Die Laughing part 3

Susan was still trembling in the aftermath of what had occurred not more than an hour earlier. She had been sitting at Jesse's bedside, clutching one cool, limp hand in her own and silently begging him to wake up, when he had coded. Instinct and training had immediately kicked in and she had slammed her hand on the call button and commenced CPR without even realising what she was doing.
The ICU team had been quick to respond to the 'code blue' call and she had found her lone and desperate attempt to save Jesse's life augmented by the duty doctor and nursing staff. Then Mark had charged into the room, his expression taut with fear before the mask of professionalism slid into place and he had supplanted her at Jesse's side as the low drone of the defibrillator added to the melee.
Banished from the action, she had found herself standing by the window, her fist jammed into her mouth, unable to tear her eyes away as the life-saving efforts continued.
Long, anguish-filled moments had passed before the monitor had suddenly jerked back into life, signalling Jesse's return. She was pretty sure her own heart had stopped during those few, terrifying seconds. She had only discovered she had stopped breathing when the first blip appeared on the screen and she had dragged in an unsteady lungful of air, giddy with relief.
Only when she was convinced that he was truly back did she allow herself to relax and then reaction set in. She had swayed unsteadily, her legs buckling beneath her and would have fallen had it not been for the firm grip around her shoulders.
Dizzy and nauseous, she had allowed herself to be led outside, not even aware of the direction in which she and her saviour were travelling until she found herself guided to a chair and helped to sit in it whereupon a firm hand persuaded her to lean forward with her head between her knees.
"Breathe, Susan," encouraged the gentle voice. "Take deep breaths and relax. It's going to be all right."
The voice had belonged to Amanda. Susan didn't even know how or when the pathologist had arrived in the ICU, but at that moment she didn't care. All she knew was that she had almost lost the man she loved and if he had died she would never be able to say 'I'm sorry.'

"Susan?"
The blonde nurse glanced round from the window where she now stood, staring out at the world beyond. Ambulances were pulling into the reserved spaces outside, offloading their passengers, visitors were strolling nonchalantly from the car park at the front of the hospital toward the entrance and all around, life seemed to be carrying on as normal.
She felt the insane urge to fling open the window and scream at everyone. Didn't they realise that life as she knew it had almost come to an end earlier that day? Couldn't they see that her heart was ripping asunder? How could they seem so unconcerned? How could they be smiling and laughing and acting as though they didn't have a care in the world when her own was filled with such pain and uncertainty?
"I … I can't lose him, Amanda," she said, in a small voice, not even turning to face the other woman. She didn't want Amanda to see her crying even though her distress was patently evident. "I just can't."
She heard a faint rustling, then the soft fall of a footstep. Gentle fingers squeezed her shoulder, the human contact only serving to amplify her misery. "We have to have faith."
She could hear the waver in the other woman's voice and remembered, belatedly, that the pathologist had known Jesse for a lot longer than she had, and loved him too in her own way. Guilt gnawed at her - they had so much in common and they should be comforting each other - yet she felt so isolated. Cocooned within her own despair, she couldn't offer anything of herself.
"If he … if he dies, I'll never be able to say 'I'm sorry'," she whispered. "I know he didn't send those flowers. He wouldn't do something like that to me. It was a cruel thing to do and if there's one thing I should know about him it's that he's not cruel."
"No, he isn't" Amanda agreed, sadly. "Susan …"
"Then why did I blame him, huh? Can you tell me that?" Susan whirled around to face the pathologist, dislodging the other woman's hand from her shoulder as she did so. Fleetingly, she acknowledged that she was taking out her anger at herself on the wrong person, but she was beyond rational thought by now. "Why would I do something like that to someone I'm supposed to love and trust?"
The attractive pathologist shook her head helplessly. "I can't answer that for you. Perhaps you needed someone to blame and he was an easy target."
"Easy target?" She could barely see Amanda through her tears but she heard the slight gasp at her derisive tone. "Just like he was an easy target for whoever tried to kill him! Why him, Amanda? Why Jesse? He's good and kind and sweet and honourable. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of it. I wish I could take it back. I wish that none of this had ever happened. I can't face losing him. I just … I don't know what I'm going to do without him. I don't!"
The grief and remorse was too much. It was too overwhelming and she felt Amanda's arms encircle her, holding her tightly as she dissolved into uncontrollable sobs.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Mark realised that he needed a shave. He also needed some sleep - a commodity that had been distinctly lacking over the past 24 hours. But as visions of his nice, warm, comfortable bed floated into his mind, he steeled himself against surrendering to the demands of his body, re-focusing his attention on the present. He hadn't left Jesse's side since he had accompanied Steve into the ICU. His son's precipitous departure had startled and alarmed him - but he knew how the younger man's mind worked. Steve was blaming himself for Jesse's condition. He was trying to figure out what he could have done different that would have prevented what had happened to his friend. The answer, as Mark knew, was 'nothing', but that wouldn't assuage Steve. He would not be satisfied until he had answers to his innumerable questions - chief amongst which was 'who had tried to kill Jesse' and why hadn't they found him before things had got this far?
If he was honest with himself - and he had little choice as his agile mind deliberated the situation whilst he kept silent vigil at his young friend's bedside - he too felt responsible. He knew, if he was being realistic and logical, that they had done everything possible to try to uncover the identity of the person who had committed all the pranks at Community General and whom they both suspected of being culpable in Jesse's 'accident'. But accepting that there was nothing else that could have been done when the latest victim was a close friend was a different matter entirely.
And it may still not be over.
There was no guarantee that Jesse would be the last person hurt in all of this. Any one of them could be targeted - at any time. This incident had only gone to prove that the perpetrator had extended his deeds outside of the hospital.
And Mark took no comfort in the fact that thus far these actions had been confined toward hospital personnel. That could change at any time.
He shuddered as this occurred to him.
Steve himself might be in danger.
And that scared Mark more than anything else.

Susan was sleeping - courtesy of emotional exhaustion and the sleeping tablets Amanda had dispensed to her, ostensibly aspirin for the headache she had developed. As she had coaxed the young woman into laying on the couch, seating herself beside her and stroking the long blonde hair, she had recalled the first time she had seen Mark use the same method on Jesse and how their young friend had groggily protested when the older man had admitted what he had done. Then, despite his determination to fight it, he had succumbed to the powerful narcotic, falling into a deep sleep, his head propped up at an uncomfortable looking angle on the cushions.
Now, watching Susan's body submit in more or less the same fashion, although lacking the knowledge of what had been done to her, Amanda briefly closed her own eyes, her vision blurring as tears filled them.
She had had little time to assimilate what had happened to Jesse, nor deal with how she felt about it. Forced to suppress her own feelings in order to provide comfort to others, she was hurting badly, unable to articulate how terrified she had been when she had heard the 'code blue' that had sent the ICU team running into Jesse's room. She had been keeping vigil from outside the room, and had stepped away for barely a moment, in order to compose herself after seeing him lying there, so pale and lifeless, with only the machines that dwarfed him keeping his body functioning. Wandering down the corridor she had taken a few deep, shuddering breaths, intending to return as soon as she was able to. When the alarm had rung out, she had found herself moving away from the wall, horror spurring her on as she recognised the source of the commotion.
Reaching the doorway, she had been forced to watch in mounting despair as they fought to save Jesse's life, before her peripheral vision had caught the figure standing apart from the action and she had swooped in to steady her as Susan's legs buckled beneath her.
Guiding her to the doctors' lounge had been a relatively easy task, and she had smiled briefly as Mark had shot her a look of weary gratitude from his place at Jesse's side.
She guessed that was where he had remained. Nothing would drag him away now, she knew.
But whilst both Mark and Susan had been given the privilege of some time alone with Jesse, she had not.
Her role in this particular tragedy had been relegated to that of comforter and whilst she was happy to perform in it, a deep resentment toward the others was simmering just below the surface.
It was going to take a long time before she could forgive herself for leaving the ICU, even though it had been only to regain the composure she was in danger of losing. The one thing Jesse did not need was for her to break down. She had to be strong and outwardly optimistic - even if that was the very last thing she was feeling inside. She was only too well aware of the fact that even seriously ill or comatose patients may be able to sense the emotions of those around them and it was therefore imperative that some hope be maintained - even where there was little to be had. She had lost hers upon looking in on the room and seeing firsthand what his terrible ordeal and the hours of gruelling surgery had wrought upon her young friend.
And no sooner had she left him than his body had given up its desperate struggle to survive.
She shuddered involuntarily as memories claimed her - recollections of happier times and the deep connection they shared. She couldn't remember what it had been like before Jesse had blown into their lives like a miniature whirlwind, with his joyous irrepressibility and the sometimes madcap enthusiasm that was impossible to contain. But those qualities were tempered with courage, compassion and a fierce loyalty to his friends - an attribute of which Amanda herself had been a grateful recipient - and she couldn't bear the thought of losing him.
She felt physically sick with fear over that very prospect.
What if he died never knowing how she felt? How truly grateful she was for his friendship, how needed he made her feel?
It was too much to bear.
Unable to suppress them any longer, she silently allowed her tears to fall, in deference to the young woman sleeping not so far away from her, praying that she would get a second chance, praying that Jesse would live.

