he finally wanted to know.

Dave gave him a sharp look. "Don't cave on me now, Steve, we're almost through." He didn't miss the twitching fingers, though, and added, "Too soon isn't always a good thing. And, remember, even if the charge concerning Rachel is a slam dunk, coming to a decision on the other may not be. Even allowing for extenuating circumstances, there still isn't any question that you ambushed Morgan." He looked at his watch and considered. "I figure at least a couple of hours."

Steve flung himself out of his chair impatiently, starting to cruise around the room. His father, who had been mostly quiet during the previous discussion, looked up from his notes. "Steve, Dave's right. You've done everything you can do at this point."

His son swung around, not quite violently but coming close. "Is that why I feel so damnably helpless, then?" he demanded hotly. "That's my life being chewed over in that room -- what the hell do those people know or understand about me?" The rage which he had thrust aside or stamped down for so long sensed its opportunity and made a major bid for freedom; Steve was just tired enough, sufficiently worn, that he found himself unable to care about the pending conflagration. Too late, Mark saw the blue eyes shift to stormy grey, as his son's fury flung itself outward, battering the hapless listeners.

"--Those people have no possible idea what I faced, what still crawls through my dreams, oozing poison until I don't think I can stand it anymore, that I can't escape --" he stormed, scorning their efforts to calm him down. It wasn't until the door opened as Cheryl came through, to be greeted by the latest verbal onslaught, that Steve saw her instinctive recoil and came to himself, more from shock at Cheryl's reaction than anything else. He stared at her, eyes wide, trying to find the right words, horrified that he was responsible for the sick apprehension he could see in her eyes.

"Cheryl," he croaked more or less unintelligibly. He licked dry lips, cleared his sandy throat, and tried again. "Cheryl. I'm sorry. That wasn't directed -- it had nothing to do with you." He was trembling; the cold fury took note of his momentary weakness and tried once more to push its way outward. He was prepared for it this time, however, and shoved it downward with an effort. "I -- I don't know what to say. I'm sorry." He glanced at his father and his lawyer, his eyes still wild. "Dad -- Dave -- I'm sorry."

His knees suddenly advised him to sit down before they gave out; he sagged into the nearest chair and sank his head into his hands. Mark started to move towards him, but Cheryl got there first. Steve felt the gentle pressure of her fingers on his shoulder. "Hey, partner," she said tentatively. He stirred slightly, but didn't respond; with more confidence, she told him, "It's all right, Steve. I understand. You don't have to apologize to me."

He reached for her hand with his good one. "Yes, I do. You're my partner." They were motionless for a moment, then she touched his cheek gently. "It's all right, Steve," she repeated. "Everything's going to turn out okay."

Steve glanced around at the concerned faces of the others. "I apologize. I shouldn't have let that get the better of me." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm all right now."

Dave's eyes were sympathetic. "Nothing to forgive, Steve. I'm surprised it took you this long to blow."

Now Mark did get up, and placed his hands on his son's rigid shoulders. "My feelings exactly." He kneaded the strained muscles until Steve started to relax, slowly but steadily. "Just please keep one thing in mind, son," he added.

Steve had started to let his mind wander off as the tension in his body eased. "Mmmm?"

"Talk to me first next time, okay? It might be easier to defuse the storm before it builds up too much steam."

Steve moved restlessly. "It's not always easy to see it coming -- but I'll try, Dad."

Further exploration of the subject halted as Ron came in. He shook his head in response to the looks of inquiry. "Nothing yet. The jury's still out." He slid onto a chair and stuck his hand out to Steve. "You did great. I couldn't have asked for a better witness."

Steve started to make a wisecrack about Ron's low expectations when, unbidden, a vision of the mountainous Flores smiling hopefully at him from the back of the courtroom crept into his mind's eye. "Yeah, right," he contented himself with saying, unable to repress the cold shiver which skittered up his neck. He still hadn't worked out any effective plan for dealing with that particular threat.

Ron gave him a sharp look, but didn't follow up on it, instinctively recognizing the subject was better left for another time. He started to speak, but was cut off as the rest of the crew wandered in, with the exception of Rachel, who was driving her wheelchair. She parked next to Steve and gave him her wondrous smile.

He looked around at the faces smiling at him and felt his throat close up. "You know," he managed finally, somehow grimly hanging on to whatever vestiges of his self-control remained, "I really do appreciate how lucky I am to have all of you." It was getting harder to cram the words past the lump in his throat. "I just hope I can live up to your faith in me." He was trembling again, and paused to try to stop the shaking.

