I sincerely appreciate Viacom and Paramount not suing me for using their characters in this story. I do it with only the most sincere affection for the characters and with the best interests of the show at heart. This story is offered free to all who love Diagnosis Murder. All I ask in return is feedback!

--Martha Kuhn

Jesse, Amanda and Mark raced down the crumbling corridor of Community General, two long strides ahead of Steve and Ron, as a new blast shook the linoleum beneath their running feet. The floor ahead of them disappeared and, before they could stop their forward momentum, the three in the lead felt themselves falling.

Lunging forward, Steve grasped his father's left shoulder as he fell into the abyss. Mark twisted toward the life-saving grip, reached up and grabbed his son's strong right arm with both hands. His father's weight and his own forward momentum dropped Steve to the floor with a force that knocked the wind out of him, but their hands locked and held. Dazed, he shrugged his injured left arm out of its sling and reached down to get a better hold on his father.

"Ron!" he gasped. "Help me!"

Ron was also flat on the floor, peering down through the dust and smoke where Amanda and Jesse had disappeared. "Amanda!"

"Ron!" Steve slid six inches further into the gaping hole.

With a despairing look, Ron crawled to Steve's side, grasped his shoulders and pulled him back from the brink. Then he reached down and gripped Mark's upper arms. Together, they pulled him back to the relative safety of the crumbling floor.

"Amanda. Jesse." Mark gasped, rolling onto his back and trying to catch his breath.

"Amanda!" Ron called in unconscious echo of Mark. He had returned to the edge of the crack as soon as he saw Mark was safe, and was again stretched full-length on what remained of the floor, glaring fiercely into the hole and shouting his lover's name. There was no response.

Mark and Steve joined him at the edge of the crack. "Jesse! Amanda!" they called. Their ears were still ringing from the explosions, but they listened with all their strength for a returned cry. No human voice answered their calls.

Ron slid one leg over the edge of the crack.

"Ron, no," Mark called.

"I have to find her," he responded, slipping further into the crack. "Steve, take care of your father."

Before Steve or Mark could move to stop him, the building spasmed like a mortally wounded animal and chunks of the floor above began to fall on the level where the three were stranded. Steve grabbed his father and moved him quickly away from the break in the floor. Ron swung his legs out of the crack in the floor, and followed Mark and Steve. As the rain of concrete grew heavier, the three of them threw themselves face-down as close to the outside wall as they could get, Steve using his body to shield his father from the falling chunks of debris.

The dust settled and there was no movement on the floor for several minutes. Then, Steve moaned softly, shrugged out from under several chunks of concrete and rolled off his father onto his back.

"Dad?" he questioned. "You okay?"

"Mostly," came his father's voice, muffled by the floor. "You?"

"I'll keep," Steve replied. "Ron?"

"Yeah, nothing broken," Ron replied, sitting up and testing his arms and legs. He rose and strode back to where the gap in the floor had been. There was no hole there now. Instead, there was a concrete slab that had been, until moments before, a large section of the floor above them.

Steve rose, helped his father up, and dusted himself down as he walked over to stand by Ron. "We'll find them," he said.

"Not this way," Ron commented bitterly, staring at the monolith which cut him off from the rescue of his lover.

"There's a stairwell over there," Mark motioned back the way they had come. "If it's still usable, we can get down a level and look for them." He led the way, and Steve and Ron followed, each with a long last look over his shoulder to where their friends had last been seen.

* * *

"Jesse?" Amanda's voice quavered in the dark. "Jesse? Are you there?" She felt around her and found nothing but debris. Rising to her scraped hands and bruised knees, she crawled a little ways in each direction that she found open, each time feeling all around and asking, "Jesse? Mark?" She gasped and jumped when her hand finally landed on something softer than concrete. A moan was the only response to her touch. "Jesse?" She discovered his face by touch, and with two fingers found a weak, rapid pulse in his throat. "Oh, Jess," she said, as she began a blind examination. Everything seemed in place until she reached his left leg. Jesse moaned as she palpated the rough edge of bone that protruded from his shin under blood-soaked scrubs. "Jess, you have an open fracture of your left tibia," she said in desperation. "I'll have to stop the bleeding fast. Hang on, pal." She dug in her purse for the pearl-handled pocketknife that Colin had given her on their first anniversary, opened it and began cutting her way through the fabric.

* * *

"Careful, Mr. Collins," Mark said, as he helped an elderly man in pajamas to step down onto the lawn from the scree of debris. "Mrs. Smith, watch your step." A small band of people in night dress was scrambling out of the ruins of CG, helped by Mark and Ron. Steve brought up the rear, a frail, white-haired lady cradled in his strong arms. As he reached the grass, a rescue worker appeared with a wheeled stretcher, and Steve gently placed his passenger on it. "You'll be okay, Mrs. Corcoran," he reassured her. "They'll take good care of you." A withered hand reached up to pat him on his cheek, and he smiled. Then the paramedics took charge of the patients and shepherded them away as Steve, Mark and Ron turned to look at the ruined hospital where their friends were still trapped.

"We couldn't leave them in there," Mark stated.

"No," Steve agreed heavily, stretching backward with a hand in the small of his back, then rolling his shoulders and grimacing.

Ron stared at the pancaked second floor. "But now we can go back in and find them," he said. "Is there another way into this mess?"

Before Mark could reply, a young nurse, dazed, bruised, and with a dark smear of blood across her temple, hurried up to him.

"Dr. Sloan? Oh, Dr. Sloan! Thank God!" she cried as she recognized him.

"Nancy? Are you okay?" Mark asked, holding her by the elbows and looking closely at her face.

"I'm fine, Dr. Sloan. It's the children. The pediatric wing is in ruins. We need all the help we can get. Please come quickly." She hurried back into the night in the direction of the children's unit. The three men looked at each other and, silently, sorrowfully and unanimously agreeing the children came first, followed Nancy.

* * *

The flashing red lights of a fleet of emergency vehicles gave the scene outside the pediatric wing a nightmare feel which was only intensified by the sight of Ron, carrying a motionless toddler gently in his arms.

"I think we're too late on this one," he said as he placed the limp child on the gurney in front of Mark. Mark, looking every one of his seventy-two years, placed the bell of his stethoscope on the small chest, listened, moved it to another spot, listened again, rolled a fragile eyelid up, shone his penlight into the small eye, then closed the lid again with a deep sigh. He shook his head, then put both hands flat on the gurney and leaned heavily on them, his eyes closed and head drooping over the still form.

"Someone is going to pay for this," Ron commented bitterly.

"How?" Mark lifted his head and met Ron's eyes. "How could any one person ever pay for all of this horror?"

"With his life," Ron answered.

"Her life," Mark corrected. At Ron's quizzical look, he explained. "It was Caitlin Sweeney. I saw her going down the elevator. She waved at me."

"So that's why you pulled the alarm. I wondered." Ron grimaced briefly. "But I've been a little too busy to ask ever since."

Mark nodded, then straightened with effort and reverently pulled a sheet up over the tiny corpse. "Steve still in there?"

"Yeah, he wanted to take a last look around. I think we've got all we can get to, though."

"He won't leave till he's sure," Mark said, pride and worry fighting for precedence in his eyes. He glanced at the entry to the makeshift tunnel that gave access to the ruined first floor of the pediatric unit. "He takes that protect and serve stuff pretty seriously."

Ron nodded. "He's a good man," he commented absently, as his gaze traveled back to the wing where Amanda and Jesse were still among the missing.

Mark saw the pain in Ron's dark eyes. "Go see if there's any news, Ron," he suggested. "I'll stay here and wait for Steve." Ron shot him a grateful look and was off without a word.

Mark felt his long legs folding under him and he abruptly sat down cross-legged on the ground, head in hands. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting away from the flashing red lights and screams, moans, and cries of the injured.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Mark lifted his head and looked into the concerned eyes of a young med tech.

"Dr. Sloan! I didn't recognize you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Hector," Mark said. "Just a little tired."

"You'd better move further back from the building, Doc," Hector advised. "They're saying it's unstable and more could come down at any time." The younger man offered his hand to Mark, who took it and gratefully allowed Hector to help him to his feet. He was dusting himself down when Ron reappeared.

"News?" Mark asked.

Ron shook his head. "Nothing. They aren't even close to digging out that area yet. Where's Steve? Maybe between the two of us we can try to find them."

"You said he was taking a last look around in there," Mark answered, nodding toward the pediatric wing.

Ron frowned. "That was half an hour ago."

"No, it was just..." Mark trailed off as he looked at Hector, who raised his eyebrows. "Dear God. Ron."

"I'm on it," Ron said over his shoulder as he turned and headed toward the tunnel entrance. Mark started to follow him, but Hector laid a cautioning hand on his shoulder and stopped him. Together, they stood and watched Ron disappear into the hole in the rubble. Barely breathing, eyes focussed intently on the opening, Mark hung suspended in a timeless dimension of fear and hope until finally Ron's head appeared again, emerging from the tunnel. Brushing off Hector's protective hand, Mark strode forward to help him squeeze out of the tiny opening.

"He's right behind me," Ron gasped, out of breath from the effort of crawling through the narrow space. Mark knelt and called, "Steve!" into the tunnel. "On my way," he heard his son's voice call in response.

Mark's sigh of relief was cut short by an ominous rumble. Ron grasped him by the waist and pulled him out of the way just as a section of the wall landed where he had been kneeling a moment before. A puff of dust emerged from the mouth of the tunnel.

"Steve!" Mark cried, pulling free from Ron's grip and climbing desperately over the fresh debris toward the opening. Ron overtook him in three long strides, pulled him back and stepped in front of him. He knelt by the tunnel mouth and called, "Steve!" There was no answer.

Ron met Mark's terrified gaze. "I'll get him," he said. "Stay here." Without waiting for an answer, he dove head-first back into the tunnel.

"Ron!" Mark couldn't bear the silence for more than a second. "Where is he? Have you found him? Is he alive?" He paused to listen. " Talk to me!"

Ron's voice drifted out of the tunnel, barely audible. "Stuck. Not breathing. Get paramedics." Mark turned to Hector, who nodded and ran back toward the emergency vehicles. Ron's feet appeared as he backed out of the tunnel. "Something to dig with," he gasped. "I have to get some of the debris out from under him, give him room to breathe, get him out." He groped around in the rubble, coming up with a two-foot metal bar, and with it crawled back into the tunnel opening. Minutes swept by as Mark listened to the sounds of digging coming from the tunnel. Then, with a series of grunts, Ron's feet appeared, an inch at a time, in the opening.

"I've got him," came Ron's voice from inside. "Pull us out of here. I can't get the leverage to move him very far very fast."

Mark gripped one of Ron's ankles, and Hector, returning with an emergency kit, ran to grasp the other. Together they pulled, and slowly Ron's legs emerged from the tunnel opening. Mark and Hector shifted their grip to his waist when it appeared and, with Ron also contributing all of his strength, the three of them pulled the lifeless body of Steve Sloan from the tunnel.

They carried Steve a safe distance from the building and laid him face up on the grass. Mark knelt by his son and placed one hand on his forehead and the other on his chest.

"He's not breathing." He opened his son's mouth. "Airway clear. Start CPR." He pinched his son's nose closed and, with a silent prayer, breathed air into his lungs as Hector compressed his chest rhythmically.

"Come on, Steve," Ron urged with quiet intensity, as Mark and Hector worked feverishly on the still form. After a few minutes, they paused to check Steve's condition.

"I've got a pulse," Hector said triumphantly.

Mark stared at his son's chest, willing it to rise. It didn't. "He's still not breathing." Mark bent again to continue administering rescue breathing. Just as their lips met, Steve gasped violently and Mark straightened and placed his hand on his son's forehead. "Attaboy, son. Keep it up," he whispered fervently. He watched his son's chest fall and waited. The next gasping breath came more quickly, the next more quickly still, and gradually Steve's respiration returned to something close to normal.

"Do you have any oxygen, Hector?" Mark asked, wiping the sweat from his face with a white handkerchief.

Hector shook his head. "I'll go see if I can scare some up, doc." He hurried away.

"Thanks." Mark called, then sat back onto the grass, keeping two fingers on the reassuringly steady pulse in his son's throat.

"That was too close," Ron stated.

"Tell me about it," Mark agreed. His hands were exploring his son's physique as they talked, searching for injuries. "Ron, we owe you..."

"Nothing," Ron interrupted. "You owe me nothing. He would have done the same for me." Mark nodded without hesitation. "So would you. " Mark looked up from his son, met Ron's eyes, and after a moment nodded again.