Mark had fallen asleep, sprawled somewhat inelegantly and uncomfortably in the chair beside Jesse's bed, his arms folded, his head bowed. The occasional gentle snore rumbled through the room as his dreams took him far away from the present and its problems.
He came awake with a start, jerking upward and almost falling to the floor as a hand touched his shoulder.
"Wha …? Who …?"
Momentarily disoriented, it took him a few seconds to gather his wits about him, before blinking rapidly and focusing on the apologetic face of the duty nurse.
"Dr Sloan, we need you," she whispered.
Instantly alert now, he shot upward in the chair. "Is it Jesse?"
She shook her head. "No. It's Dr Littleton. His condition has deteriorated.
An overwhelming sense of regret filled him. "I'll be right there," he said. With a deep sigh he rose stiffly to his feet, prepared to follow the woman out. "Nurse, keep an eye on Dr Travis for me, would you?"
She offered him a sincere, sad smile. "We're already doing that, Doctor."
Yes, of course they were, he mused as he followed her out, casting an anxious glance back at his other patient, who hadn't moved since being ensconced in the ICU. Jesse was well-liked by everyone at Community General. In fact, he couldn't think of anyone who had a bad word to say about the young doctor. His accident had had a demoralising effect on all the staff, although they had all been professional enough not to show it overtly.
As he closed the door behind him, he briefly entertained the notion of what would happen should Jesse not survive. Then he forced the thought away. Despite his own gloomy prognosis to Steve and the others, he hadn't given up on his young protégé yet. He couldn't. After all, 'whilst there's life, there's hope', they always said.

Unfortunately the same couldn't be said to be true about Dr Littleton. The readings on the monitors beside his bed told Mark that there was little to no chance of recovery here. With a heavy heart he ordered up an MRI and his worst suspicions were confirmed. There was decreasing brain activity. Unless a miracle happened he would be brain dead before the next day was out.
The prankster had claimed his first victim.

"Where are those files I asked for?!"
Tanis cringed as her partner's voice reverberated through the precinct, signalling his appearance even before the man himself came into view.
"Hey, Lieutenant, when you're done alienating everyone, those files you're bellowing for are right where they're supposed to be - here."
She was subjected to a stony glare as he flopped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, then he snatched one of the offending folders from it, flicking through the pages seemingly at random, and obviously not reading it.
"You know, someone went to a great deal of trouble to find that for you. The least you could do is act interested," she observed, in a dry tone.
"I didn't ask your opinion," he growled.
She snorted derisively. "No kidding! You do realise I'm the only one speaking to you right now, and that's only under sufferance."
"Then don't."
Not at all intimidated by the asperity in his tone, she smiled disarmingly. "Hey, what can I say? Danger is my middle name."
The ghost of a smile appeared even though he seemed engrossed in the file and didn't actually make eye contact. "I thought your middle name was Mary."
Eyes widening in alarm, she glanced rapidly from side to side to make sure no-one was in earshot and then leaned forward, one hand gripping the top of the folder he was holding and pulling it down. "Hey, I told you that in confidence!" she hissed. "I don't want it becoming public knowledge!"
"Oh." He didn't meet her eyes but there was definite amusement playing around his mouth. "Well, maybe I shouldn't have told the editor of the Precinct bulletin."
"You didn't!"
He finally glanced up, a snort of laughter escaping from him. "No, I didn't," he confessed. "Got you."
Narrowing her eyes, she relinquished her hold of the file, flinging herself backward in her chair. "Think that's funny, do you?"
He shrugged. "Hey, you're the one who made a big deal out of your name."
"That's because my mom was obviously on drugs when she gave it me." That garnered her a look. "Morphine," she blustered. "I meant morphine or something - you know, one of those drugs they give you for childbirth."
"Oh. Right."
"So, what did you need in those files?" she asked, changing the subject quickly. She didn't enjoy the uncomfortable squirming her partner was subjecting her to. Even if it was only serving as a distraction from his worries.
He sighed, laying down the folder on the desk and rubbing his hands over his face. He needed a shave, he realised. And a change of clothing. The faint aroma of stale sweat drifted up and assaulted his nostrils. "I was hoping we'd have some fingerprints or forensic evidence - anything to start trying to find this guy."
"What makes you think it's a guy?"
"Whoever it is," he countered, testily. "We have to find them. Before they kill someone else."
His dad had telephoned him a few hours earlier to update him on Jesse's condition and to tell him that Littleton was lapsing further into his coma. The man would be brain dead before the day was out - only the machines to which he was attached keeping his body from following suit. The doctor had carried a donor card and Mark had allotted himself the painful task of telling his relatives and asking for their permission to utilise his organs. Littleton had been Jesse's patient, of course, but the young doctor was hardly in the position of being able to take care of this.
The news about Jesse hadn't been as discouraging. He was still with them, at least and the older man had told Steve that this was a good sign. It meant he was still fighting.
"Well, he's not just gonna give up!" Steve had snapped, then, immediately contrite at his harsh tone, had apologised to his dad.
"It's all right, son," Mark had replied. His voice had been laced with exhaustion, the younger Sloan noted, worriedly, knowing that his father wasn't going to leave his young charge alone whilst he was struggling so hard to survive. "He's tough and if there's anyone who can make it through this, then it's Jesse."
Steve had allowed himself a brief smile. His dad was right. Jesse was nothing if not resilient. And he would make it through this. He had to. There wasn't any alternative.
"It says here that they got a set of tyre tracks," mused Tanis, breaking into Steve's thoughts, as she picked up one of the files and glanced through it. "Whoever was up on the road must have burned some rubber getting out of there."
"Yeah, much good may it do us," grumbled Steve.
She glanced at him, seeing in his eyes the despair he was trying so desperately to suppress. "Hey, didn't your friend Richard Greene say that he saw a car up there when he was flying over?"
Flinging the folder he was reading down on top of its companions, Steve sighed heavily. "Yeah. But that's all he was able to tell me. He couldn't give me a make."
"Well, at least we have something." The female cop was trying her best to bolster her partner's flagging hopes, but it was going to be a tough task. "Wonder if Travis heard anything?"
"Well, we can hardly ask him, can we?" snapped Steve.
"I never said we could," she replied, mildly, silently counting to ten as she started to entertain thoughts of strangling her partner for his boorish attitude. She wasn't the bad guy here. "I was just thinking aloud."
Steve wasn't as oblivious as she imagined to his behaviour and had the grace to look abashed for his outburst. "Sorry."
She smiled. "Just don't do it again. I'm on your side here, remember?"
"Yeah, I know. It's just …"
"Hey, Travis is a tenacious little guy," she said, gently. "Don't give up on him yet."
"I haven't," he replied, unable to keep the testiness from his voice at the implication. "I never would."
"Well, we don't have much to go on." Tanis had returned her attention to the evidence - scant though it was - deciding it was best to ignore her partner's volatility for the time being. After all, it wasn't like he didn't have just cause for it and she knew it wasn't personal. "I guess we start looking for cars with this particular tyre tread on it then start narrowing it down to white cars."
Steve groaned. "You know how long that's gonna take us?"
"Yep," she replied. "So we better get started before this guy goes after someone else."