His father simply smiled at him, his face full of pride. "You do, son. You always have."

There was a silence, which Dave finally broke as diplomatically as possible, advising that he was going to check on the status of the jury deliberations. He was back within minutes. "Steve? They're ready."

Chapter Thirty-One

His stomach was trying to squeeze itself up through his chest after tying itself in a series of excessively complicated knots. His heart had fled before the advancing organ and deposited itself firmly in his mouth. His palms were soaked, and his head was pounding. A stray corner of his mind informed him that he truly needed to have a long, hard talk with his excessively independent body parts as soon as a practical opportunity arose. In the meantime, his shaky nerves continued to wreak havoc on his obstreperous insides. He watched tensely as the bailiff collected the ominous piece of paper from the jury foreperson and delivered it to the judge, and wondered idly at the significance of such a frail object where a man's life was concerned.

Judge Wharton accepted the verdict form, unfolded it, and read it. Her grey-blue gaze flickered up briefly to alight on the handsome man standing before her, his face deliberately expressionless. She handed the paper back to the bailiff, who returned it to its originator, a pleasant-looking older woman. The judge glanced at Steve again, then fastened her eyes on the jury.

"Madam foreperson, have you reached a verdict?"

The woman nodded. "We have, your Honor."

Steve listened to the traditional phrases with an increasing sense of unreality. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the next ones roll out into the courtroom.

They did anyway. "Would you read your verdict, please?" the judge requested.

Now his stomach joined his heart, and his crowded throat was the only part of his body he could feel; everything else was numb. The foreperson flashed him a sympathetic look, but he was desperately focusing on the table in front of him and missed it.

"On the charges of attempted murder, assault and battery on Rachel Pauling, we find the defendant -- not guilty."

He heard and absorbed the words, but they had more or less expected this after Rachel's testimony. He didn't dare yet breathe.

"On the charges of attempted murder, aggravated assault and attempted kidnapping with regard to Dr. Frank Morgan, we find the defendant -- not guilty."

His gallivanting organs flew out of his body altogether. He had no awareness of who, where or when he was, just a sense that he was falling down an endless stairway. Turning to congratulate his client, Dave saw Steve's eyes dilate, then lose focus, and grabbed him just as the other man's knees buckled. He eased Steve back into his chair. "Steve? Steve, can you hear me?"

He could, but from far away, along with Judge Wharton's voice dismissing the charges and thanking the jury members for their time and service. With a strange sense of detachment, Steve identified his father's glad smile, and felt himself drift farther off by the second.

A cool hand burrowed into his, and the floor suddenly felt solid under his feet again. Rachel's radiant face slowly swam into focus, as he found himself belonging to his body once more. He smiled down at her, unable to speak; he settled for lifting her hand to his lips. Then a hand fell on his shoulder; he turned to meet Mark's huge grin, and enveloped his father in a fierce, if one-armed, hug. "Thanks for believing in me, Dad," he muttered thickly.

"Of course I believed in you," his father replied. "You're my son."

There was the requisite milling about while Steve collected hugs, handshakes and congratulations. If he and Cheryl embraced a little longer than the others, it went unnoticed for the most part, although Rachel caught a glimpse of something in Cheryl's eyes which gave her pause. Shortly afterwards, she snagged Steve's attention, laying her hand on his arm. He smiled down at her, and she, like the other women in his life lately, was stunned by the difference. She experienced a moment's panic; how could she possibly expect this incredibly attractive man with the irresistible smile to restrict his interest to her while she marked time in surgery and recovery, not to mention while she attempted to resolve her own ambivalent feelings.

"Steve, dear, I need to be getting back."

He moved away from the crowd a bit, pulling her with him. "Rachel --"

She beat him to the punch. "I hope you'll come visit. I'm going to be in therapy for at least a few more weeks, and of course the rest of the procedures --"

"Of course I'll come," he agreed. His tone grew more urgent. "Rachel -- about us --"

"Let's work on that as we go," she interposed quickly. He started to speak, but she shook her head. "I know what I'm doing, Steve. Our feelings for each other are entangled in trauma and misery. We both need to finish healing before we can consider making any kind of emotional commitment to another. But that doesn't mean I don't want us to get to know each other better in the meantime." She smiled at him quickly to soften the impact, even though she could discern a trace of bleakness start to seep into his eyes. "I mean, I don't know much about your real life; I only just found out that you and Jesse own a barbecue joint together!" She wondered whether to mention Cheryl, and sought refuge in cowardice. Better to wait and find out whether her impression had any kind of grounding in reality rather than complicate things further.