"Agent Wagner?" The voice came out of the night, questioning. Ron's head turned toward the sound. "Over here," he called. A rescue worker appeared, glanced from Steve to Mark to Ron, then addressed Ron. "We may have located your friends, sir. If you'd care to come with me."

"Are they alive?" Ron asked, point-blank.

"We've heard a woman's voice, sir, approximately where you said to look. She's asking for you."

Ron glanced quickly at Mark, then rose to his feet. "I'll let you know," he said to Mark, then strode off with determination.

When he returned, the first thing he saw was Steve, sitting up with a young tree as a backrest, left arm resting in his lap, right hand holding an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

"You're back," Ron said. Steve nodded, and lowered the mask away from his mouth.

"I hear you pulled me out of there," he said wearily. "Thanks."

"No problem. It was either that or have your father move the whole building off you piece by piece." Steve looked over at his dad, who smiled crookedly back.

"He's a little overprotective, but I've learned to live with it," Steve commented, raising an eyebrow in his father's direction. He turned back to Ron. "What's the word on Jesse and Amanda?"

"Amanda's okay. I spoke with her. She's not out yet, but they're working on it. She says she's fine, just bruises and scrapes."

"Jesse?" Mark asked.

Ron took a deep breath. "Alive, but not as lucky. Amanda says he has a broken leg. He's lost a lot of blood and needs medical attention ASAP. We're trying to get it to him. Or better yet, him to it."

"Let's go," Steve said, and he and Mark both struggled to their feet. Steve swayed momentarily, and his father moved to support him.

"Steve, you're in no shape to go anywhere," Mark stated.

"Neither one of you is," Ron agreed. "Steve, you almost died here." He gave Mark a long, searching look. "Mark, you've aged ten years in the past eight hours. The last thing Jesse and Amanda need is for their friends to kill themselves. The last thing this city needs is two more hospital cases. Go home and take care of each other." The Sloans looked appraisingly at each other, and worry lines creased both faces at what each saw. "I'll call you as soon as there's any news." Ron turned on his heel, and headed off into the night. Mark and Steve watched him disappear. Then they turned toward each other and for a long moment, weary beyond words, just stared.

"I'd hug you but I'm afraid I'd hurt you," Mark finally said.

"Good call," Steve responded. He carefully put his right arm around his father's shoulders, and together they limped toward the parking lot and home.

* * *

"Steve?" Mark called, questioningly. When he got no answer, he slowly, stiffly descended the stairs to Steve's apartment. "Steve?" he called again, then listened. No answer, but he did detect the sound of running water this time and headed toward Steve's bathroom. When he got there, he entered the humid atmosphere and called, "Steve?" once more, but heard only the running water of the shower in response. He slid the shower door back an inch and peeked in.

Steve was leaning against the back wall of the shower, forehead flat against the tiles, eyes closed, every muscle in his body as relaxed as it could possibly be and still hold him upright. The shower head was set on pulse and the spray was directed at the small of Steve's long back.

"You okay?" Mark called over the sound of the water.

"Mmmm hmmm." Steve murmured without moving or opening an eye.

"Back sore?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

"Amanda called."

Steve opened one eye and turned his head just far enough to see his father.

"They're at Good Sam. She's fine. Jesse lost a lot of blood, but it looks like he'll make it. Bad fracture."

Steve nodded that he had heard, closed his eyes again and turned his head back to the wall.

"You're about out of hot water."

"Mmmm hmmm."

"When you're done, let me take a look at you. Okay?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

Mark shook his head with an affectionate grin, slid the shower door closed and went to Steve's bedroom to wait. He stretched himself full-length on the double bed with a groan and was just about to doze off when he heard the water stop running. A moment later he heard the shower door slide open. Steve stepped into the room, drying his hair with one towel, a second one wrapped around his slim hips.

Mark winced at the sight of his son's naked chest. The scars of the bullets that nearly killed him and the surgeries that barely saved him stood out palely on his tanned flesh. No wonder he preferred to run the beach in a muscle shirt, Mark thought. Scars like that made people stare and ask questions that did nothing but bring up ugly memories. Fresh scrapes and deep bruises from the previous night's near miss completed the picture of a man in glorious shape and excellent health whose chosen profession kept him one step ahead of violent death. Sometimes half a step, Mark thought, and felt the familiar clench of fear around his heart. With a well-practiced effort, Mark shoved his fatherly concern to the back of his mind and put on his professional role like a protective shield.

"Lie down, Steve, and let me check you over," Mark said, as he rose from the bed and made room for his son.

"Can you examine me asleep?" Steve asked as he folded the towel and hung it over the back of a chair. "Because if I lie down, I'm going to be asleep in five seconds."

"I'll wake you up if I need you for anything," his dad said and motioned to the bed. Steve stretched out on his back with a sigh and closed his eyes. His dad started at the top and worked his way down, gently poking, prodding and manipulating.

"Tell me if anything hurts, Steve," he reminded his son as his hands carefully explored his son's physique.

"Dad, everything hurts," was Steve's exhaustion-slurred reply. "A building fell on me, for Christ's sake."

"Don't remind me," was Mark's muttered response. "Did it hit you anywhere in particular?"

"No," Steve answered. "It just settled a little. No big chunks fell on me or anything."

"Just settled a little," Mark repeated dryly. "Just enough to keep you from moving or breathing." Steve nodded, eyes closed. "Are you awake enough to roll over?" Steve responded by doing so, pillowing his cheek on his folded arms, and Mark started the examination once again on his son's back. As he worked his way down his son's shoulders and spine, Steve stiffened and gave an involuntary gasp of pain.

"Some places hurt more than others," Mark observed. "Sorry, son,"

"'Salright," Steve muttered into his arm, fading quickly back to sleep.

Mark completed his examination and sat up, frowning at his sleeping son's long, muscular back. "He should be in the hospital" came the familiar thought, followed closely by the painful realization that there was no more Community General where he could take his injured son as a safe haven. But at least his examination had convinced him that Steve had no obvious major wounds or broken bones and no clear-cut evidence of internal injuries. If he could put him in the hospital, it would be for observation and tests only. And, considering how comfortable he looked, sleeping in his own bed, and considering how pitifully swamped all the hospitals in town were with bombing victims and CG's displaced patients, Mark decided that the tests would have to wait. Observation he could take care of himself. He rose stiffly and pulled the plaid comforter up from the foot of the bed, covering his son. Then he crossed to the other side of the bed, stretched out next to his son, and was asleep in less time than it took to bunch up the pillow.

* * *

"Hey, Jess," Steve called cheerfully as he and Ron arrived on the deck of the Malibu beach house. "How you feeling?

Doctor Travis was resting comfortably in a lounge chair, left leg elevated and stretched straight by a makeshift traction device that hovered in front of him looking like the rigging of a four-masted schooner. "Hey, just smelling the surf is better medicine than Keflex," he grinned. The signs of his recent ordeal were rapidly fading in the face of his natural energy and ebullience. "I am so glad you guys sprung me from Good Sam."

"We thought you'd be better off here than lying on a gurney in the hall." Amanda smiled at him, as she handed him a plate with a pile of chips and a tuna salad sandwich on it. She greeted Ron with a kiss, then leaned against the railing beside him, and their arms entwined.

"I got to see a lot of pretty nurses as they walked by," Jesse said, raising his eyebrows.

"And Susan was none too happy about that situation," Mark added as he emerged from the house with a bowl of chips and a plate full of sandwiches. He placed the food on the table and slid into his place.

"Thank God she wasn't on duty last Thursday," Jesse commented, not for the first time. Heads nodded all around the table, and faces grew grave thinking of friends, patients and colleagues who had not been as fortunate.

"Looks like Caitlin Sweeney wasn't one of the lucky ones," Ron said. Mark, Amanda and Jesse all looked questioningly at him. "The lab has been working on identifying miscellaneous body parts, now that the whole corpses have all been claimed." Jesse put his sandwich down, looked at it, and swallowed hard. "They matched some teeth found in the wreckage with her dental records. The soft tissue attached gave a good DNA match also." Even Mark grimaced at the grisly image.

"Looks like she cut the timing a little too close," Steve commented, sitting in the chair next to Jesse and helping himself to a handful of chips and a sandwich.

Mark shook his head. "No one deserves such a fate," he mused. "But I can't deny I'm relieved it's finally truly over."

"Amen," said Steve, through a mouthful of tuna salad. Everyone followed his lead and for the next few minutes the only sounds were the crunching of chips and the pounding of the surf.

A gust of wind off the Pacific caught Jesse's napkin and swirled it behind and under Steve's chair. Amanda jumped out of her seat to retrieve it for him, but Steve said, "I'll get it," and bent and twisted without getting up, reaching for the scrap of paper. His soft gasp of pain went unnoticed by most of the party, but his father's ear, tuned to his son's voice, caught it.

"Steve?" he asked. His question made the others look at Steve, who was still bent over in his chair.

"Dad, I think I have a problem," Steve answered, voice tight with pain. Mark was out of his chair and at his son's side in a heartbeat.

"What is it, son?" he asked.

"I felt something give in my back when I reached for the napkin," Steve explained through clenched teeth. "I can't straighten up."

"The Sloan back strikes another generation," Jesse said, trying for a light tone.

Mark smiled through his concern. "I hope that's all it is," he commented as he took his son by the shoulders and slowly, carefully eased him back up into a sitting position. Steve grimaced and held the sides of the chair seat with a grip that whitened his knuckles. "I knew I should have forced you to go in for x-rays and tests."

"You tried," Steve gasped.

Mark left his right hand on his son's left shoulder and searched his face for a long moment. "Is it easing up any?" he asked as he noticed his son taking a deep breath.

Steve nodded. "A little."

"Let's get you inside and more comfortable," Mark suggested. "Take it very easy and let me help," he advised, putting a hand under his son's elbow.

Steve didn't move.

"Son?" Mark asked, concerned, as he noticed the color leaving Steve's face.

Steve looked at his father, eyes wide and full of a fear that Mark had not seen there since his son returned from Viet Nam.

"I can't move my legs, Dad."

* * *

"The MRI shows a stress fracture of the fifth lumbar vertebra," the doctor said as he pointed out the relevant spot on the test report. Then he caught himself, smiled, and said, "But I don't have to tell you that, do I?" He handed the folder over to Mark, who scanned it with a frown. Amanda, on tiptoe, tried to read it over his shoulder, gave up and peered around him instead.

"It had to have happened in the explosion," Mark muttered. "His back bothered him for days. It was just starting to get better."

"Then he twisted in just the wrong way, stressed the damaged vertebra, and . . . " Amanda trailed off.

"And caused an insult to the spinal cord," the orthopedic specialist continued for her. "An insult we won't be able to accurately assess until we get in there. Dr. Sloan, Dr. Bentley, would you like to be there when I discuss the surgery with him?"

Mark and Amanda exchanged glances. "Definitely," Mark said, and Amanda nodded.

* * *

Sunshine filtering through the venetian blinds of the recovery room cast a pattern of light and shade across the sheet where Steve's hand lay motionless. Mark listened to his son's slow, steady breathing as he gently slid his own hand under Steve's, marveling at what had become of the pudgy infant hand that had once grasped his forefinger, utterly delighting him. Now, his son's fingers were longer than his own, the hand broader, stronger. Mark's fingertips brushed the scars that covered the back of his son's hand, and he remembered his terror when Steve was missing in the midst of a wildfire. Thank God, the only long-term reminders of that near miss were the burn scars on his hands. As he glanced at his sleeping son's face, Mark wondered what kinds of scars the present ordeal would leave.

Steve's fingers twitched slightly in Mark's hand, bringing him out of his reverie. He noticed his son's eyelids fluttering and the sound of his breathing deepening and strengthening.

"Hi," Mark said softly as Steve's eyes opened fully.

Steve took a deep breath and turned his head slightly toward his father, blinking slowly, trying to focus his anesthesia-glazed vision. "Hi," he finally answered, in a voice rough with sleep.

"How are you feeling?"

There was a pause as the question sank in and was processed.

"Groggy," came the answer, eventually.

"That's about right for twenty minutes post op," Mark said, smiling. The hush of the recovery room was only broken by the low beeps and hums of monitors for another long moment.

"How did it go?" Steve asked.

"The surgery?" Steve nodded slightly. "Dr. Charles said everything went extremely well. He reconstructed the fractured vertebra and relieved the pressure it was putting on the spinal cord."