Deborah Walsh had a long and distinguished career in nursing. She had spent the last 20 years as an OR nurse, never having lost that feeling of awe as she watched whichever surgeon she had been assisting save the life that he or she held in their hands. She never tired of her job. It fulfilled her, and she marvelled each and every day at the continuing medical advances that made it possible to do now what had only been dreamt of when she had first started out in her profession. Her admiration for the surgeons with whom she worked was immense but she had been particularly impressed by Doctor Sloan's young protégé, Jesse Travis. Not only was he a talented surgeon, blessed with an intuitive brilliance in the OR that was quite phenomenal, but he was respectful to the nursing staff and his sweet, caring nature made him a favourite with the patients.
What had happened to him was nothing short of a tragedy.
She hadn't seen him since he had been brought in, the victim of a terrible car wreck which had damned near killed him. But she meant to remedy that situation as soon as she got herself cleaned up.
She had spent the last few hours assisting one of the other doctors - a skilled surgeon in his own right - as they tried to save the life of a young woman who had fallen from a 6th storey apartment. The police were investigating the incident. Her fiancé had claimed that she had slipped and the railing, which they had reported to the super as being loose, had given way as she toppled against it.
He was the main suspect.
There had been reports of domestic abuse from the neighbours - none of which had been substantiated as the young woman had denied being a victim and refused to press charges when officers had shown up to investigate. There had been unexplained bruises on her arms and down the side of her throat, however and the officers involved had formed their own theories.
Without her confirmation of the facts, however, they could do nothing.
Now it appeared that the physical abuse had escalated and her fiancé could well be looking at a murder charge - if they could prove that he had, indeed, pushed her over the rail.
That was none of Deborah's concern, however. What everyone was concentrating on in the OR was repairing her poor, broken body. Her battered emotions and wounded soul would be someone else's job - if she even survived.
The surgeon had done what he could with the limited resources that mankind had and now the young woman was lying in the ICU - in a room not far from Jesse's - her shattered bones pinned together, her ruptured spleen removed and the internal bleeding under control. For now, at least.
She had sustained a traumatic brain injury. A CT scan had shown some swelling in that region and her recovery couldn't be guaranteed.
Deborah never failed to be sickened by the waste of a good life - especially when almost the whole of that life had yet to be lived. She didn't hold out much hope for the stricken young woman and she couldn't understand the urges that pushed someone to that level of violence against another.
She sighed as she removed her scrubs, throwing them into the bin beside the door, reaching into her locker to haul out her own clothes, donning them in a hurry as a cool wind in the locker room made her shiver.
Wearily, she wended her way over to the sink, where she quickly washed her face and hands. Then, feeling a little more refreshed, she reached down for her brush, intending to draw it through her tangled hair. She wanted to look at least a little presentable when she went to visit Dr Travis. It didn't matter that he was unconscious and would be completely oblivious to how she looked. It was a matter of respect.
As she glanced in the mirror, she gasped in shock.
Her face - which she had just scrubbed with soap and water - was completely black!

Dan Thornton whistled merrily as he made his way toward the morgue. At the back of his mind he knew that it was probably disrespectful to the bodies situated in there, but at the same time, it kept his nerves in place. A man could feel real jittery down here in the basement. Although it was illuminated by fluorescent tubes it was a murky kind of light that only elongated the dark shadows and made it feel creepy.
So he whistled - and sometimes hummed - to keep his spirits up. And anyway, maybe - just maybe - it helped those poor deceased souls lying in there. Maybe they too needed a bit of cheering up.
The door creaked as he opened it, balancing his coffee and sandwich in the other hand. He frowned. He'd have to get that fixed. A bit of MD40 should do the trick. Keeping his fingers on the handle he manoeuvred the door back and forth several times, listening in order to determine the exact cause of the noise.
Ah.
It was the lower hinge.
As he stepped further into the room, a faint odour reached his nostrils. He inhaled more deeply and was overcome by a bout of violent coughing.
"What the …!" he gasped as he peered into the room, searching for the source.
The loud slam of the door behind him startled him and his coffee slid from suddenly nerveless fingers, falling to the floor, where it spilled out over the stone tiles.
A shiver ran the length of his spine as he turned back for the door. He depressed the handle.
The door remained shut.
Swallowing back rising feelings of panic, he tried again.
It didn't move.
A shadowy figure moved just beyond the frosted glass panel.
"Hey!" he called out. "Hey, I'm trapped! Help!"
The figure seemed to hesitate for a few moments before it turned and left.
"Hey! Hey, you! Come back!"
The odour was getting stronger. He had identified it now.
Gas!
He knew there were some canisters kept in one of the storerooms in the basement. He remembered someone telling him that they were intended for the gas heaters the hospital had used a good many years back, in an emergency when a brownout had occurred. That was when Community General had invested in its own emergency generators. The cost had been worthwhile as they had seen the hospital through several similar incidents.
He coughed again, his eyes streaming with tears as he struggled to breathe. But each inhalation drew more gas into his beleaguered lungs.
"Hey!"
His yell was barely more than a whisper as he fought for air.
He was feeling dizzy and sick.
His legs buckled beneath him and he fell against the door, sliding down to the cold stone tiling. He raised his hands and started clawing weakly against the metal, his mouth opening and closing as he strove desperately for oxygen, inhaling only poisonous fumes.
No-one came.
At length, his body surrendered to the effects of the gas and he crumpled in on himself, his features contorted into a permanent expression of terror and despair as he died.