It wasn't the full-blown smile of minutes earlier, but it was an honest attempt as he conceded the debate. "Okay, Rachel, you win. For now. But I'm giving you ample warning that I keep my promises."

The brightness in her eyes was sufficient reward. "I know." She reached up and drew him down to her, wisteria enveloping him as he tasted her mouth. "Soon?" she whispered, and he nodded, not trusting the words to march out intelligibly.

As he watched her leave, the hovering fatigue hit him like the proverbial brick wall. Mark caught a glimpse of his son's face and suggested getting underway before any more of the day escaped. Too tired to argue, Steve agreed; as usual, his father's instincts were accurate. Exhaustion set in within minutes of his settling into the passenger seat, and he fell asleep not long afterwards, not waking until they had less than an hour to go. They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Steve said, too casually, "I'm going to go up and see her when they schedule the next operation."

"I assumed you would," Mark commented.

Steve flicked a sideways glance at his father. "Problem, Dad?"

Mark shook his head. "No, son. She's pretty level-headed."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve asked, startled.

His father gave him a critical look. "She's right, you know. You both have a lot of healing to do."

Steve flushed. "I didn't think anyone could hear us."

Mark laughed. "Steve, I've been so tuned to your every breath practically since you were found that I could probably hear you thinking down on the beach while I was still in the house."

The red deepened on his neck. "You never said."

Mark snorted. "Lots of things I don't necessarily tell you. You wouldn't have reacted too well to that as it was, the shape you were in."

There was a suddenly uncomfortable silence, and he glanced over at his son, who was staring straight ahead, mouth set. "Steve -- don't misunderstand me. We understood what you were going through."

His son's jaw relaxed slightly, but not much, and he continued to stare at the oncoming road. "I'm truly sorry, Dad. You were the last person I wanted to hurt."

Mark was starting to wish he'd never raised the subject. He pulled to a stop by the roadside and turned to face his son. "Steve, I know this is going to be difficult for you until you resolve your own inner -- conflicts. But please keep this in mind: I understand. We all do. We love you anyway."

Steve's head was bent, skin still flushed. "And the other night?"

"The other night," Mark repeated blankly. "What about the other night?"

"You told me --" Steve couldn't say it, and took refuge in understatement. "You were angry."

Mark thought for a moment, then remembered his outburst. "Oh." Silence reigned heavily, then he scratched his chin and pointed out, as reasonably as he could, that Steve had been hovering at the brink of losing it altogether, and desperate measures had therefore been required. Not that he considered the behavior which had triggered his tirade acceptable, of course, but he was willing to cut his son a little slack.

Steve listened open-mouthed. "Sounds like a no-win situation if you ask me, Dad," he remarked, although a grin was trying to make an appearance.

Mark noted the tone, and the dimple, and caved. "All right. You got me. I did mean some of those things I said, but not the way I said them. And we do love you."

"I know, Dad," Steve said quietly. "I love you too."

* * *

A full moon was drifting low in the night sky by the time they reached Malibu. Shortly thereafter, Mark pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine with a sigh of relief. "I feel like I've been driving for years," he commented.

Still tired, Steve had been drowsing, but had roused as the car slowed; now he glanced out of the window and felt his throat tighten. He started to reach for the door handle, and stopped.

His father noticed his hesitation. "You all right, son?"

After a moment, Steve nodded. "I think so, Dad." He took a deep breath and opened the car door.

Mark watched in silence as Steve made his way down towards the beach, then followed after, to drop to the sand next to his son, sprawled against that one favorite sandy hummock. They sat in perfect, wordless communion until stiff ribs started to whine, and Steve shifted his position slightly to accommodate them.

"Funny, isn't it, Dad."

"What's that, son?" Mark asked.

Steve craned his neck, glancing upward, then returned his gaze to the midnight-colored water before him. "Do you ever wonder about the irony, Dad?"

His father grunted. "Which one?"

Steve made a face. "Good point." He watched idly as the moon's reflection in the surf shattered into a myriad of tiny sparkling jewels. "Nature, I guess. There's the sea -- relentless, impersonal, inevitable. It rules so much life, but seems to be relatively untouched by it. And the light of the moon and stars doesn't change -- it's constant, totally unaffected by what goes on in our lives." He paused. "My life came so close today, Dad. My whole future -- shrunk down to a couple of hours in a jury room. And, through it all, despite it all, the moon rises. The stars survive. And that magnificent ocean prevails." He picked up a bit of shell, glanced at it, and tossed it towards the water, where it plopped satisfyingly. "That's me compared to them." Another pause.