"Pressure?" Steve asked.

"Pressure," Mark replied with a sunny smile. "No break. The cord was intact."

Steve sighed deeply. "That's good news."

"The best," his father agreed.

"So I should be able to walk out of here."

"No one would be happier to see that than me."

"Want to bet?" Steve grinned through the anesthesia fog and arched one eyebrow at his father.

"You're on," Mark replied softly.

* * *

"Put your hands on my shoulders and pull. The way we practiced it. Come on, Detective Sloan, you've got good upper body strength. Use it."

Steve grimaced, but did as he was told, pulling himself up out of the chair as a burly man in blue jeans, Donald Duck t-shirt and a white lab coat grasped his waist and guided him into the passenger seat of Mark's black BMW. Once Steve's posterior was securely in the bucket seat, the man put an arm under Steve's thighs and swiveled him around to face front. Steve used his hands to reposition his long legs under the dash as the man folded the wheelchair and slid it into the back seat. "Gotta love convertibles," he commented.

"I can see physical therapy with you will be an experience, Paul," Mark said as he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. Steve stared straight ahead, face grim. Paul and Mark exchanged glances.

"Not taking it too well, is he?" Paul observed, making no effort to prevent Steve from hearing. Steve stared straight ahead. "Has he always been this quiet, doc, or did the spinal cord injury affect his vocal cords, too?" At this, Steve finally turned his head to shoot an if-looks-could-kill glare at his exuberant physical therapist.

"He's always been pretty quiet, Paul," Mark answered. "Until he gets to know you, anyway. And I have a feeling he's going to get to know you very well." Mark shook Paul's hand and crossed behind the car. He stepped over the closed driver's side door and slid into his seat. "Thanks again for all your help," he called.

"No problem," Paul said. He leaned on the passenger side door as the engine hummed to life. "Steve, see you Monday."

"Right. We'll get him there," Mark answered for his son. He waved cheerfully and the car slid smoothly away from the curb.

"Tactful guy," Steve commented once they were on the road.

"Well, you'll always know where you stand with him," Mark responded.

"Stand?" Steve asked bitterly. Mark winced at his son's tone and at the realization of his unfortunate choice of words.

"Steve, we've been over this. Spinal cord injuries take time to heal. Just because you're not walking today doesn't mean you won't be walking next week. Neurological damage is not very predictable."

"My vision came back right when you said it would," Steve countered.

"That was a head injury."

"Neurological."

"It's not the same. The spinal cord is not as forgiving as the brain. For one thing, the body has a lot more options on ways to reduce swelling in a relatively large area like the brain cavity than in a tight place like the spinal canal. For another thing..." Mark stopped in mid-thought.

"What?" Steve asked.

Mark glanced over at his son and met a pair of suspicious blue eyes. He turned his gaze back to the road. "You could have been blind for weeks, Steve. I said days at the time because you were so down about Lynn and I didn't want to discourage you."

"But you were right. It was just five days."

"I got lucky."

Steve digested this news in silence for a few miles.

"Could I have been blind permanently?" he finally asked, not looking at his father.

"Since it was just swelling putting pressure on the optic nerve, the prognosis was very favorable for a full recovery."

"But you didn't know that. The pressure could have caused permanent damage, right?"

"A sharp impact to the temple like the bullet crease that caused that insult to the optic nerve..." Mark started. His son interrupted him.

"Dad, could I have been permanently blinded by that injury?"

Mark negotiated a left turn in silence, then responded with great reluctance.

"Yes," he said. "You could have."

* * *

"Miss Templeton woke up last night," Sharon said triumphantly to Rose by way of a morning greeting.

"You're kidding. Poor thing," responded Rose as she joined her friend behind the ICU nursing station. "Did she say anything about family or friends?"

"She made some noises. But with the damage to her face, and the wires in her jaw, she couldn't actually get anything out that I could understand."

"Poor thing," Rose repeated. "I bet she was a pretty girl before the explosion, too. That long blonde hair..."

"What was left of it," Sharon interrupted.

"Well, it was pretty on the one side. I hated having to shave it off."

"You remember that?" Sharon chuckled. "That whole night is a blur to me."

"How could I forget? The team spent so much time on her and we kept thinking we were going to lose her any second. I have no idea how she survived."

Sharon glanced across the hall where, behind the ICU windows, Caitlin Sweeney lay, head swathed in bandages. The name Sarah Templeton was on her chart, taken from a Community General ID badge which was found lying next to her in the rubble.

"Sometimes I wonder if she'll thank us."

"For her life?"

"The first time she looks in a mirror?"

Rose placed her hand on the left side of her own undamaged face in unconscious empathy with the patient. "She's a nurse, Sharon, not an actress or a model. And I hope that somewhere back in Michigan there's someone who will be thrilled to learn she is alive, no matter how changed she is."

"You are such a romantic." Sharon smiled affectionately at her colleague. "But if they haven't found anyone to care in all this time, I don't think they will. She obviously pulled up her roots and came to California because she had no one left back there once her folks died. Hell of a first job the temp agency sent her on."

Rose shook her head. "You can say that again."

"Welcome to La La Land, Miss Templeton," Sharon said softly in the direction of the ICU windows. "Where all your dreams come true."

* * *

"Jess! Look at you!" Mark crowed as a flushed and sweating Jesse topped the stairs onto the beach house deck, a solicitous Susan hovering at his elbow. Jesse limped across to the table, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches and swinging his immobilized left leg wide with each step. He sank gratefully into the chair that Mark pulled out for him and, using both hands, lifted his left leg in its heavy cast onto a second chair that Susan pulled out and positioned for him. Mark handed him a handkerchief and he gratefully mopped the sweat from his brow, eyes and chin.

"Why they call this thing a walking cast I'll never know," Jesse finally commented, once he caught his breath. Mark poured iced teas for both of his guests, then leaned back in his seat.

"It is kind of a misnomer, isn't it?" he agreed. "You wouldn't want to go on a forty-mile hike in it."

"I don't even want to go back down the stairs in it," Jesse said, rolling his eyes. Susan smiled.

"You're welcome to stay, Jess," Mark stated. "You know that."

"I know. And I appreciate it," Jesse said. "But now that I can get around some, I can stay at my own place." He grinned at Susan. "Our own place," he corrected himself.

"Your place." Susan corrected his correction. "I'm just the live-in nurse."

"For now," Jesse conceded, then gave her his best soulful Basset Hound puppy look. She melted, right on schedule.

"For now," she agreed, leaving future possibilities wide open. Jesse grinned and pulled her to him for a quick kiss. Mark smiled benevolently at the young lovers.

"Hey, did I hear right?" Amanda said as she emerged from the house. "Is the Sloan Sanitarium losing its star patient?"

"If that's me, then the answer's a big yes." Jesse grinned hugely.

"You're assuming a lot," Susan answered playfully. "I would think Steve would be the star patient in his own home." She noticed the sudden silence and uncomfortable glances from the other three. "I'm sorry," she said. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Susan," Mark reassured her. "It's just that Steve isn't making the progress we had hoped."

"He's trying so hard," Susan said, and the three all looked at her quizzically.

"How do you know that?" Jesse asked.

"Everyone in the hospital knows," Susan explained. "Paul's always talking about him. He says he's never seen anyone fight the way Steve does." Three attentive pairs of eyes encouraged her to continue. "He says he usually has to keep on people to work harder at PT, but with Steve, he's always trying to slow him down, make him take it easier."

"Sounds like Steve," Jesse commented. He and Amanda exchanged a glance. "I'll never forget the way he fought his way back from that coma when you were in prison, Mark."

Mark shook his head. "I wish I could have been there."

"That's why he worked so hard, Mark," Amanda said. "He knew he couldn't help you until he could walk again, so he was on a twenty-four hour a day mission to walk."

"I've never seen anyone so driven," Jesse agreed, shaking his head at the memory. A long moment passed with no sound but the surf and the wind.

"It's not right," Mark commented to no one in particular. "It isn't fair. When he just went through that last year, to hit him with this now..."

"Mark," Amanda started. She stopped, glanced at Jesse, who met her eyes momentarily, then looked at his hands, folded in his lap. "Mark, no amount of drive or determination or PT is going to make a damaged spinal cord whole again. You know that."

Mark stared at his iced tea glass, cleared a patch of condensation from its side with his thumb, and finally nodded slightly.

"It's been a month, Mark." Amanda looked to Jesse for backup, but he, too, was studying the patterns in the condensation on his iced tea glass with great attention. She turned back to Mark. "Maybe you're not doing him a favor by encouraging him to think he'll walk again. Maybe it's time to help him through denial and to the point where he can accept his disability."

When Mark finally raised his eyes to hers, the look she saw there made her feel as if she had put a knife in the heart of her best friend.

* * *

Sounds of hammering woke Steve the next morning. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and stretched his long arms, then peered toward the window, frowning. He turned to grasp the arm of the wheelchair to hoist himself into it, but came to a dead stop when he realized it wasn't where he had left it the night before. Puzzled, he checked the other side of the bed, but no wheelchair sat waiting for him there, either.

"Dad!" he called in a voice designed to reach the far corners of the upper floor.

"Yes, son?" his father said, peering around the corner of his bedroom door and making him jump with surprise.

"Where's the chair?"

"That old thing?" Steve frowned, confused. "We had to take it back to the hospital. It was only a loaner, you know." Mark was still peering around the door frame as he spoke.

"So, does this mean I get to stay in bed all day?" Steve asked sarcastically. "There was a time when that would have sounded good to me. But right now, you'd better bring me a bedpan if you can't borrow the chair a little longer."

"Borrow? Didn't I teach you neither a borrower nor a lender be?" Mark asked with mock sternness. Steve gazed at his father with frank astonishment and exasperation.

"Dad, I'm going to have a wet bed here if you don't stop playing this little game and give me either a bucket or a way to get to the bathroom."

"Thought you'd never ask," Mark chuckled, and wheeled into the room seated in a chair the likes of which Steve had never seen. Enormous balloon tires held up a seat of blue and white striped fabric that looked more like lawn furniture than hospital equipment. Two smaller wide-gauge tires stuck out behind like an afterthought. Mark did everything but pop a wheelie on his way to Steve's bedside, but finally parked the chair, got out, and pushed it up to where Steve could reach it.

"It's a De-Bug," Mark explained as his son stared at the contraption. "A beach wheelchair. You can take it anywhere, even over the dunes and down to the water." Steve's expression didn't change. Mark hurried on. "Look, it's got a fishing pole holder and a built-in umbrella. " Mark noticed the color draining from Steve's face and tried to keep the fear he was feeling out of his voice. "I got you the recliner model so you can take a real sunbath and relax..." He trailed off and only the sounds of hammering filled the room for a moment.

"You bought this." Steve stated flatly. "For me." Mark nodded, although his son was not looking at him. He didn't trust his voice. "What's the hammering, Dad?" Steve asked in an icy tone, still staring at the new chair.

"I'm having a ramp built up to the deck," Mark answered quietly. Even in profile, Mark could see his son's face working. He waited.

"How long have you known?" Steve finally asked, so quietly Mark wasn't sure he had heard him correctly.

"Known?" he asked in response. "Known what?"

"That I was never going to walk again," Steve asked in that same deadly quiet voice.

"Steve," Mark started, but his son interrupted him.

"How long, Dad?"

"Steve, we don't know..."

"Cut the crap, Dad," he said, in a soft voice that nonetheless cracked like a whip.

"Steve, it's not crap," Mark stated. "It's the truth. We don't know. I don't know. Medical science doesn't know. A lot of things. Especially about spinal cord injuries. You could be walking tomorrow, next week."

"Bullshit."

Mark caught himself before he could reply. He took a deep breath, heard Amanda's voice once again saying "Maybe it's time to help him through denial," and ached for his son.

"Or you may never walk again." he finally said, in a tone as soft as his son's.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't need anything, Sarah?" Rose asked Caitlin Sweeney as she gave her a fond farewell hug. Caitlin smiled as best she could these days and shook her head.

"Yes, you could stay with me for a few weeks if that would help," Sharon said, obviously repeating an offer that had been turned down previously. Caitlin gave her another twisted half-smile and shook her head again. She climbed into the waiting cab, and accepted the flowers that were handed to her by another in the large group of nurses, orderlies and doctors that had gathered to see her off. She waved with her good right arm as one of the men put a new suitcase full of donated clothing and toiletries into the cab's trunk.