The sound of giggling woke Amanda. She lifted her head from the table, suppressing a groan as the muscles in her neck and back protested the uncomfortable position in which she had fallen asleep. Frowning, she rose and, on unsteady feet, made her way across the room.
"What's going on?" she demanded in a hushed voice, in deference to the young nurse still asleep on the couch as she opened the door to find three nurses gathered at the desk outside.
"Oh, Dr Bentley, you haven't heard!" exclaimed one of the young women, grinning widely.
"Heard what?" Amanda struggled to clear the cobwebs from her mind as she focused on the other females.
"Nurse Walsh!"
"Nurse Walsh?" she echoed "What about her?"
There was another round of giggling. It was beginning to get on Amanda's nerves. How could these people be enjoying themselves when her dear friend was lying in the ICU, fighting for his life? Didn't they care?
"Somebody switched the soap in the locker room," one of the other nurses told her, oblivious to Amanda's stony expression. "She came out of there with a black face!"
"Really?"
"Yes, really!" said another, unable to contain her amusement at the image. "You should have seen her!"
"Yeah," the other one chimed in. "We should have taken a picture!"
Amanda had heard enough. Fury and outrage at the fun these insensitive girls were having at Deborah Walsh's expense combined with the stress of the last few hours. "How dare you!" she hissed, whirling on the unsuspecting nurses. "How dare you make fun of someone as conscientious, as sweet a person as Deborah Walsh! She's worth ten of you! And how would you like it if it happened to you, hmm? You wouldn't be laughing so hard then, would you? Don't you realise that the person who did this is the same maniac who is responsible for Jesse Travis lying in the ICU? He's responsible for Doctor Littleton being in a coma? Do you find that funny? Well? Do you?"
Shocked and surprised by the pathologist's outburst, all the young women could do was gape at her. Then one of them tried to stammer an apology.
"Dr Bentley, we're sorry. We never meant any harm. It was just …"
"What?" she demanded, coldly. "You didn't think? You thought it was amusing to find pleasure in someone else's misfortune? Well, grow up! I'm disgusted with your behaviour and so will Dr Sloan be when I tell him!"
Truly alarmed now, the girls exchanged looks of horror. "Oh no, Dr Bentley, please! Don't tell Dr Sloan! Please don't get us into trouble!"
It was the wrong thing to say to the incensed pathologist. She smiled nastily. "Is that all you care about?" she snarled. "That you'll be in trouble? Don't you care anything about the victims of this person? Is that how shallow you all are? You don't deserve to be in this profession and I shall tell not only Doctor Sloan, but the nursing administrator. Let's see how funny you find that!"
Before any of them could react to that particular threat, she turned on her heel, re-entered the room she had just left and slammed the door, the blind over the glass panel crashing backwards and forwards in the reverberation from the violent action.
But even this did nothing to assuage her wrath. Fists clenched and shaking with reaction, Amanda leaned against the wall, battling to regain her composure.
"Amanda."
The quiet voice broke through the pathologist's rampaging emotions and she turned her head in the direction of the couch, from which the sound had emanated. "Susan …" Guilt flooded through Amanda at the realisation that she had awoken the other woman. "Oh Susan, I'm sorry …"
"It's all right, Amanda." The blonde pushed herself to an upright position, blinking sleepily at her companion. "I've been awake for a while now. I … heard what you said to those nurses."
"They deserved it." The pathologist was still furious with the other women although she knew she wouldn't be going through with her threat to tell Mark. He had enough to worry about. He shouldn't have to deal with the bitchiness of the staff on top of everything else.
The pretty blonde nurse smiled sadly. "Amanda, I've been the butt of the jokes and it isn't pleasant. But even so, it's not the worst thing in the world."
"I don't know how you can say that!" came the rejoinder. "Susan …"
"No." Susan cut her off before she could say any more. "Amanda, a few days ago, you might well have been joining in. Before this all happened … " She waved her arms helplessly in the direction of the ICU. "Well, I might have, too. But just because our lives have changed it doesn't mean that everyone else's has too. I just wish …"
"You just wish what?" asked Amanda gently as Susan's voice trailed away and she ducked her head. "Susan? Honey?"
There was silence for a few moments then, when the young nurse did speak again it sounded as though she was crying. "I wish I could have joined in with them. I wish it didn't feel like my life was over."
When she lifted her head again, Amanda was dismayed to find tears once more streaming down the young nurse's face. "Oh, Susan …. "

"His name's Dan Thornton. He's a janitor here."
Steve nodded as the head of security identified the body that had been found in the morgue. The alarm had been raised about half an hour before and he and Tanis had been called in because the man had been murdered at the hospital - the scene of the prank that had cost Dr Littleton his life, Steve's father having called earlier to tell him that the other man had been declared brain dead.
Shaking his head, the detective stared down at the twisted form as he knelt beside it. Thornton's face was twisted into a grotesque mask of fear and his fingers had frozen into place against the door as rigor mortis set in. Large indentations that resembled scratch marks were evident on the cold steel surface, silent testament to the victim's desperate attempts to escape his fate.
"He was gassed to death." Tanis squatted beside him as she finished speaking with the uniforms that had arrived on the scene first. They had located the canisters at the back of the room. One of them had been in the 'on' position and had emptied itself. It had been three-quarters empty but there had been sufficient vapour remaining to kill anyone if it escaped into an enclosed space. And someone had made certain that it had.
"I want this area cordoned off," Steve said, a little unnecessarily as the two uniforms began to string the yellow tape around the room. "And I want it dusted for prints."
"You're not gonna find any, you know."
He grimaced in response to Tanis's words, silently acknowledging the truth in them. He didn't truly expect to find anything. So far, the perpetrator had made no mistakes, leaving nothing of himself or herself behind. That suggested that everything had been meticulously planned. It also denoted a high level of intelligence. It would need more than good police work to crack this case. It would need a miracle. "Maybe he's been careless," he said. "In any case, we can't take any chances. Dust the outside of the door as well. Someone had to lock this guy in here and it was done from the outside."
"He was probably wearing gloves," Tanis pointed out, then, at the glare she received, went on. "Right. Door. Prints. On it."
Steve smiled grimly as she rose to her feet and directed the forensic team toward the areas he had specified. The expression faded as he returned his attention to the dead man. Thornton had obviously fought hard to escape but he had never stood a chance once the door had been locked. The thickness of the steel and the location of the morgue, in an area which was not exactly well populated, had sealed his fate. It had only been chance that someone had found him. An elderly man had finally succumbed to the emphysema that had been plaguing him and the orderlies had brought his body down to be stored until his next of kin claimed him. They had found the door to the morgue securely bolted and, once they had located the key to unlock it, Thornton's corpse had blocked the way.
"Steve?"
The detective's head shot up at the sound of his father's voice. Mark was standing a short distance away. He looked haggard and his shoulders were slumped with the fatigue that seemed to permanently enshroud him. "Dad …"
"Oh no." Mark's utterance of horror interrupted him as the older Sloan stepped forward, his progress impeded by one of the uniformed cops.
"I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to stay back. This is a murder scene."
"It's all right, Sergeant," Steve interjected, rising to his feet and moving forward in one fluid motion. "This is Doctor Sloan. He's the head of Internal Medicine, my father and, more importantly, a consultant for the police."
The sergeant looked slightly abashed as he moved out of the way. "Sorry, doctor," he mumbled. "I didn't know."
A snort of laughter escaped Steve. "That makes a change. I didn't think there was anyone in this city who didn't know you, dad!"
The comment elicited a brief smile from the older man, which disappeared as he hunkered down next to the murdered man. "No marks," he commented, absently, his gaze sweeping over the still form. "Blood under his fingernails, though." His eyes strayed toward the door, seeing the scratches marring the surface.
"He tried to get out," Steve said, quietly, crouching next to his father. "The door was locked from the outside."
Mark nodded, then sniffed the air. "Gas?"
"Yeah. One canister, about a quarter full."
"Still, enough to kill a man in an enclosed space." The doctor shuddered. "Not a nice way to die."
"Is there a nice way?" queried Steve, ironically.
Mark glanced at him. "At home, in bed, surrounded by family and friends … it's better than dying on your own, unable to say goodbye."
They both knew he was referring not only to Thornton, but also to Jesse - who had so very nearly suffered the same kind of fate. Thankfully, they had found him in time, even though his condition was still 'guarded'.
"We're gonna find this maniac, dad." The statement was unequivocal. Steve was already on the case, the attempt on Jesse's life spurring him on. This and Littleton's death was just more incentive.
Mark nodded, his face grim. "Have you found anything yet?"
"No. But we will."
"No prints?"
"No."
The older man's expression darkened. "He's very clever, whoever he is."
"I know," said Steve. "But we will find him, dad. I promise."
"Well, what have we got so far?"
The detective ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Well, so far, he hasn't repeated himself. Littleton was taken out by grease on the stairwell, Jesse's brakes were cut and Thornton was deliberately locked in here and gassed."
"It all started off so innocently, too," murmured Mark, sadly. "And I hear Nurse Thornton had an encounter with our prankster. He left some black-face soap in the nurse's locker room."
"It's almost like there's two different people doing this," said Steve, frustration lending an edge to his voice.
Mark opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated as his son's words sank in. "That's exactly what it's like!" he gasped.
The younger man stared at him. "What?"
"These incidents might well be completely separate." Mark had surged to his feet as his ever agile mind sifted through the facts and reached the inescapable conclusion. "They bear no relation to one another. One set is humorous, intended to humiliate, whilst the other is more deadly."
"You think that the murderer used the practical jokes as some kind of cover? That this was a coincidence?" Steve shook his head, dubiously. "I don't know, dad. It's all been too well conceived, too careful. Maybe he is responsible for the other things - the water in Norman's office, the glue on the chairs in the Boardroom, Susan's flowers …"
"No." Mark shook his head, as Steve's voice trailed away, convinced by his own deduction. "No, those were never intended to harm, just amuse. I might have thought the same had it not been for the prank just played on Deborah. He or she doesn't need to cover up their murderous intentions any longer. Not after Doctor Littleton and Jesse and now Thornton. This was a deliberate act, just as cutting Jesse's car brakes was. There would be no point in playing any more silly tricks on the staff."
"Maybe the soap's been there a while?" Steve speculated. "Maybe it's a leftover?"
"No. The soap in there is replaced every day. It's a hygiene measure. No, I think that you're right in one respect. Whoever is doing this has planned it meticulously, just waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. And, once the practical jokes began, he saw the ideal opening. The grease on the stairs was dangerous but it could have been mistaken as one of the prankster's tricks. The others … "
"You can't say the same about Jesse's brakes."
"No, no, you can't. And that's another thing."
"What?"
"The other two incidents have occurred here, in the hospital. Jesse's brakes were cut outside his apartment."
Steve sucked in a horrified breath. "You think Jesse may have been the target all along?"
"I don't know. But this latest murder, gruesome though it may have been, may just be an attempt to cover that up."
Steve shook his head, his expression grim. "Well, if that's true, it does narrow down our list of possibilities. We need to find someone who has a grudge against Jesse."