His father's eyes were serious in the moonlight. "You reached a watershed today, son. In a way, ironically, you've been given an opportunity that not everyone gets; a chance to recognize that you've arrived at a critical point in your life, to examine and analyze, to make decisions which are likely to have a significant impact on the road you travel from here." He grimaced. "Of course, it would have been nice if you could have done it with less --"

"Unpleasantness?" Steve asked wryly.

Mark winced. "Not the best choice of words, son."

"No." He was silent, gazing at the almost indistinguishable line of the horizon, midnight blue meeting blue-black velvet. Finally, he said, "I'm going to call Captain Newman tomorrow. Grovel for my job back."

"You know it'll be desk duty," Mark commented drily, suppressing a shiver as a slightly cooler breeze drifted off the water.

Steve chuckled. "Yeah. But I'll have time for my arm to heal --" He paused, the laughter gleaming in his eyes disappearing as quickly. "-- And for me to think." He got to his feet slowly, stretching tired muscles, then offered his father a hand up.

After dusting himself off, Mark asked curiously, "Think about what?"

Steve glanced at his father briefly, then let his eyes roam back to focus on the dim horizon once more. "About making sure Morgan is convicted. And Wyler. About -- getting my anger under control." He dug absently in the sand with the toe of his shoe.

"What about the gir -- er, ladies?" Mark asked, with a trace of mischief.

Steve's neck went hot. "Dad -- I thought you said you heard Rachel and me."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "So I did."

He was tired, and not in the mood for guessing games. "Dad, what are you getting at?"

Mark sighed. Ordinarily, he would have waited for Steve to figure it out himself before making any kind of comment, but Steve wasn't thinking particularly clearly at the moment. "Son -- while you're doing your thinking, maybe you might want to give some thought to Cheryl as well."

"Cheryl?" Steve asked, startled. A stray memory of a brilliant smile and velvet lips scooted through his mind's eye and tickled it, and he felt the heat rise to his face. A good thing it was dark, he thought ironically; but, when he met his father's eyes, the expression in them made him wonder. He started to speak, and realized that his father would see through him as easily as a glass of water. He ran his good hand through his hair impatiently.

"Dad, I don't know. There's -- something -- there. But I don't know what. And Rachel --"

Mark shrugged. "You're the only one who can decide that. But what I meant earlier about Rachel -- well," he said as gently as possible, "I think she realizes that your feelings for her, and hers for you, may very well be largely based a patient-nurse relationship, and that's one reason she wants to be sure before she commits herself." He waited for some comment from his son, and, lacking one, continued. "There's the added complication that you might feel -- obligated to her for what she's gone through for you."

Steve looked away and muttered something.

"What?"

"I said, I know," Steve said reluctantly. "She told me that back in the hospital." He dug in the sand some more. "I understand that. But I'd really like to know if it is something more. She's -- she's special, Dad."

His father sighed. "I know, son." He glanced at the water, and at the house, its likely warmth beckoning.

Steve was still staring out at the ocean thoughtfully, the breeze ruffling his hair. "And Cheryl -- I guess I really do need to do some thinking." He glanced absently at his father, noticing the chilling of the wind for the first time. "You look cold, Dad. Want to go in?"

Mark stared at his son for a moment, considering an appropriate response, and discarded those which came to mind as excessively harsh given Steve's level of distraction. "Sure." He lagged behind slightly as they walked up to the house, noticing the sudden trembling of the hand as Steve reached to open the door, and put a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's good to have you back, son."

Chapter Thirty-Two

Steve sat in yet another Fresno courtroom two months later, waiting for yet another jury to render its verdict. He had been told by Randy and Dave, as well as the other lawyers involved in the class action against Wyler, that he could probably file a civil suit against Dr. Morgan, but he had postponed making any decision pending the outcome of the criminal case. As it was, a conviction would also serve not only to revoke Morgan's medical license in the state of California, but to make it extremely difficult for him to practice anywhere in the country, a consequence which had Steve's full endorsement. Although it had still been difficult for him to describe those three hellish months to outsiders, especially after catching a glimpse of the elusive Flores in this courtroom also, with the resulting unwelcome reminder of potential repercussions to the wrong kind of testimony, knowing that the doctor was facing a long jail term and the end of his medical career helped.