"Now, don't forget -- physical therapy Thursday at 9:00, speech therapy Friday at 11:00. See you then!" one of the crowd called out as the cab door closed and the cabbie turned to Caitlin to receive his instructions. It took her three tries before she could make him understand the address, but then the cabbie nodded and the big yellow vehicle glided away from the waving, smiling crowd at the curb.

"There goes a miracle of modern medicine," commented one of the doctors who had been in the ER the night of Community General's demise.

"Hey, don't discount the human factor," a nurse responded. "There goes one hell of a tough little lady."

"Poor thing," said Rose. "Alone in the world and something like this happens."

"Such a sweet, quiet little thing, too," one of Caitlin's post-ICU nurses added. "Never complained, never asked for anything."

"I sure hope some man is smart enough to see beyond those scars to what a beautiful person she is inside," Rose commented.

"You really have a high opinion of us, don't you?" one of the men in the group teased Rose.

"Just telling it like it is, Roy!" she countered, punching him lightly on the arm.

"Hey, give me six more months and you'll never know anything happened to her," Dr. Groseflus bragged, as the group milled back toward the hospital. "You'll see Sarah Templeton on the cover of Vogue this time next year!" He ducked as a chorus of good-natured groans greeted this pronouncement. Then the band of well-wishers spread out to return to their various jobs, each enjoying a warm feeling of wonder at the miraculous recovery of Sarah Templeton.

* * *

"Ron, I can't go back to Virginia as long as Mark needs me," Amanda snapped as she gathered up the lunch dishes. "I've told you that."

"Oh, I know. I've heard it too many times," Ron answered peevishly. He took a deep breath and strove for a more reasonable tone. "It has been two months, Amanda. I'm tired of a long-distance relationship. And Quantico is getting tired of being down one pathologist." The look on her face told him this argument wasn't working, so he tried another tack. "The situation is stable here. Mark doesn't need you any more."

Amanda turned to face Ron and even his FBI training didn't keep him from flinching at the look in her eyes. "Stable? Do you have any idea what the situation here is? Have you asked how Steve is lately? Have you seen him?"

"No. I haven't," Ron admitted.

"Maybe you should," she suggested, looking deeply into his eyes. She turned on her heel and left the deck, heading for the kitchen with her burden of dirty dishes. Ron stared after her for a moment, then stomped down the stairs toward Steve's apartment. When he reached Steve's private entrance, he knocked and waited.

"Sloan!" he called, and listened for an answer. There was nothing but silence behind the door. "Sloan? Are you in there?" He craned his neck, checking to see if Steve's truck was in the drive, then caught himself. "Where else would he be?" he muttered, and tried the knob. It turned, and he opened the door a crack and peered in.

The apartment was dark and his eyes took a moment to adjust from the bright sun of the beach. When they did, he saw the back of an easy chair with a pair of elbows and the top of a head sticking out beside and above it. "Sloan?" he asked, and stepped into the darkened room. As he walked around the chair, he saw a blue and white striped wheelchair with balloon tires positioned in front of the easy chair, with a pair of long bare legs propped up on it. Two more steps and he was in front of Steve, who slowly looked up at him.

"Ron. So nice of you to drop by. Come on in. Sit down. Let's chat about old times. When I was a cop." Ron frowned. The voice was right, although it was dripping with a bitterness he had never heard in Steve's voice before. Nothing else about the figure before him reminded him of the Steve Sloan he had expected to see. The auburn hair was longer than usual and looked as if it hadn't been combed since he got out of bed this morning. Or possibly the morning before. A month's growth of untrimmed beard softened the strong jaw line that the Sloan men shared, but even the beard couldn't disguise the hollows in Steve's cheeks and around his eyes. Ron could see his ribs even under the light t-shirt he wore, and the baggy shorts he had on did nothing to hide the deterioration that two months of paralysis had caused in his once-strong legs.

"Sloan, you look like hell," Ron stated.

"Nice to see you, too, Agent Wagner," Steve responded. "My dad send you down to talk to me?"

"No. Amanda."

Steve snorted. "Figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve shook his head, glanced at Ron, then away. "Nothing." Ron saw the bitterness drain away from his eyes, to be replaced by a frightening emptiness. "Nothing means anything." Steve wrapped his long arms around himself and sank deeper into the recesses of the chair. His blue eyes were wide open, but not focussed on anything, and his withdrawal from Ron was as absolute as if he had left the room.

Ron stood quietly, observing Steve, for a full minute. Then he reached under his coat and pulled his service revolver from his shoulder holster. He tossed it into Steve's lap.

Slowly, Steve returned to the present, and looked at the gun in his lap.

"Your point?" he asked.

"Use it."

"My target?"

"Depends," Ron responded. He moved around to Steve's left side, where he picked up Steve's left hand and placed the butt of the revolver in it. Steve grasped it reflexively. Ron guided his hand and dug the barrel of the gun into Steve's stomach.

"A gut shot usually hurts the most. Very messy, too. Lots of blood. And it might not kill. " Ron noticed the scars on Steve's stomach as the T-shirt rode up under the pressure of the gun. "But then, you know that. You survived one already." Steve's silence egged him on.

"A shot through the heart kills quickly," he said, moving Steve's hand up his body and digging the point of the barrel into his chest, slightly left of center. "Lots of blood, again, but then you won't be around to worry about the cleanup. If your father particularly likes this chair, we could take this somewhere else. I don't think he'd have the heart to use it afterwards." Ron saw a jaw muscle jump under Steve's auburn beard, but his eyes gave away nothing.

Ron moved the unresisting hand and the gun in it again, this time digging the barrel into the hollow of Steve's jaw, aiming upwards. "Then there's the old standby, the bullet to the brain. Got to be careful, though, or this one doesn't kill either. Just leaves you a vegetable for the next thirty years. Of course, that's what you're working on already, from the looks of you. A slightly misplaced bullet will just help the process along."

"Ron!"

"Amanda." Ron froze in position for a moment in the face of Amanda's horrified stare. "Didn't hear you come in," he commented awkwardly as he retrieved his revolver from Steve's grasp, straightened up and replaced it in his shoulder holster. Steve flexed his left hand once, then let it fall to his lap, not meeting the eyes of either of the other two.

"Ron, I want to talk to you outside. Now." Amanda's eyes were blazing, and her tone left no choice of argument or disobedience. Ron glanced once more at Steve, then marched out to face his punishment.

Amanda had walked a good distance away from the house and stood, back to him, arms folded, coiled and ready to spring. He walked around to face her.

"Honey," he began, but got no further.

"What in the name of God do you think you were doing in there just now?" she asked.

"Trying to wake him up," Ron answered.

"Trying to kill him off," Amanda contradicted him.

"Would I do that?"

"I don't know. Would you?" Amanda looked deeply into Ron's eyes. "I'm beginning to wonder whether I know anything about what you're capable of."

"Amanda, I was trying to shock him, to call his bluff."

"His bluff?" Amanda's lip curled in disbelief. "You call a major depression following a totally life-changing injury a bluff? You think he's faking insomnia and anorexia?"

"Bluff may not have been the best word," Ron backpedaled. "But he's obviously killing himself by inches now. I was just trying to make him see where it was leading, shock him into realizing what he's doing to himself."

"How many psychology classes do they offer at Quantico?" Amanda asked bitterly. Ron compressed his lips and sighed.

"Obviously not enough."

"You got that right." Amanda walked back to the house and climbed the steps to the deck.

* * *

"Yes?" Marsha Burnside spoke into the security intercom as she buttoned the cuffs of her silk blouse. Someone answered, but although she cocked her head and listened attentively, she couldn't make out what was said.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

After a pause, she heard the same voice, slowly and with obvious difficulty, enunciating, "Is Mr. Burnside in?"

"No, he's not. He's at the office."

Again, the painfully slow voice spoke into the intercom. "I need to speak with him."

"I can give you his work phone number," Marsha offered. "What's this about?" She finished with her buttons, caught a quick glimpse of herself in the hall mirror, and patted a phantom stray hair into place as she listened for the answer.

"I am a victim of the Community General Hospital bombing," the voice stated, with its odd articulation. "I understand there is a fund that was set up to help victims."

Her curiosity piqued, Mrs. Burnside flipped on the video camera and gasped at the sight of the woman on her front doorstep. "Poor thing," she exclaimed softly, then turned to open the door.

"Please come in," she invited Caitlin Sweeney. "My husband is not actively involved with the CGH Victims Fund, but I'm sure we can find out who is and put you in touch with them."

"That's so kind of you," Caitlin struggled to say. She extended her good right arm to Mrs. Burnside. "My name is Sarah Templeton."

* * *

"Soup's on!" Mark called cheerfully as he entered Steve's living room with a tray well-loaded with plates, cups, and silverware. "I made one of your favorites," he continued, as he set the tray on Steve's desk and unfolded two TV tables, placing one in front of his son and one in front of the chair he pulled up next to his son's armchair. "Meatloaf! Mom's recipe." He placed a plate full of steaming food on the table in front of Steve and another on his own table, then sat down and, out of the corner of his eye, watched his son.

"Thanks, Dad," Steve responded listlessly, looking at the food.

Mark picked up his fork and helped himself to a bite of meatloaf. "I think I finally got it right this time."

A half smile crossed his son's face momentarily. He picked up his fork and cut a bite-sized piece of meatloaf off the slab his father had served him, then pushed it around in the gravy for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he put the fork down again.

Mark's face fell. "Son, you have to eat. Please at least try."

"I do, Dad." He picked up the fork and pushed the bite of meatloaf around the plate once again, then put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed with obvious effort. "It all tastes like peat moss."

"Hey, I'm a better cook than that," Mark stated, with forced joviality.

"Dad," Steve said, throwing his father an exasperated look.

"Son, you can't afford to lose any more weight," Mark said as all traces of humor fell from his voice and face.

"Thin is in," Steve responded, creating trails in the gravy with a second bite of meatloaf.

"You passed thin about ten pounds ago. You're well on your way to emaciated."

"Makes it easier to get me in and out of that damned chair. What do I do to work up an appetite, anyway?" his son asked, bitterly.

"You could start back into physical therapy," his father responded. "Paul calls nearly every day to see if you're coming."

"Like that did me any good."

"It did, Steve. It's more important now than ever that you stay in shape. Keeps your circulation healthy, prevents muscle wasting..."

"Increases the odds of me walking again?" Steve snapped. Then he sighed. "We've had this conversation, Dad."

Mark put his fork down, too, appetite gone. "I knew I heard it somewhere before."

"A few times." Steve dropped all pretense of trying to eat. "I'm sure you're as sick of it as I am."

Both men were silent for a moment, Steve's head thrown back, eyes closed, Mark studying his son's sharp profile.

"Steve, I just worry about you."

"I know you do, Dad," he answered wearily. "You always have." He opened his eyes and gazed thoughtfully at his father. "Well, here's the good news. You can quit. I'm about as far out of the line of fire as you can get now. No more worries. You can just keep me down here like a potted plant."

Mark cringed. "You know that's not what I want."

"We don't always get what we want, do we?" Steve wrapped his arms around himself and looked away from his father. "I'm sorry I'm not you, Dad," he said to the other side of the room.

"What?" Mark asked, genuinely puzzled.

Steve looked back at his father appraisingly. "If this happened to you, how would you handle it?"

Mark shook his head, stammered, "I don't know. How could I know until it did?"

Steve snorted derisively. "I know. You'd be the talk of the hospital. 'That Dr. Sloan! Isn't he amazing? Look how he gets around! Doesn't let anything change that sunny disposition of his!'" Steve shook his head, a far-off look in his eye.

Mark's voice was quiet, with an intensity that drew his son's attention. "You, of all people, know how far from the truth that is," he said. "You saw me when your mother died."

Steve gazed at him for a moment. "No, Dad. That was the problem. I didn't see you."

Mark flinched at his son's tone. "No, you didn't," he agreed. "I ran. I hid. I withdrew. Even from you. Especially from you." Steve looked away. "No, you're not me, son. Don't apologize. I never wanted you to be. But you do have a lot of me in you." He paused, waited for a reaction, and got none. "Maybe too much."

Steve was silent, eyes closed, and Mark saw the muscles of his face working. "Steve?" he asked, and his son turned away from him, his breathing becoming strained. "Son, what is it?" Mark asked softly, knowing his son was in pain but not sure if it was physical or emotional.

"My back," he finally responded, with difficulty.

"Muscle spasm?" Mark asked. Steve nodded. "Lean forward, and let me work on it," Mark said, and his son complied.