"Jesse is the target? Oh my god. Why?"
Placing his coffee on the table in the doctors' lounge, Mark settled himself in the chair next to it, his face grim as Amanda voiced her horror at the news that their friend may have been the murderer's intended victim all the time. "I don't know, honey. We're not even certain that it is the case, but we certainly need to consider it very seriously."
"It … it makes sense," the pathologist admitted, reluctantly, dropping onto the couch beside Steve. "I mean, why would anyone kill a janitor or Dr Littleton?"
"Well, we're doing some digging into both their backgrounds," Steve said, solemnly. "I have Tanis working on it. But we also need to figure out if there's anyone in Jesse's past who might have some kind of grudge against him."
"A grudge that would incite someone into killing two other innocent people?" Amanda stared at him, incredulously. "Steve …"
"It's not as if we haven't come across something like this before," pointed out Mark, quite reasonably.
She shot him a look. "I know. It's just - I'm having a hard time imagining anyone who could hate Jesse so much that they would murder two other people just to cover up the fact that they're trying to kill him. I'm having a hard time believing anyone could hate Jesse at all."
"You're not the only one, honey," Mark said, gently. "But the fact remains that it is a possibility, regardless of how difficult it is to contemplate."
"We still have to wait for the results of the investigation into Littleton and Thornton," said Steve. "It may still turn out that that one of them was the one the murderer was after."
"But if that's so, then why would whoever was doing this go to all the trouble of going to Jesse's apartment to tamper with his brakes?" Amanda shook her head gloomily. "No, Steve, your dad's right. Anyone could have slipped on the grease left on that stairwell. Dr Littleton just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dan Thornton - well, his murder was deliberate but Jesse … his car was tampered with away from the hospital. Someone knew where he lived …
"And went to a lot of trouble to make sure that he was on that mountain road," chipped in Mark, his eyes narrowing as he expanded on his earlier theory. "We still don't know for sure why he was up there, but I suspect that he thought it was to meet Susan - which means that someone lured him there to ensure that when his brakes failed, he would be killed. It was a miracle that he wasn't."
"One for which I am very thankful," murmured Amanda, earnestly.
Mark patted her hand. "So am I, honey. So am I." He turned to his son, frowning as the cop extracted his cellphone from his jacket pocket. "Steve - what are you doing?"
The younger man quickly keyed in a number, his expression grim as he placed the phone next to his ear, listening to it ring. "I'm calling the Captain," he said. "If Jesse really was the target - and that's looking increasingly more likely - he's gonna need some protection. I want a cop outside his door. I'm not giving whoever is doing this another shot at him."
Mark nodded approvingly. "That's a good idea, son. I don't like the idea of him being so exposed, either. If whoever is responsible is so determined, then he or she is not going to let a little detail like Jesse being in the ICU stop them."
"Susan's in there with him at the moment," Amanda said, her eyes widening in alarm. "Oh, Mark, do you think she might be in danger too?"
"Perhaps." He smiled warmly at her. "But don't worry, Amanda. I'm going back there now. I'll keep an eye on both of them until Steve has something sorted out. We're not going to let anything else happen to Jesse, or Susan, either. Don't worry."

The Captain approved Steve's request for protection for Jesse, agreeing with Mark's theory, although he insisted that investigations into the background of both Dr Littleton and Dan Thornton continue, just in case.
Steve, having done what little he could to ensure his friend's continuing safety, left the hospital after a brief visit to the ICU to look in on him. What he saw heartened him just a little. His father was just finishing an examination of his patient and, catching the detective's eye as he straightened, smiled encouragingly. The relief that washed through the Lieutenant was overwhelming. It seemed that the older man's initial, damning prognosis may have been mistaken, although Jesse still had a long way to go before they could relax their guard.
It was with a distinctly lighter step, therefore, that he entered the precinct, heading straight for the coffee machine before manoeuvring his way between the over-laden desks toward his little corner.
"Here, you look like you need this," he said to Tanis, setting down one of the two Styrofoam cups he was carrying on the desk in front of her, skilfully managing to avoid all the papers and folders strewn on top of the work surface.
She barely glanced up at him, but picked up the steaming container with a muttered 'thanks', and took a sip of the steaming liquid, seemingly completely engrossed in the topmost file.
"Something interesting?" he asked casually, sliding into his own chair and peering at her over the top of his own cup.
His attempt at indifference didn't fool her. He was radiating tension. The gut-wrenching despair of before had gone. Now, he was exuding a raw energy which she recognised well. The cobalt-blue eyes burned with it, frightening in their intensity. He was anxious to be on the move, seeking out whoever had hurt his friend. Steve Sloan didn't do 'patience' very well - especially when it came to the defence of his friends and family. She allowed herself a small smile, before raising her gaze from the papers she was studying. "This is the file on Dan Thornton. It seems he has quite a record. Shoplifting, petty theft, etc. He cleaned up his act once he got into his thirties - he's been a model citizen ever since."
"And this tells us what?" demanded Steve. "That he was killed because he had some kind of wayward youth?"
She shrugged. "No, I was just pointing out that he hadn't committed any kind of crime in the last twenty-five years. I don't see a motive for killing him in here."
"And Littleton?"
"Littleton - ah yes, the high achiever." She curled her lip in derision. "Seems our good doctor was top of his class all through high school, college and medical school. He was on the honors roll, he was valedictorian and he's written several authoritative papers in his field."
"So someone killed him out of jealousy for his accomplishments?" Steve said, flatly, not believing it for an instant. Littleton had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"Maybe," hedged his partner, hearing the scepticism in her partner's voice. "Maybe he was sent into that stairwell."
"The same way Jesse was sent up into the hills to ensure he was in the best place to get killed when his brakes failed? No, Tanis. Littleton was a victim of chance. The killer didn't care who slipped and fell on those steps. Just as long as someone did. What he or she did to Jesse, however, was calculated and premeditated. He was intended to die. We're damned lucky that he didn't."
Steve's face was dark with anger and molten fire glinted in the depths of his eyes. Tanis couldn't suppress the shiver that ran the length of her spine at the menace that exuded from him. He was like a time bomb, threatening to explode at any moment. She only hoped she wasn't in the vicinity when it finally happened.
"So we've more or less established that this guy was after Travis all along," she said, evenly. "Now all we need to do is find the why and the who."