And Steve was slowly but definitely putting his life back together. He had recently concluded his penitential tour of duty behind his desk, Captain Newman having acted true to his promise and Mark's expectations. He had driven up to Fresno for Rachel's latest surgery a few weeks earlier; now she sat beside him, calm despite the tell-tale souvenirs from the procedure. So far, they were still tentatively making each other's acquaintance; if he sometimes chafed at the overly relaxed tempo of their dance, he had to acknowledge a certain relief at being able to allow his regard to develop more naturally, even though it meant that there was no pressing need to analyze his emotional state, as well as his feelings for Cheryl.

Which he definitely had. Once back at work, even though she was able to hit the streets while he was tied to the station, their professional relationship was clearly as strong and comfortable as ever. Yet he found himself reacting more often than not to the gleam in her eyes and brilliance of her smile when directed at him, and he realized that his responses were probably more enthusiastic than the situation might have possibly have warranted. He couldn't help but hope that she experienced a similar emotional pull, if her reactions to his own smile were any indication. He wondered sometimes if Rachel had picked up on the potential attraction, but he was grateful for the latitude to work through it himself without any additional pressure.

He was also slowly learning how to handle the kernel of anger which steadfastly remained, seemingly disinclined to abandon him, although knowing that Morgan's comeuppance was imminent had alleviated a great deal of the lingering bitterness. It had taken some time, however, and he had finally asked his father for a referral, resulting in several sessions with a therapist, but, once he had accepted the probability that the rage was looking to become semi-permanent, he had started to come to terms with the occasional fury, and was developing the ability to control or focus it constructively.

Which had been a good thing, for he had held on to his temper during his last debriefing with Ron in preparation for Morgan's trial. Ron had somehow picked up on the slight, occasional hesitation in Steve's testimony during his own case, and, recognizing that the pauses were not necessarily caused by subjects forbidden by him, had been poking at Steve about them ever since, unaware that Steve's reticence had another cause entirely. Unwilling to share the threats delivered by Wyler's minions with the FBI, Steve had successfully deflected Ron's questions. He had hated himself for doing so, but he had kept his head, reminding himself that, once Wyler was safely under wraps, he would be able to lay those fears to rest.

The door opened, and the jury trooped back into the courtroom. Twelve ordinary people, Steve thought, making a decision which would have a decisive effect on a man's life. Actually, two men's lives; even with the recovery he had made, he realized that he needed badly to see Morgan pay for his actions. His fists clenched involuntarily; Rachel started at the sudden pressure on her hand. On his other side, his father glanced over at him with concern, reassuring himself that Steve was all right.

The same transfer of paper by the bailiff to the judge and back to the jury again, and Steve listened with growing relief as the foreperson read the crucial words, determining Frank Morgan, soon to be no longer M.D., guilty of all charges beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Chapter Thirty-Three

He had come full circle, Steve thought, looking appreciatively around at his father and his friends as they celebrated on the deck of the beach house, after a lengthy and lively discussion of Morgan's trial and the government's plans for Wyler once he was tracked down. He felt profoundly grateful to them all, and said so, repeatedly, until an amused Cheryl had challenged him to put his money where his mouth was and show his gratitude by volunteering to write all their reports for the next several months. Her suggestion had been met with characteristic repartee and laughter, not only from him but the others as well, mostly at his expense. He had laughed and taken it all in stride, not begrudging the opportunity to be thus badgered at all.

His father wandered over to stand beside him, watching the sun drift down to meet the varicolored Pacific. "How are you doing, son? Holding up all right?"

Steve smiled at him, a genuine all the way to the eyebrows smile. For the first time in months, his father noticed, his eyes were truly clear. "Fine, Dad. Even with Wyler still at large, I finally feel free, like myself again." He saw a shadow pass over his father's face as Mark blinked and then smoothed out his expression once more, and fervently hoped never to be the cause of such pain and care to his father again. He swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat downwards, and slung his arm around his father's shoulders, squeezing lightly. "I'm just fine, Dad."

Father and son stood wordlessly, watching the sea they both loved in perfect, silent understanding, savoring the harmony between them. More than six months after initially embarking on his quest for enlightenment, Steve Sloan had finally come home.

Finis


Copyright 2001 by Gerry Wolfson-Grande

All characters who have appeared in the series Diagnosis Murder, together with the names, titles and the original back story are the sole copyright property of CBS and Viacom. This fanfiction is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. No profit is being made or intended to be made by this story. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

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