* * *

Amanda took the heavy dinner tray from Mark as he reached the top of the stairs.

"Didn't go very well, I see," she said, looking at the two virtually untouched plates.

Mark shook his head. "He had a muscle spasm in his back. I got him to bed and rubbed it out. Maybe he can at least get some sleep now."

"Did you give him some meth?"

Mark shook his head again. "He hates the way it makes him feel."

Amanda's brown eyes snapped. "Well, you'd have to seriously underdose him anyway, considering how thin he is. Maybe he could tolerate it at that level."

"Maybe," Mark said distractedly, helping her unload the tray onto the kitchen counter.

"What did he say when you suggested hospitalization?" Amanda probed.

Mark stuck a fork in a meat loaf slab, transferred it to a plastic storage container, scraped gravy off the plate on top of the meat. "Suggested?" he asked, not looking at Amanda. "Don't you mean threatened?"

"You didn't say anything about it, did you?" Amanda asked, but it wasn't really a question. Mark's silence was eloquent. "Mark, you can't let him go on like this. He needs professional help."

"He has professional help," Mark retorted. "You. And me. And Jesse."

Amanda put down the plate she was rinsing, and turned to face her friend. "We are not the professional help he needs. We're too close. And we're not trained to treat emotional illness."

"He doesn't have an emotional illness," Mark stated emphatically, not meeting Amanda's eyes. "He has a physical injury."

"Which has caused an emotional illness. Depression. Which can be life-threatening." Amanda folded her arms and gazed at Mark, compassion and exasperation chasing each other across her eyes. Mark picked up the second plate and added its contents to the storage container in silence. Amanda watched him for another minute, then gave up and turned back to loading the dishwasher. They finished the clean-up in an awkward, uncomfortable and uncharacteristic silence.

As Mark threaded the dish towel through the refrigerator door handle, the phone rang. He crossed to the living room and picked it up. "Dr. Sloan. Oh, hi Ron," he said, keeping an eye on Amanda and noticing her stiffen at the mention of her lover's name. "I thought you'd be in Virginia by now. Or maybe you are," he chuckled. Then his face grew serious as he listened. "No, we haven't had the TV on tonight." He reached for the remote even as he spoke, and clicked the power button. The TV flared to life. "Dear God," Mark said softly as all-too-familiar images flickered across the screen. Amanda's eyebrows furrowed in concern at Mark's tone. She left the kitchen and crossed to where she could see the television, and then she, too, stood and stared as if hypnotized.

"What? Ron? Of course." Mark hung up the phone and sank into the La-Z-Boy, eyes glued to the screen. "He's coming over," he said to Amanda, and then both were quiet as they listened to the news.

"...fires still raging out of control at the California State Prison, where D.A. Neil Burnside was killed today by an explosion believed to be the responsibility of the Sunnyview Bomber." The image changed from a view of the ruined and blazing cell block to the news anchor seated behind his desk. "We are about to go live to an emergency press conference with Warden Soames." The scene shifted to a balding, slightly overweight, perspiring man standing behind a bank of microphones, clearing his throat and shuffling papers.

"We regret to confirm that the body recovered from Cell Block E-12 has been conclusively identified as that of D.A. Neil Burnside," he read into the microphones, head down. "His body was found in the cell of Carter Sweeney, the accused Sunnyview Bomber, who was being held without bond pending next month's trial. We have been unable to locate any other human remains in that cell at this time."

A babble of questions arose at this statement, but Warden Soames held up a hand for silence and continued. "We have confirmed that Mr. Burnside was admitted to the cell block earlier this afternoon on official business in the company of an unidentified woman. " The babble started up again, and again was waved down. "The woman left the prison with a man shortly before the explosion. The guard on duty at the time they left states that the man who accompanied her was wearing Mr. Burnside's clothes and sunglasses. The woman was in obvious emotional distress and the man's face was turned toward her as they passed the checkpoint." He paused. "The guard has been relieved of duty pending a full investigation."

Mark hit the mute button and turned to Amanda. "Caitlin survived," Mark stated, incredulous.

"Or he had a girlfriend we didn't know about," Amanda added.

"He blew up his girlfriend," Mark reminded her. The scene on the TV shifted from the press conference back to the studio, and Mark hit the mute button again to bring the sound back.

"We interrupt the press conference with Warden Soames to bring you this breaking news. Our roving reporter Mary Anderson was on the scene at the Burnside residence when the police arrived to notify Mrs. Burnside of her tragic loss. Mary?"

The scene shifted to a slim young blonde with a microphone, standing on the perfectly manicured front lawn of an imposing brick home. The front door was open, and the cameramen were doing their utmost to shoot down the hall and capture some images of the grieving family.

"That's right, Rick," Mary agreed. "Police arrived here approximately fifteen minutes ago, not looking forward to the unpleasant duty of telling Mrs. Marsha Burnside and the Burnside children that Mr. Burnside had been killed. However, what they found could shed more light on this tragedy. Mrs. Burnside and the children, Ruth, aged 12, and Sydney, aged 15, were discovered tied to chairs in the living room. An elaborately carved wooden box was on the floor near them. When the police arrived, Mrs. Burnside told them it was a bomb and the bomb squad was called in. However, it turned out that it was simply an empty, decorative box, carved of African walnut."

"The trademark of the Sunnyview Bomber," Rick at the studio contributed.

"That's right," Mary agreed, holding her earphone tightly against her head. "It appears from what we've been able to gather so far that a woman identifying herself as Sarah Templeton appeared on the doorstep here at the Burnside residence and asked to speak to the DA." Mark and Amanda frowned at each other when they heard this unfamiliar name but turned their attention back to the screen when the reporter continued. "Ms. Templeton stated she was a victim of the Community General bombing disaster and wanted information on the Victim's Relief Fund. Mrs. Burnside invited her in and was attempting to assist her when she pulled a gun. She held the Burnsides hostage until the DA returned home, and then used the threat of the supposed bomb to force him to take her to the prison, allegedly to visit Carter Sweeney, the accused Sunnyview Bomber. It is tragically apparent now, of course, that more than a visit was in Sarah Templeton's mind."

Mark hit the channel up button and he and Amanda spent the next half hour listening to the news reports on all the local stations. A knock at the deck door distracted them.

"Now we'll get the real story," Mark commented as he crossed the room to let Ron in. Amanda glanced at Ron through the glass of the door and then looked fixedly back at the television screen.

"Mark. Amanda." Ron said by way of greeting when he entered the living room. Amanda glanced at him and then away, so Ron directed his comments to Mark. "You've seen?"

"We've been watching the reports since you called," Mark confirmed.

"Did you tell Steve?"

Mark frowned. "No. When I left him, he was getting some much needed sleep. Why?"

"Mark, Carter and Caitlin Sweeney are both on the loose in this town. What do you think will be the first item on their agenda?"

"So it was Caitlin," Mark stated. "I knew it. Who's this Sarah Templeton who held the Burnsides hostage? An accomplice?"

"Sarah Templeton was a 48 year old LPN who spent the last twenty years of her life caring for her ailing parents on a farm outside of Germfask, Michigan. When her mother died ten weeks ago, she picked up stakes and came to LA, where she signed up with a temporary nursing agency. Her first assignment was Community General, the night of the bombing."

Mark grimaced and shook his head. Ron continued. "Because she was a temporary, she did not have a photo ID badge. Because her badge was found in the rubble next to a severely injured woman, that woman was admitted to USC as Sarah Templeton. We're running DNA tests now to be sure, but it appears that woman was actually Caitlin Sweeney."

"Didn't the FBI even try to find this Sarah Templeton's family to let them know she was injured?" Amanda asked from the couch, an accusatory edge sharpening her voice.

"Of course we did," Ron retorted. "But the woman in the hospital had suffered severe facial damage. Remember the teeth we found?" Mark nodded. "There was no point in taking a picture to verify that this was Sarah Templeton, especially when we had no reason to doubt that it was. Germfask is an extremely small and isolated village in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and apparently the Templetons kept very much to themselves. There was no other family and no close friends."

"So she decided to come check out the bright lights and the big city as soon as she was free," Amanda mused. "Poor thing."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "She must have ended up as some of the pieces we couldn't identify." Mark made a face and Ron had the grace to duck his head in embarrassment. "Mark, I've put one man on the house already and if the LAPD agrees we'll bump it to three and keep them on a twenty-four hour watch."

Mark smoothed his mustache with two fingers as he digested that statement. "You really think they'll come after us with all this media attention?"

"I think it's a real enough possibility to take preventive action, yes. I think it's just possible the Sweeneys are as obsessed with you as you are with them."

Mark let the accusation pass in silence, again lapsing into thought. "Where is he, Ron?"

"The man I have on you now?" Ron asked. "Out front."

"Good. Please do what you can to keep him out of sight of Steve's windows. As..." he paused momentarily and glanced at Amanda. She had turned back to watch the news reports on television, so he continued. "As depressed as Steve is already, I hate to think what it would do to him if he knew there was a threat like this hanging over us."

Ron frowned. "You going to steal his TV?"

"I don't think he's turned it on in a week," Mark said. "When he does, he avoids the news." Ron's frown deepened in puzzlement. "Hearing about what the LAPD is up to just makes it worse for him."

Ron nodded, glanced at the back of Amanda's head. "I understand he's not dealing with the situation very well." Amanda's head whipped around long enough to shoot a look of warning and contempt at Ron, then snapped back toward the TV. "I'm sorry, Mark."

"He'll come out of it," Mark said, as much to himself as to the others. "He just needs some time to adjust."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "I'm sure he will. It's tough for a guy like him. Not used to sitting still much. I'm not sure I'd take it any better." He glanced again at Amanda, looking for some sign of softening in her posture, but she remained rigidly focussed on the TV screen. He sighed.

Mark didn't miss the byplay between the two. "Ron, you'll stay here tonight, won't you?" He wasn't sure whether to interpret the look he got in return as "please force me to stay" or "please help me get out of here gracefully." He decided to do what he thought was best for his friends. "Amanda's in the guest bedroom. Plenty of room..." Ron's eyes widened dangerously and he surreptitiously. waved his hands, palms down, fingers spread. "Uh...plenty of room in the other guest bedroom..." Mark tried.

"You don't have another guest bedroom," Amanda said frostily, without turning around.

"I meant my bedroom. Plenty of room in my bedroom, because I'll be on the couch," Mark improvised.

"I can't take your bed...." Ron started to refuse.

"Steve's couch," Mark interrupted. "I sleep down there a lot. Just in case he needs something. Right, Amanda?"

She turned slowly around and looked at him. "I haven't noticed that."

"Well, I do. I just usually get back upstairs before you get up. Or you must think I've slept in my room all night and just gone downstairs to see Steve when you see me coming upstairs in the morning." Amanda raised her eyebrows, nodded a sure-you-do nod, and turned back to the TV. "Let me get you some clean sheets, Ron," Mark said, and bustled off toward his sleeping quarters, leaving Ron staring at the back of Amanda's head. After a moment, he shook his head, and followed Mark.

When Mark emerged, alone, from the bedroom end of the house, Amanda greeted him with fire in her eyes.

"Why did you invite him to stay here?" she hissed.

"Why don't you want him to stay?" Mark countered.

"Because he's a cold-hearted know-it-all who doesn't think before he acts."

Mark's eyebrows went up this time. "And did you come to this conclusion before or after you moved to Virginia to be with him?"

Amanda tilted her head and stuck out her chin. "After. Just recently."

"And what caused you to come to this conclusion?" Mark probed further.

Amanda looked at Mark and her brown eyes melted. "Nothing important," she muttered.

"You're lying," Mark said gently.

"Well, so are you," she responded. "You don't sleep downstairs on the couch. Your back will be a mess in the morning."

"Actually, I have slept down there quite a few nights lately," Mark said, growing serious. "The couch is pretty comfortable."

"Why?"

"Good springs?" Mark offered.

Amanda rolled her eyes at him. "You know what I meant."

Mark sighed. "When I hear Steve having another nightmare, I go down. I keep hoping I can help. But it's usually over by the time I get there. I lie down on the couch so I'll be closer if he has another. And I generally fall asleep."

"He has nightmares?"

"Frequently. You don't hear him?"

Amanda shook her head. "I bet you don't hear it when CJ turns over in his crib, either."

Mark smiled and shook his head. "Parental hearing."

"It's a wonderful thing," Amanda agreed with a rueful grin.

* * *

"Dad?"