Susan had refused to leave Jesse's side despite all of Mark and Amanda's attempts to persuade her to do so. She craved sleep - what little she had managed to procure in the Doctor's lounge had not really made her feel any more rested - but she wouldn't admit it, preferring instead to remain at her lonely, self-imposed vigil.
Her eyes ached from both tiredness and the tears she had cried and she was numb from spending too long in the same position in the uncomfortable plastic chair, but she didn't care. A little discomfort was nothing compared to what Jesse had suffered and she saw it as a means of penance for her behaviour toward him prior to his accident.
She was drained of all emotion, apart from the guilt, which was consuming her, intensifying with every moment spent at Jesse's bedside. Her gaze was riveted on his face, the lack of animation in the familiar, beloved features terrifying her. Jesse was never this still, even when he was sleeping. He was so vital and alive and yet he had the gentlest of touches. She held one of his hands in her own, tenderly stroking the smooth, unblemished skin with one finger. The faint thrum of life just beneath the flesh told her that his heart was still beating and that he hadn't left her.
She longed for his eyes to open - if only briefly - so that he would know that she was there beside him. She had wanted to tell him just how much he meant to her and how empty her life would be if he wasn't in it. But the words had stuck in her throat and all that had emerged was a strangled sob.
Instead she had apologised, over and over again. She had told him that she had never truly believed that he had sent the joke bouquet; that she knew, deep down, that he would never be so spiteful. It had been a mean thing to do and one thing that Jesse could never be accused of was being 'mean'. He was sweet and funny, kind and wonderful and she loved his sense of humour. She loved everything about him.
How she could ever have thought him responsible for so vile an act eluded her.
Or maybe not.
She realised now that he had been a convenient target for her outrage. It was unjustified and totally unfair and she felt heartsick as she remembered the hurt in his eyes when she had flung the accusation at him. He had denied it strenuously and she had refused to listen to him. After screaming at him that he was mean and heartless and that she never wanted to see him again, she had stormed off. She remembered glancing back. He had been standing there, staring after her, looking lost and confused and she had just sniffed disdainfully, tossed her head and rounded the corner, leaving him there.
Repulsed now by her behaviour, Mark's words in Jesse's apartment came back to haunt her.
"So he did think he was meeting you."
He had been on the road to Hoshima's - their favourite restaurant.
Someone had lured Jesse there by convincing him that he was meeting her.
She couldn't rid herself of the images that had been playing a constant loop in her mind since Tanis had called Steve with the news that they had found him.
Jesse, trapped in the twisted remains of his beautiful car, terrified, alone, in terrible pain …
She knew him too well. She also knew of the vigil he had kept beside Dr Littleton. He had been exhausted by the time he finally gone home - and yet, believing that he was meeting her, he had pushed aside his fatigue, driving straight into a trap intended to kill him. There was no doubt in her mind that he had been intending on apologising for the flowers - even though he hadn't been responsible for sending them. It was his way. He loved her. He had told her in a thousand different ways, a thousand different times. He would do anything for her.
Even die.
"No!"
The denial was out so quickly she barely even realised that she had spoken at all.
Pulling her chair ever closer to the bed and its lone occupant, she reached out a trembling hand to run her fingers over the bruised forehead.
"Jesse, please forgive me," she whispered, wretchedly. Fresh tears spilled over onto her pale cheeks. She didn't even notice.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "Jesse, please, wake up. Please. I can't bear to lose you. I can't."
So lost was she in despair that she failed to detect the faint movement of his fingers below her other hand. It was the tiniest of twitches, but it was the first signal of his return.

Heaving a sigh borne of weariness, Mark sank onto his chair in his office. He closed his eyes momentarily as a wave of fatigue washed over him.
"Dad?" Steve's voice seemed to come from a long way away. "Dad, maybe you should go home. Get some sleep."
"I'm all right, Steve." He refocused his gaze on the worried countenance of his offspring, who had perched on the edge of the desk. "It's been a tough couple of days."
"How's Jesse doing, Mark?"
A fleeting smile crossed his face at Amanda's question. "Better," he answered, switching his glance to the pathologist, who was slumped in the chair opposite him. "His vitals have picked up and he's starting to show some response to stimuli. But before you say anything, he's not out of the woods yet," he went on, neatly pre-empting the relief he knew Steve was about to vocalise. "There are still many things that could go wrong." 'Too many,' he reflected, silently.
"But it's a good sign, right?" the detective insisted, doggedly, refusing to allow his father's cautionary words to dampen the delight he felt at the news.
"Steve … " The older man scrubbed a hand across his face in mute exasperation. "Let's just take things one day at a time, shall we?"
"Your dad's right," chipped in Amanda. "We can't be certain of anything yet, but still … "
Mark shot the young pathologist a look of wounded betrayal. "Amanda, you know better."
"I do," she said, meeting his gaze head on. "But I also know your skills and I know Jesse. Mark, I understand about the complications, but having spent the last 48 hours terrified that we were going to lose him, perhaps I'm just ready to celebrate something positive at last."
"You're right," he conceded, with another all-too-brief smile. "We should be thankful for small mercies. It's just been a hellish few days and I'm not sure I'm ready to believe in miracles just yet."
"Afraid of jinxing it?" suggested Steve, shrewdly.
"Perhaps." The older man leaned back, savouring the comfort of the soft leather against his aching back. He was beyond tired. What he really wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week. But that wasn't going to be possible. Quite apart from the fact that he wanted to monitor his young friend's condition - albeit that it was slowly improving - they were two doctors down as a consequence of Jesse's accident and Littleton's death. He wasn't going to have the luxury of a few days off for a while. Not until they could find some temporary replacements, at least. "So," he went on, his gaze settling back on his son. "What have you found out so far?"
The detective grimaced. "Well, it looks like you were right. Neither Thornton nor Littleton seem to have anything in their background which would suggest someone would go after them."
"Which means that whoever it was, was after Jesse," concluded Mark, in a grave voice. "I was afraid so."
"But who? And why? Jesse has never done anything to deserve this!" Amanda sounded genuinely bewildered. Mark couldn't blame her. In fact, he agreed with her. The fact remained, however, that someone had followed their young friend home, cut his brake line and then somehow ensured that he made the fateful journey that had almost killed him.
"I don't know, honey," he said. "That's what we have to find out."
"What about an ex patient?" Steve suggested. "We'll need to look through the records of all the patients Jesse has treated."
"That's an awful lot of records," Mark said. "But it needs to be done. We need to find out if anyone could have a grudge against Jesse - some motive for wanting to see him dead."
"And taking out two other people to cover it up," added Steve, bleakly.
Amanda shook her head. "I just can't understand why anyone would do this. It just seems so inconceivable that anyone would want to hurt him. And others."
"And yet they have."
The grim statement from Steve plunged them all into silence for a long moment. They faced a monumental task. Whilst it seemed inconceivable to them that their young friend could have any enemies, it was not impossible. Indeed, what had happened so far only lent credence to this premise. Now they had to deal with the prospect of sifting through Jesse's past, scrutinising everyone he had ever treated during his years as a doctor. They couldn't restrict their investigation to his patients, either. They would have to delve into the backgrounds of everyone he had ever met, from his schooldays through college, medical school and beyond.
And all they had to go on so far was the fact that a white car had been spotted at the scene of the murder attempt, together with the tyre print that forensics had lifted.
This was going to take some considerable time - and it was time they might not have. Who knew if the perpetrator had stopped with Dan Thornton? Even now, someone else might be walking into a trap designed to end their life and none of them could do a thing to prevent it.
With a heavy heart, Mark picked up his phone, making the call to records to obtain all the files of the patients Jesse had treated. Meanwhile, Steve pulled out his cellphone, ordering Tanis, in brisk, no-nonsense tones, to get everything she could on his friend's life before Jesse had come to Community General. "Start with medical school," he told her. "I want the names of every professor, every student who attended during the same time. After that, get his college records, the same information."
"This is going to take a while," she said in her cool, clipped voice.
He inhaled deeply. "Yeah. So we'd better get started."

Mark sighed deeply as he slipped his stethoscope around his neck and moved to the end of the bed to make a few notes in the chart that hung on the end of it. Despite a notable improvement in Jesse's condition since the previous day, he had yet to regain consciousness. Indeed, it seemed that he was still as far away from them as ever, lost in the oblivion that had claimed him at the crash site. The older doctor was more worried than he cared to admit about the lack of responsiveness, wondering if it was a sign of some serious, underlying problem that he hadn't accounted for. Despite his cautionary words to Steve and Amanda when they had all gathered in his office, he had started to feel more optimistic about Jesse's recovery. Now he was beginning to believe that he had jinxed it.
His brow furrowed into a frown as he replaced the chart and he glanced toward the younger man. Jesse's face was peaceful in repose, although the vivid bruises stood out starkly against the porcelain-like skin and the dark smudges around his eyes had receded only a smidgeon.
"Come on, Jess," he whispered. "Come back to us."
Disappointment flooded him at the complete lack of reaction to his words - not that he had truly expected any, but still, he couldn't help but entertain some futile hope - and, with a shake of his head he turned away.
Then he saw it - out of the corner of his eye. It was the slightest of movements but it brought his gaze swivelling back toward the supine figure, staring in disbelief and barely contained excitement at Jesse's hand.
There it was again!
Long, slender fingers curled and uncurled, repeating the motion several times, flexing experimentally, as though the sleeper was trying to figure out where he was.
"Jesse?" Mark's feet had taken him closer to the bed and now he was standing beside it, reaching down to enfold the twitching hand in his own. "Jesse? It's Mark. It's all right, Jess. You're safe now. You're home."
'Home' Well, that wasn't strictly true. He was in Community General. But still, his protégé spent more time at the hospital than he did in his own apartment and it was a place of familiarity, a place where he would feel secure.
"Jesse?"
The younger man's eyelids flickered a few times, before, slowly - agonisingly so - the tiniest slit of blue became visible as they lifted.
Mark smiled warmly as dazed eyes peered up at him, blinking in confusion. "Hello, Jess," he said, keeping his voice low and reassuring. "Welcome back."
The younger man tired to speak, then choked as he became aware of the restriction in his throat. Panicked, his gaze widened and he flailed helplessly, one hand reaching up toward the offending object before Mark stopped him; the weakened body not allowing too much movement as pain shadowed his face.
"Easy, Jess," Mark admonished him, gently, casting a brief, anxious glance toward the monitors, which showed a worrying acceleration in Jesse's heart rate. "You're intubated and you mustn't move too quickly. You'll aggravate your wounds. And I spent a lot of time stitching them up. You wouldn't want to ruin all my neat sutures would you?"
The light teasing had an effect as Jesse stopped struggling, but distress still showed in the expressive features as he tried to cough, in an obvious attempt to expel the tube in his throat.
"We'll see about removing that when you're a little stronger," the older doctor said. "For now, I just want you to relax and get well. Can you do that for me?"
Jesse Travis had never been able to disobey his mentor and now was no exception. With an effort, he desisted from trying to rid himself of the hated contraption that was slowly choking him, sinking his aching body back into the relative comfort of the mattress.
"Good man." Leaning forward, Mark wiped a stray tear from the ashen cheek. "Now, just rest. You've been through quite an ordeal but you're going to be just fine. All right?"
The slightest of nods told him that Jesse had heard and understood him. The younger doctor had closed his eyes again, the deep breathing and slowly regulating heart beat indications that he was sliding slowly back into sleep.

Mark stood looking down at his patient for long moments afterward, watching as the bruised and bandaged chest rose rhythmically with every pump of air into the beleaguered lungs and nodding in satisfaction as the readings returned to normal. Ghosting his fingers over the pale flesh, he rested them on the pulse points on one wrist, smiling as he noted the improvement.
"You're going to be just fine, Jess," he said, in a low voice, careful not to awaken the younger man. And for the first time since they had brought Jesse in he allowed himself to relax, tension sliding from his shoulders like an invisible cloak.

It was with a much lighter heart that he left the room, glancing back as he reached the door to cast a last, appraising eye over the monitors. They confirmed his diagnosis.
With a brief, amiable nod toward the cop who stood guard outside Jesse's room, the older man wandered down the hall, lost in thought.
They had spent most of the previous day trawling through the records of patients who had passed through Jesse's hands since he had commenced his employment at Community General, looking for likely candidates for the role of murderer, only to come up empty.
The few patients who hadn't made it any further than the trauma room had been laid to one side, with the intention of investigating the grieving relatives. But they were long shots at best. No one had expressed anything other than sorrow at the time and certainly none of them had seemed to hold Jesse in any way culpable for the demise of their loved ones.
Still, there was always the chance that someone had hidden their feelings of malevolence toward the young man at the time, or that grief and bitterness had led to a need to wreak vengeance against someone - and Jesse had become the target for those feelings. But somehow Mark didn't think this was the case. He had a hunch that it was someone in Jesse's past - someone unconnected with Community General, - who had felt wronged in some way. He was hard put to envision a scenario in which his friend would willingly or knowingly offend or hurt someone to such a degree, but stranger things had happened. And it was the only logical explanation he could come up with. But at present he had no way of proving this theory.
What was patently obvious was that they were dealing with someone very sick - and exceedingly clever.
He could only hope that Steve managed to come up with a lead soon because he was well and truly stumped.