"Just a sec." Mark shook the blanket out over the couch and picked up a pillow and pillowcase. Sticking the pillow under his chin, he walked to his son's bedroom door. "Hi." he said, pulling the pillowcase up around the pillow. "I didn't wake you did I?"

Steve was sitting up in bed. "No, I was up," he responded. "What are you doing?"

"Making up the couch."

"Why?"

"So I can sleep on it."

"Why?"

"Because Ron's sleeping in my room tonight."

"Why?"

Mark stopped shaking the pillow and gave his son a look of mock exasperation. "Son, I thought you grew out of this phase forty years ago."

Steve curled up one corner of his mouth in an almost-smile. "Why is Ron sleeping here tonight and why, if he is, doesn't he sleep in the guest room with Amanda?"

"He's sleeping here because I invited him, and he's not sleeping with Amanda because they don't seem to be getting along." He slung the pillow behind him onto the couch, then turned back to his son. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Steve raised his eyebrows and was silent for a few seconds too long. "Me? I'm just the potted plant, remember? How would I know what's going on in the world?"

Mark squinted suspiciously at him. "You know something."

Steve gave up. "OK, I do. But it has nothing to do with you."

"But it does have something to do with you?"

Steve nodded. Mark waited. Steve sighed. "Ron tried to cheer me up one day. Amanda didn't approve of his methods. That's all. Not a big deal."

"She seems to think it is. "

"Well, you know Amanda."

"Yes, I do. And I respect her judgement. I probably wouldn't have approved of whatever Ron did, either."

Steve was silent for a moment. "No, Dad, I don't think you would have. That's why I didn't mention it."

"If I knew, would I be throwing him out of the house right now instead of giving him my bedroom?"

"Probably." Steve shook his head. "But you'd be wrong. It wasn't a big deal. Just something I had already thought of." He looked into his father's eyes. "And decided against."

Mark met his eyes for a long moment. "I think I'm glad."

"You are."

Mark nodded and let it drop. "Well, if you need anything, I'll be right out here," he said as he turned to leave the room.

"Dad, that's crazy," Steve called after him. Mark turned back. "You'll ruin your back on that couch." Mark started to protest, but Steve overrode him. "Look, we only have one good back between the two of us, so we both have to take care of it. Sleep in here with me, if you're determined to give the lovebirds a chance to make up."

"I don't want to crowd you, son," Mark said.

"I don't take up much space these days. Remember? Emaciated?" Steve's half-smile took some of the bitterness out of the statement.

"How can I forget?" Mark said, looking at the dark hollows around his son's eyes, and the bones stretching the skin of his cheeks taut.

"I promise not to kick you, either," Steve continued.

"Well, that decides it," Mark stated. He went back out to the couch, picked up the pillow and the blanket, flipped off the light and returned to Steve's room.

"If you need to set the alarm, it's on your side," Steve mentioned as his father got comfortable.

"No, I don't have anything until one," Mark answered as he bunched the pillow up, then punched it down again. "I don't think there's any danger of my oversleeping that meeting."

"If you do, I'll wake you up," Steve offered.

"It's a deal."

"Ready?"

"If you are."

Steve's long arm reached out to the bedside lamp and clicked it off, plunging the room into darkness.

"Night, Dad."

"Night, son."

Both men lay still, listening to the other breathe. Before long, Steve heard his father's respiration become slow and steady, and he smiled into the darkness. At least one of them would get some rest. He adjusted his position, careful not to disturb his father, and settled in for another long night.

* * *

Mark's eyes snapped open on darkness as he felt an arm land heavily across his chest. "Steve?" he asked the blackness, but the only response he got was a tightening of the arm. It wrapped itself around him, and then he felt himself being pulled across the bed. "Steve!" he said, pushing on his son's chest to break his grip.

"No," Steve muttered, and pulled harder. "No!"

"Steve! Wake up!" Mark tried again, but it was too late. Steve pulled again and Mark suddenly felt himself falling. He landed on the floor, his son's thin body doing little to cushion the impact.

"Ouch! Damn!" Steve was awake now, obviously. He loosened his grip on Mark, who reached up to turn on the bedside lamp. In the light, he saw his son, dazedly rubbing his forehead, blood streaming from an inch-long cut in his temple. He looked up at his father and squinted in the light. "Dad?" he asked, bemused. "What are you doing on top of me?"

"Steve, don't rub that. You have a nasty gash there," Mark said as he climbed off his son's midsection. He headed into Steve's bathroom, and came out with a towel. "Here. Hold this." He placed the folded towel on the wound and put Steve's hand on it. "You must have banged your head on the footrest of your wheelchair." The chair, which usually was positioned right beside the bed, had been pushed back a few feet by the impact of their two bodies falling between it and the bed. "I'll be right back," He shrugged into his terrycloth robe as he headed out the bedroom door and up the stairs.

Amanda and Ron both met him at the top of the stairs. "Are you guys okay?" Amanda asked, concern in her voice.

"I think so," Mark answered, picking up his bag and heading back downstairs. "I'll let you know if I need any help,"

Ron and Amanda watched him go down the stairs, then glanced at each other. Amanda stiffened, tried to wrap herself more tightly in her robe, and then realized she hadn't put it on in her rush to see if Mark was all right. She gathered her silky nightgown tightly around her neck instead, turned and marched back to her room.

Ron sighed, tightened the belt of his robe, and returned to Mark's big, empty bed.

"Steve, lie still," Mark commanded as he returned to the bedroom. Steve lost his grip on the bed frame and fell back to the floor with a thud even as his father spoke.

"What choice do I have?" he asked in a voice full of pain and frustration.

"The choice we all have. To take what we're dealt and do the best we can with it." He lifted the bloody towel from his son's forehead and inspected. Then he straddled his son's waist, and bent his knees. "Let's get you up on the bed," he said. Steve lay still, head thrown back, breathing heavily.

"I hate this."

"I know you do. Now put your hands on my shoulders."

Steve reluctantly complied. "Keep your back straight," he grumped at his father.

"I will. OK, pull." Steve pulled as his father straightened his legs. Mark grasped his son under the arms and lifted, swiveled their bodies ninety degrees to the left, then lowered his son to the bed. He picked up the bloody towel from where it had fallen to the floor, refolded it so a clean side was showing, and placed it back on his son's head with a soft push. "Lie back." Steve did as he was told, while Mark lifted his unresponsive legs and swung them up on the bed. "Scoot over," Mark said, and then helped his son comply. He sat down on the edge of the bed, lifted the towel, and took another good look at the gash in Steve's forehead.

"This is going to take a few stitches, Steve."

"Terrific."

Mark dug in his bag for a syringe and an ampoule of local anesthetic. "Hold the towel here," he said, positioning his son's hand. "This is going to hurt a little."

"I'm not going to feel a little pinch?" Steve asked ruefully.

"No, that's the dentist," Mark responded. He infused the area around the wound with local, then sat back. "We'll just give that a minute to take effect," he said in his best professional tone, capping the used syringe and dropping it back in his bag. Then he sat quietly and looked at his son for a minute. "Was it a dream?" he finally asked.

"Was what a dream?" his son answered, without opening his eyes.

"Whatever it was that made you pull me out of bed."

"I did that?"

"Sure felt like it. Either that, or I was dreaming," Mark said. His son lay quietly, eyes closed. "Steve, I know you have nightmares. I hear you."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you."

Mark sighed. "Steve." He waited, but got no response. "Maybe if you talk about it..." he suggested.

"Dad, there's nothing to talk about." Steve answered wearily. "Yes, I have nightmares. But they're the kind you don't remember. You just wake up and you know you had a nightmare, but no details."

"Are they always the same?"

Steve opened one eye and shot his father a look. "How would I know when I don't remember the details?"

"Good point," Mark agreed. He tapped his son's forehead lightly, all around the cut. "Feel that?"

"Feel what?" Steve responded.

"Never mind." Mark dug in his bag and came up with a needle and suture material. "Hold still."

"What I do best," Steve muttered.

Mark slid the needle through Steve's skin on one side of the cut, then the other, then tied the first stitch. "No details at all?" he asked. Steve started to shake his head. "Steve!" Mark exclaimed.

Steve opened his eyes and saw his father with needle poised. "Sorry," he said, and closed his eyes again, holding his head still this time. "No details." They both were silent as Mark put in two more stitches. "Except.." Steve finally started to say, then stopped.

"Except what?" Mark gently probed, as he blotted the cut with the towel.

"It's not really a detail. More of a feeling. Like I've been there before. Something that really happened."

"Something recent? Or from the past?" Mark asked in a soft voice as he put a final stitch in his son's forehead.

"Recent," Steve responded.

"Can you walk?"

Steve was silent for a moment. "No. But not because my legs aren't working."

"Then why can't you walk?" Mark asked.

Steve took a deep breath and his forehead creased with the effort of trying to remember. "There isn't room. For some reason, there isn't room."

"Is there anyone else with you?"

Again, Steve struggled to grasp the elusive memory. "I think so. Someone I don't know." His eyes opened and grew wide, staring at the ceiling. "Jimmy. His name was Jimmy."

"Jimmy?" Mark asked.

Steve sat half-way up, grasping his father's upper arm in a tight grip. "A boy. A blonde boy. About seven or eight, I'd guess. Jimmy. Oh my God. Dad."

"What?" Mark frowned in concern at his son's growing agitation.

"It was real." Mark could feel his son shaking where he still held onto his arm. "Jimmy was real. God help me. I couldn't get him out. " His breathing was becoming rapid and shallow. He turned his wide-eyed gaze on his father, and Mark flinched at the pain he saw there.

"Steve, take it easy. Tell me what happened."

Steve made a visible effort to control his distress. "It was the night of the explosion. In the pediatric wing. Jimmy was stuck. Trapped. I couldn't get him out. I tried. Dad, I tried."

"I know you did, Steve." Mark reassured his son. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Steve's eyes lost focus again. "Nothing. I watched him die. I couldn't do a thing about it."

"Is that why you were in there so long after Ron came out?" Mark asked softly.

Steve nodded. "I couldn't get him out. But I couldn't leave him. He was dying, Dad. He was just a kid. And there was nothing I could do." Steve slammed his right fist into the mattress with a force that made Mark jump. Then Mark saw something he hadn't seen in thirty years, as tears formed in Steve's eyes and trickled down the sides of his face. "God! How could I have forgotten?"

"Steve," Mark said. "You did the best you could do for him. You didn't let him die alone."

"That's not enough, Dad." The raw pain in his son's voice was too much for Mark. He gently put his arms around his son.

"Dad, don't. I can't..." Steve stammered, trying to push his father away.

"I have to, son. I'm sorry." He wrapped his arms around Steve and held him tightly, feeling the resistance in his taut muscles, his bones so close under the skin. He felt the tension slowly dissolve into the hard sobs of a grown man, a strong man who has been asked to endure too much for too long. He held his son as he had held him when he was a little boy and skinned his knee, as he should have held him when he was a teenager and lost his mother. He held him for long minutes, until he felt the storm of pain and grief ease up. Then he loosened his grip, sat back and looked at his son.

Steve wouldn't meet his father's eyes, but he did accept the tissue Mark handed him and put it to good use. "Haven't done that in awhile," he finally commented.

"Too long," Mark said, wiping his own eyes and blowing his nose. "Considering all you've been through this past year. All we've all been through." Steve nodded and took a deep breath. "Jimmy? A blonde boy, around eight?" Steve nodded again. "He was my patient," Mark said.

"I know," Steve answered. "We talked," he explained in answer to his father's quizzical look. "I remember now."

"He was conscious?"

"Oh, very," Steve answered. "Told me about his family, his pets, his hobbies. His dreams." He bowed his head and closed his eyes as a fresh wave of memory and pain swept over him. "I got to know him pretty well in there, waiting for him to die."

His father put a compassionate hand on his shoulder. "He was a great kid. Nothing got him down."

"I got that impression."

"Did he tell you what was wrong with him?"

Steve looked up at his father. "Aside from a few tons of concrete falling on him?"

"No, I meant what he was in the hospital for."

"No. He never mentioned that."

"Figures."

"Why?"

Mark smoothed his mustache with his index finger. "He never did. Just got on with life."

"What was wrong with him?" Steve asked.

"He was in a car wreck. An outing with a friend's family. He was the only one to survive, and I wasn't at all sure he was going to make it for a long time."

"So he survived that just to die in the bombing."

Mark nodded, and both were silent for a moment. Mark dug in his medical bag again, coming up with a sterile gauze pad and tape. He ripped open the sterile package and folded the gauze to cover the wound, then tore off two strips of tape and secured it to Steve's forehead.

"Maybe it was for the best," Mark said carefully, not meeting his son's eyes.

"What?" Steve asked, incredulous.

"Well, he never would have had a normal life," Mark continued. He picked up the blood-soaked towel and headed toward the bathroom.

"Why not?" Steve called over the sound of running water.

"I'm putting this towel to soak in your sink, Steve."

"Dad." Mark emerged from the bathroom, carrying a hand towel and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He knelt by the side of the bed where they had fallen. "Did I bleed on the rug?"

"A little," Mark said as he poured the peroxide on the blood stain and rubbed vigorously.

"Sorry."

"No problem. I just wanted to get it while it was fresh." He stood up and headed back into the bathroom.

"Dad?" Steve asked, when his father returned with two more towels, one dampened.

"What, son?" he responded as he gently cleaned the blood and tears off Steve's face and out of his hair.

"Jimmy?" Steve reminded him. "Why wouldn't he have had a normal life?"

"Well, his legs," Mark responded, drying his son's face with the second towel.

"What about them?"

Mark furrowed his eyebrows and looked quizzically at his son. "Didn't you see?"

"Dad, he was buried in rubble up to his chest. I didn't see any part of his legs."

"You wouldn't have. He didn't have any. They were so badly damaged in the crash that I had to amputate." Steve stared at him in shock for a moment, and then Mark saw his son's eyes grow thoughtful. He got up and headed to the bathroom, as much to hide a hopeful smile as to place the towels in the laundry hamper. "Are we ready to try this again, son, or should I go back to the couch idea?" he asked as he reappeared in the bathroom door.

"No, I..." Steve started, then stopped and was silent for a moment. "I think it's safe, now, Dad," he finished with a faint grin. "I don't usually have two nightmares in the same night." He lay back on the pillow, the faraway look still in his eyes. Mark crossed to the other side of the bed, smiling inwardly, and climbed under the covers. Steve reached out a long arm and snapped off the bedside lamp.

"G'night, son."

"Night, Dad."

* * *

Mark was beaming as he climbed the stairs with the empty breakfast tray.

"He was still asleep when I woke up, and he ate like a teenager," he crowed to Amanda and Jesse. "I think we may have turned a corner last night."

"What happened?" Jesse asked. "Amanda said she heard a crash and then you came up for your bag."

"He fell out of bed," Mark answered, grinning foolishly.

"Oh, that's always a good treatment for depression," Jesse nodded sagely, rolling his eyes at Amanda.

"And cut his head," Mark continued in a silly sing-song.

"Even better." The eye-rolling got wilder.

"Four stitches!" Mark exclaimed.

"No!" Jesse cried in mock awe. "Well, no wonder he's in a better frame of mind this morning!" He widened his eyes and shrugged melodramatically for Amanda's benefit.

"Jesse, I really appreciate you coming over," Mark continued, ignoring his young friend's sarcasm. "I know he can take care of himself, but I feel better if someone else is at least in the house. Just in case."

"No problem," Jesse responded. "You still have the pay-per-view, right?"

"Yes," Mark confirmed with a grin.

"Then take your time! We wouldn't want you to skimp on the planning of the new Community General."

"Mark, we need to go," Amanda said, looking pointedly at her watch.

"I'm ready. Jess, you have my pager number?"

"Have had for years, Mark."

"Of course." Mark picked up his jacket and headed toward the door in Amanda's wake. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

"Got it!" Jesse said, picking up his cane and limping toward the door behind his friends. Mark exited as Amanda lingered in the doorway, digging in her purse.

"Don't forget your other charge," she said quietly to Jesse, who grinned.

"Don't worry. CJ will be calling me Uncle Jesse by the time you get back."

"Don't get carried away," Amanda said in a low tone.

"Hey, the J is for Jesse, don't forget."

"How could I ever forget that delivery?" She shook her head, turned, and followed Mark down the stairs, leaving Jesse to shut the door behind her.

* * *

"Damn," Steve muttered under his breath as the balloon tires on his De-Bug wheelchair hit the door frame and brought him to a jarring halt. He wheeled back and then forward again and this time succeeded in getting out the door of his apartment. He aimed the chair toward the sand of the dunes, and cautiously tested the ratcheting system. He smiled as he felt the tires dig into the sand, and he pushed on across the dunes, enjoying the feeling of the physical activity and the sea breeze on his freshly-shaved face. Sweat soon soaked the bandage on his forehead and made the fresh cut sting, but he pressed on and eventually reached the hard-packed sand at the edge of the ocean. Wheeling on that firm surface was as easy as on concrete, and Steve gratefully headed his chair down the shoreline, enjoying the sensation of being mobile and on the beach he loved.

* * *

"I don't believe it."

"What?"

"It's Sloan."

"No way." Caitlin Sweeney rose from the dune where she had been sitting and took the binoculars away from her brother. She trained them on the speck in the distance and gazed intently. "The son," she said with disappointment.

Carter Sweeney glanced at his sister's twisted face, half-hidden under a paisley scarf. It was still hard for him to look at his once-beautiful sister. "The son is perfect. What better revenge?"

"An eye for an eye?" Caitlin said, with difficulty.

"A son for a father?" her brother answered venomously. "With him, we'll get them both." Caitlin nodded, understanding. They lay in wait as Steve wheeled closer and closer to the dune that hid them.

* * *

"Momma!" CJ cried joyously as Amanda came through the door. He toddled toward her at top speed and she met him halfway, picking him up and enveloping him in a big hug.

"Hello, little man," she cooed. "Did you miss me?"

"Uncle Jesse and I watch TV," CJ said shyly. Amanda gave a grinning Jesse one of her patented looks over CJ's head. Then she turned back to her son and was all smiles.

"That's nice, honey. What else did you do?"

"Uncle Jesse singed for me," CJ added. Amanda gave Jesse the one-eyebrow-raised glare this time, and he grinned even more broadly.

"Let's do our song for her, CJ," he said, picking up Mark's guitar and strumming a C chord. "Mark, you need to hear this, too," he called to his friend as Mark entered and tossed his keys on the table.

"Sure, Jess," he agreed. "But let me check on Steve first. Did he need anything?"

"Never heard a peep out of him," Jesse said. "Of course, C. Jesse and I were pretty busy up here, weren't we, pal?" CJ ducked his head and grinned.

"C. Jesse?" Mark heard Amanda say as he headed downstairs, and he grinned, too.

He decided not to call out to his son, in case he was sleeping. When he didn't find him in the living room, he checked the bedroom. No Steve. Mark frowned, and looked around for the De-Bug. It, too, was nowhere to be seen. He quickly checked the other rooms of the downstairs apartment, and felt the first twinges of worry as he came up empty.

"Jesse?" Mark walked to the base of the stairs and pitched his voice to carry over the guitar music and singing he heard upstairs. "Jesse!" The music stopped, and he heard uneven footsteps approach.

"What, Mark?"

"Steve isn't down here. Are you sure you didn't hear anything? The phone? A knock on the door?"

Jesse came down the stairs with difficulty, favoring his left leg heavily. "Mark, I swear to you. I never heard a sound. I assumed he was asleep, or reading."

Amanda had followed him down, CJ in her arms. Together, the four once again checked every room on the lower floor. Finding nothing, they followed Mark as he opened the outside door and walked out onto the concrete footer. The tracks of four tires, two large, two small, were obvious in the sand, heading toward the beach.

"Looks like you were right," Jesse said hopefully. "He is feeling better."

"I hope so," Mark said, frowning. He followed the tracks toward the beach, his friends behind him. The tire marks were obvious until they reached the edge of the water, but then they disappeared. Mark looked both ways, up and down the shoreline. "Amanda, you go that way and see if you find the tracks again," he directed. "Jesse, you take CJ back to the house. You shouldn't be walking in this soft sand."

"I'm fine," Jesse reassured him, as he accepted CJ from Amanda. The little boy smiled in delight and wrapped his arms around Uncle Jesse's neck.

"Well, wait here, then. We shouldn't be long." Mark headed west and Amanda headed east, and Jesse, carefully folding his good leg under him, sat on the sand with CJ and kept an eye out both ways.

A respectable sand castle was rising into the air by the time Mark and Amanda returned. "No sign of him," Amanda said in answer to Mark's look.

"I saw a couple of tire tracks, I think," Mark said. "But they were pretty faint. It's hard to be sure. I can't believe he'd go that far, the first time out in a month, though."

"He's on wheels," Jesse commented, shaping wet sand into another turret.

"On sand," Mark added. "I tried that chair out on the beach. It takes a lot of upper body strength to move it, even with the ratcheting system. After a month of doing nothing but not eating and not sleeping, I don't see how Steve could have gone so far that we can't even see him. At least, not under his own power."

"Let's check with one of Ron's men," Amanda suggested. "Maybe he told them where he was going. Or maybe they at least saw something."

"Good idea," Mark agreed. Amanda took a reluctant CJ away from his castle, and Mark helped Jesse to his feet. They climbed back over the dunes to the house.

"Officer Barnes, is it?" Mark asked as he caught the attention of the patrolman in front of the house. "Did you see my son at all this afternoon?"

"What's he look like?" the officer asked.

"He would have been in a wheelchair with balloon tires and a blue and white striped seat. "

The officer took in the information with no change of expression. "Didn't see anyone like that."

"He went out the first floor door, in the back."

"Agent Wagner said to avoid that side of the house."

"Yes, he did," Mark agreed, ruefully. "And whose bright idea was that," he asked rhetorically.

* * *

"We have men checking the beach for twenty miles each way," Ron stated as he brought the others up to date on the search for Steve. "We'll find him, Mark."

"Do those wheelchairs float?" Jesse asked thoughtfully.

"Jesse!" Amanda hissed, outraged. Jesse had the grace to look shamefaced.

"No. They don't," Ron answered. "I checked. We're dragging the bay, also." He avoided Mark's eyes.

Mark shook his head, slowly and emphatically. "That's not the answer, Ron. He wouldn't do that."

"Mark," Amanda said softly. "They have to check."

"He was better this morning. Almost his old self."

Amanda hesitated, then spoke. "You know that's frequently a sign, Mark. Did he give you anything?"

"No!" Mark denied it violently. "He didn't give me anything. He just ate well and slept well and..." he stammered to a halt.

"Depression is an emotional roller-coaster, Mark," Amanda pursued. "The fact that he was up this morning could mean he was even more down than usual this afternoon."

"I will never believe that my son could take his own life," Mark stated flatly, looking from one to the other to the other of his friends. None of them was able to look him in the eyes for more than a moment. "Not even if someone suggested it to him." Amanda flashed a blazing glance at Ron, who looked away. Mark didn't miss the interaction. "He told me so, last night."

"He told you what happened?" Ron asked.

"He said you suggested something he had already thought of. And decided against."

Ron nodded, relieved. "Then let's find him."

"Now you're talking," Mark agreed.

* * *

When the call came through, they were ready for it. Ron signaled Mark and they picked up their receivers simultaneously.

"Dr. Sloan?" The polished radio talk-show host voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, Mr. Sweeney," Mark answered.

"I believe we have something of yours."

"You have my son."

"Why, yes we do. We hold his life in our hands. As you held our father's life in your hands."

"Your father killed fifty-two people. My son has never done anything but help people."

"As he's helping us even now. Helping us to get our revenge."

"What do you want?"

"You, Dr. Sloan. That's all. Just you."

"Where?"

"Oh, you'll be able to figure that out. You're the great detective."

"What..." Mark started, but a click on the other end of the line stopped him cold. He hung up the phone and looked at Ron.

"Got it," he said triumphantly. "He stayed on just a little too long."

"He probably had it timed to the second. He wants us to find him. Where is he?" Mark asked anxiously.

"Hang on." Ron spoke into the radio and listened intently. "Well, you can't say they don't have nerve. They're calling from the family workshop."

"Let's go," Jesse said, grabbing his cane and heading toward the door.

"Whoa, Jesse. You're going nowhere." Mark shook his head at his young friend.

"He's right, Jesse. With your leg still not being a hundred percent, you'd just hold us back. Come on, Mark, let's go," Amanda stated, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading toward the door.

"Whoa, Amanda. You're not going anywhere either."

"He's right on that one," Ron agreed emphatically.

"I'm not letting either one of you risk your lives for me," Mark said.

Amanda and Jesse traded looks. "Well, we're not letting you go in there alone," Amanda stated as Jesse nodded vehemently. "Mark, it's a trap. You heard him. You're the one they want. Maybe if we're along, they won't risk hurting you."

"Like they didn't risk hurting innocent people in the process of blowing up half of L.A.?" Ron asked, eyebrows raised and upper lip curled. "Amanda, these people have nothing to lose. They're obsessed with getting revenge on Mark at any cost. That's not a good situation to send anyone into." He looked regretfully at Mark, who nodded. "Let's get you wired. You two stay here." He pointed at the floor emphatically, then placed a hand on Mark's back and steered him out the door.

Amanda followed as far as the door, then watched through the glass as they got in Ron's rental car and drove off. She picked up Mark's keys from the kitchen table, tossed them in the air a few times, then clutched them tightly in her hand and headed toward the door.

"Uncle Jesse, watch CJ for me," Amanda said, and was gone before he had a chance to protest.

"Hey!" he called at the closed door, uselessly. He looked down at the toddler, playing happily with a set of blocks, and then picked up the phone. "Hi honey," he said when Susan answered. "Have I got a great surprise for you. You know how much you like kids?"

* * *

Mark crossed the street, looking both ways and seeing no signs of the police and FBI men that he knew were lying in wait all around the building. He scratched absentmindedly at his chest, felt the wire taped there, and then scratched carefully along both sides of it. He arrived at the workshop door, took one last surreptitious look around, then carefully reached out and turned the knob. It was unlocked and opened easily. "No explosion. That's encouraging," he muttered into his chest, then stepped into the smell of raw wood and lacquer, and closed the door behind him.

He walked down a corridor between workbenches, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he made out table legs and chair backs and other items of furniture in various stages of completeness. He quietly continued down the length of the shop, looking cautiously around him, especially on the alert for tripwires.

At the far end of the shop, there was a door marked "Break Room." He cautiously turned the knob and peeked in. The first thing he saw was Amanda, tied to a chair. "They have Amanda," he whispered into his chest, even as Carter Sweeney's warm and cultured voice rang out across the room.

"Don't be bashful, Dr. Sloan. Come in. Don't keep your friends waiting any longer."

Mark pushed the door open the rest of the way, and saw Jesse also tied to a chair. Jesse rolled his eyes at Mark, but Amanda just glared fiercely at Carter Sweeney.

"You do inspire a level of loyalty in your subordinates that I will never comprehend, Dr. Sloan." Carter Sweeney gestured for Mark to come further into the room, and as he did, he saw Steve, in his wheelchair, head hanging, a rope around his chest apparently the only thing holding him in the De-Bug. "Now I know that you're probably wired in places I don't even want to think about," Sweeney continued as Mark approached him. "And I know there's a battalion of uniformed officers outside listening to every word we say. And I would like to make an announcement for their benefit. This." He held up the small device in his right hand. "Is a detonator. And if I see or hear another human being in this building, I will blow it up with all of us in it."

"You can't get away with this, Sweeney," Mark said as he approached the bomber.

"Oh, Dr. Sloan. I expected better of you." He gestured gracefully towards a chair halfway between Jesse and Amanda and directly opposite Steve. "Please. Be seated. Make yourself comfortable."

"I'd rather stand."

"I don't think so," Carter Sweeney said sweetly, as he flourished the detonator. Mark sat, and Caitlin Sweeney approached him with a rope and tied him to the chair. "Now, let me explain how this is going to work. Do you see this charming African Walnut box sitting at your son's feet?"

Mark nodded.

"Well, it is a bomb. A bomb that works on a timer, not a detonator. My once-lovely sister and I are going to be leaving you momentarily. And we will set that timer for five minutes. No, no," Sweeney waved a hand at the three in mock reassurance. "Don't panic. This is a very focussed bomb. A bomb with a quite limited area of destruction. You three, seated where you are, will survive the explosion. Probably." He smiled. "Your son will not. You will have the pleasure of seeing him blown to bits before your very eyes. And you will have to live with that image the rest of your life. As we must live with the image of our father being murdered by the state of California every day of our lives. Because of you."

"You're insane, Sweeney," Jesse hissed.

"No, no, compliments will get you nowhere," Sweeney responded pleasantly. "Officers?" He spoke pointedly to Mark's chest. "You have a choice. Lose one or lose all. I think I know what you'll choose." He directed his comments to Mark now. "After all, your son was one of them once. He understands the concept of acceptable losses. And he is the logical one for them to sacrifice. After all, he's of no use to them now. Or himself, apparently." He crossed the room to where Steve sat, apparently semi-conscious, in the wheelchair, and slapped Steve's bare cheeks lightly. "Sloan Junior. Snap out of it. We know you're awake. The chloroform wore off hours ago."

Steve jerked his head away from the man's touch and fixed him with a surly glare. "Just get on with it, Sweeney. Set the timer and get out of here."

"Anxious, are we?" Sweeney smiled. "How nice to know you approve of our plan."

"You're doing me a favor," Steve snarled. "Something I didn't have the courage to do myself."

"Steve!" Mark called in dismay. His son didn't look at him.

"Just don't set it for five minutes. I don't want to wait that long. Make it two. That should give you time to get clear if it's all that focussed a bomb."

"Ah, but it wouldn't give us time to get clear of the building and the police," Sweeney said. "Maybe I should make it ten. They don't know the range of this detonator, after all. I might be able to blow you all up from Van Nuys. And I will, if anyone comes near me or Caitlin when we leave this building. For that matter, I may very well have motion detectors set in strategic locations that will also send the whole building up in smoke if law officers barge in, thinking it's safe because we're gone. Who knows?" He smiled in Steve's face, then opened the lid of the wooden box that was positioned just in front of the footrest of the De-Bug. He twisted a dial, checked the settings, closed the lid and carefully repositioned the box as if he were aiming it at Steve. "Caitlin?" he asked as he straightened up and held an arm out to her. She joined him, gave the three friends a long last look, and then the Sweeneys exited out a back door of the room.

Mark, Amanda and Jesse all began struggling furiously with their bonds as soon as the door swung closed behind the bombers. Steve sat quietly in his chair, head hanging limply, not even looking at the box. Then he raised his hands to the rope that held him in the chair and easily lifted it over his head and off.

"Steve?" Mark asked, hope creeping into his voice.

Steve tried to wheel the chair backwards, away from the bomb, but it wouldn't move. He twisted and looked behind him and saw a supporting pole blocking him. "Damn," he cursed, and tried to go forward in a sharp right turn that would let him avoid the bomb. Again, the De-Bug didn't move, and as Steve swiveled around to check why he cursed again. "They chained the chair to this post," he called out to the other three. "I should have known they wouldn't make it that easy. Even if I did manage to convince them that I wouldn't try to get away." He stared at the bomb for a moment, frowning deeply, then threw himself out of the chair and onto the floor, landing on his side with his back to his father and friends, his body curled around the bomb like a shield.

"Steve!" Amanda cried.

"I'm all right." Steve answered, his voice echoing off the back wall. "I have to defuse this thing." He raised himself on one elbow and reached gingerly for the box with his other arm. Carefully, he raised the lid and scrutinized the contents. "Dad, I don't suppose you have a nail clipper you could toss me?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I have one, but I can't toss it, son," Mark answered, still struggling to loosen the ropes that held him immobile. Steve looked back at the bomb and then again at his father, mentally calculating the timing and the odds. He lowered himself to the floor and, with sheer upper body strength, started to belly-crawl in his father's direction. Without the use of his legs, it was a painfully difficult process, and soon the sound of Steve's heavy breathing echoed throughout the room.

"Wish I had gone to physical therapy more often," he gasped as he arrived at his father's side, sat up, and reached into his right pants pocket.

"Little late for that now. Other side," Mark said, and Steve reached around him to dig in the left-hand pocket.

"Just untie us and let's get out of here," Jesse suggested forcefully.

"No time," Steve said as he started the laborious crawl back to the bomb. "Besides, are you sure he was lying about those motion detectors?"

"Probably," Jesse said with no conviction at all.

"Right." Steve again positioned his body between his friends and the box, then opened it and carefully examined the wiring.

"Cut the red one, Steve. It's always the red one," Jesse called across the room.

"Thanks for the advice, Jess," Steve grinned in spite of himself. There was no red wire, but he wasn't going to tell Jesse that. "Bomb defusing training was a long time ago."

"Don't they give refresher courses?" Jesse asked wistfully.

"I'll have to look into that, Jess," Steve replied. "Provided I live through this, of course." He placed the nail cutters on a wire and, with a silent prayer, clipped. Nothing happened. Steve stared into the box for another moment, then closed it and turned back toward his friends. "I think that did it," he gasped as he again belly-crawled to his father's side. "But I'm not willing to bet the ranch. Let's try Jesse's Plan B now." He reached his father's side again and this time went to work on the knots holding his father's hands behind his back. Long moments passed as he wrestled with the tightly knotted ropes, but finally Mark was free. He knelt behind Jesse's chair and began working on his bonds while Steve dragged himself to Amanda's chair and attacked the ropes holding her prisoner. When they were all three free, Mark headed across the room toward the DeBug wheelchair.

"Dad!" Steve called out. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting your chair," he answered.

"It's chained to a pillar and there's a bomb over there that may not have been properly defused," Steve said.

"Good points," Mark replied under his breath and reversed direction very suddenly.

"Let's just get out of here," Steve suggested as Jesse and Mark each got under one of his arms and hoisted him up off the floor.

"The way I came in should be safe," Mark said as they headed toward the door. "I don't think they took time to set motion detectors after I got here."

"Let's do it," Steve said, and the four hurried out of the room, Steve's nerveless legs dragging the floor.

Ron was waiting outside as they emerged into the daylight. "Amanda, if you ever pull a stunt like that again," he began, but was interrupted by a massive explosion from inside the building. They all five hit the deck and waited for the rain of concrete to stop. Ron was the first to raise his head. "Well, either my men got them or they were lying through their teeth and planned to blow you all up all along."

Steve raised up on one elbow and looked back at the ruined building.

"Or I clipped the wrong wire," he said, a sunny grin making him look like a teenaged kid who had just pulled a great practical joke on someone.

* * *

"Shane, that's not what the ramp was made for," Steve commented wryly as his young friend appeared on the beach house deck, pushing Steve's dirt bike and sporting a huge grin.

"Gosh, I'm sorry, Steve," he said, looking at Mark to see how much trouble he was really in.

Mark smiled. "It's okay. Just don't ride it up here."

"No problem!" Shane grinned again. "Steve, I just can't . . . I mean, I'm really sorry. . . " He stammered to a halt, unsure of how to thank his brother's mentor for the gift of his dirt bike.

"Don't worry about it." Steve looked wistfully at the white Husky for a moment, then smiled. "Just use it in good health. And always wear your helmet."

"You got it!" Shane confirmed with a thumbs-up.

"Iced tea, Shane?" Mark offered.

"Sure, Dr. Sloan," Shane accepted gratefully. He leaned the bike against the railing of the deck, next to where Steve lay stretched out in a lounge chair, and sat down at the table with Mark and Amanda to enjoy a sweating glass of Nestea with lemon.

"How's school this year?" Mark asked conversationally.

"Going great, Dr. Sloan," Shane answered with enthusiasm.

"And Maria?"

"Maria?" Shane looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh," he said finally. "Ancient history. Tessa is my lady now."

Mark grinned crookedly. "Your lady?" he asked.

As they talked, CJ toddled around the deck, his mother's watchful eyes never far from him. He approached Steve and patted his arm. Steve obligingly picked him up and set him in his lap, where he was content to stay and play with Steve's shirt buttons for a few minutes. Then, with the restlessness of the very young, he was off again, climbing down from Steve's midsection and going to inspect the big, shiny toy leaning against the railing. He reached up as far as he could and grasped the saddle of the bike. Then, overextended, he lost his balance, but not his grip, and started to fall backwards, pulling the bike over on top of him.

"CJ!" Amanda screamed, but she was too far away to do anything to prevent the imminent disaster.

Without thinking, Steve lurched out of the chair and grabbed the bike, his left hand on the handlebar and his right on the saddle. CJ sat down hard in Steve's shadow, and Amanda ran to scoop him up and out of danger's way. Then she realized what she was seeing and stopped and stared in awe at the sight of Steve, leaning hard on the bike, but obviously standing on working legs. Mark and Shane had also leaped from their chairs, and now stood gaping in wonder at the sight before them.

"Well, holy shit," Steve finally said, with a stunned but ecstatic grin. "Look what I'm doing."