Richard Greene yawned as he rolled out of bed and padded across his apartment toward the kitchen area. Once there, he filled up the coffee pot and plugged it in, his bleary-eyed gaze riveted on the red light that signalled it was heating up.
A harsh rap on the door rudely interrupted his contemplation. "Okay! I'm coming!" he yelled as another round of knocking followed.
Peering through the eyehole, he frowned. He didn't recognise his visitor.
"Police!" announced the man, holding up a badge to the peephole. "We'd like to have a word with you, Mr Greene."
Biting back the retort, 'It's Lieutenant Commander Greene to you," he sighed deeply and swung back the bolt. Before he could open the door, however, it burst open, the man on the other side barrelling into him, propelling him backward onto the floor.
"What …!" was all he managed to gasp out before he landed with a thud, his head catching the side of the kitchen unit with a glancing blow.
Dizzy and disoriented for several seconds, he was unprepared for the painful pressure of a gun barrel digging into his abdomen but instinct, training and a healthy dose of self-preservation took over as he sensed the intruder's trigger finger squeezing inexorably downward. In the split second it took him to register 'silencer' as he heard the unmistakeable sound of the hammer falling on the chamber, he made a supreme effort and flung himself to one side.
White hot agony erupted in his side as he rolled across the floor and a gasp of pain hissed from between clenched teeth. Cordite filled the air, mingling with the smell of the roasting coffee as he surged to his feet, taking the gunman by surprise. For several long moments they grappled for the weapon, the only sounds filling the air the occasional grunt from one of them at the effort they were expending. Then the revolver jerked again and the sound of breaking glass echoed throughout the apartment.
The intruder's face was dark with rage and frustration as they struggled for supremacy with one another, followed by an expression of sheer disbelief as he tried to discharge the weapon again and again it failed to fire.
With a roar of fury, he lashed out, catching Richard across the head with the barrel of the gun and darted out of the door before the other man could recover.
By the time Richard had given chase his quarry had fled, the naked illumination of the street lighting offering up no clue as to his whereabouts, but the distant sound of an engine signifying his mode of escape.
"Damn!" the Commander swore, limping back inside his apartment, gingerly touching the wound on his side, hissing as his fingers probed shredded skin and came away bloody. Looking down, he inspected it. It was no more than a flesh wound. The bullet had grazed him but had not done any major damage. Still, he should get it seen to. But first things first …
As he trudged over to the telephone and picked it up, his gaze fell on the shattered remains of the coffee pot, the only real victim to that evening's violent altercation.
"Damn!" he swore again, punching in the numbers he required and listening to the ringing on the other end. Finally someone answered. "Uh, yeah," he said. "I've just been assaulted by a man with a gun …"

Steve strode into the apartment, glancing around for a familiar face. Spotting it, he made his way across the room, stopping beside the couch where the occupant was being attended by paramedics.
"I'm telling you I'm all right!" the man was protesting. "I don't need to go to the hospital!"
"Sir, I really think you should let us take you," one of the medics said, in a conciliatory, condescending manner. Steve winced. He knew how that felt.
"I'm fine," the patient declared. "It was just a crease. I've had worse."
"So I see." The medic's partner was eying him appraisingly - and with not a little admiration in her eyes at the muscular physique which was clearly visible above the blood-soaked sweatpants. A deep white scar bore mute testament to an earlier - much more serious wound, and a long white line was evidence of the slashing of a knife.
Richard Greene glanced up, smiling disarmingly at the woman. "I'm a Navy pilot," he explained. "I've seen some action."
"You're very lucky," she commented, slightly flustered at the amused twinkle in the deep hazel eyes.
"Yeah," he agreed, easily. "I am."
Steve coughed discreetly - barely concealing a smile at the tableau - and three sets of eyes swung in his direction.
"Lieutenant Sloan!" Richard rose to his feet despite the efforts of the male medic to restrain him and extended his hand.
"Lieutenant Commander Greene," Steve greeted him, affably. "What happened?"
Following the detective's pointed look downwards, the Navy pilot shrugged. "Oh, just a little accident," he said, off-handedly. "I was attacked by a man with a gun."
"Looks like you got off pretty lightly."
"Yeah." Greene grinned. "But my coffee pot wasn't so lucky."
Steve glanced across the room to where the remains of the aforementioned item lay scattered across the counter. "Ouch!"
"Yeah. Now what am I supposed to do?"
"There's a 'Starbuck's' down the street. You could always go there."
The pilot grimaced. "I think I'd prefer river water. No, no. I'll get a new pot later today."
"So, did you recognise the guy?" asked Steve, slipping easily from banter into business as he extracted his notebook from his jacket pocket.
Greene shook his head. "No." His eyes narrowed as he quickly worked through the facts. "You think it has something to do with whoever tried to kill your friend, don't you?"
"Yes, I do." Steve's response was immediate and unequivocal. "I think he was pissed off that you saved Jesse and he decided to come here to exact his revenge."
"Just as well for me that he was a lousy shot, then," said Greene nonchalantly. "And that I work out a lot."
There was a muffled 'you're not kidding!' from behind them and both men exchanged amused glances as the female paramedic, realising she had been overheard, turned an interesting shade of scarlet.
"Well, if you're determined not to come to the hospital with us, maybe we'd better go," the male paramedic, whose name badge proclaimed him to be 'Terry Waters' said, quickly, gallantly covering for his partner as she attempted to look anywhere but at the two other men.
"Thanks for your help." Richard proffered his hand to Terry, and aimed another devastating smile in the young woman's direction. "Sorry I've been such a lousy patient. Guess it runs in the family. My dad was a doctor."
"Aw, that's fine." Terry grinned at him as he hefted his equipment further up on his shoulder. "We've had worse!"
There was no rejoinder from his partner. She was already at the door, eager to be out of there before she could do anything else to embarrass herself.
Neither cop nor pilot, however, missed the last, fleeting look she took back over her shoulder at Richard, nor the wistful expression on her face as the two paramedics departed.
"I think you've scarred her for life," Steve teased the other man as Richard gestured for him to take a seat on the generous cream leather couch.
The pilot's grin widened. "Oh I don't know," he mused. "I think she'll be talking about today for a long time to come."
"Have that effect on many women?" 'Damn! I almost sound jealous!'
Richard cast the detective a sideways glance, obviously entertaining the same notion. "It's the Navy pilot thing," he offered, ruefully. "And the thought of the uniform to go with it. It has a strange effect. It's nothing to do with me."
Steve snorted derisively as he made a point of studying the tall, well-toned pilot, whose square-jawed good looks would not have seemed out of place on the cover of a glossy magazine. "Right!" Then he sobered as the other man winced, reminding him of the reason for his presence at the pilot's apartment. "So, you want to give me a description of this guy?"
"I can do better than that." Richard rose - a little stiffly, and made his way across the room to the door. Opening it, he gestured upward. "I have a hidden camera."
The detective stared at him. "You have … what?"
"Hidden camera," the other man reiterated. "It's … come in useful in the past."
Steve narrowed his eyes at the vagueness of the explanation. "You care to clarify that?"
"Ah … I can't. Not really. It's all to do with National Security - let's just say that it comes in useful."
"I'd imagine it does," Steve agreed, dryly. "So, where's the tape?"
The pilot moved back inside the apartment, closing the door behind him. The whole place seemed eminently peaceful after the chaos that had ensued following the shooting. Once he had called the cops, not only had two uniforms and a couple of detectives shown up, but the paramedics as well. The police contingent had asked him some questions, then one of the detectives had called Steve Sloan. Obviously they were all on the same page here. They all suspected that this attack had something to do with the murder attempt on the doctor. He had given a description of the gunman to the others, but had held back from informing them about the camera. The less people knew about it the better. He trusted Steve Sloan, however. The man was angry about what had happened to his friend and besides, Richard had made discreet enquiries. Steve Sloan had a reputation as a good cop. Fair and scrupulously clean, he had been an integral part of a citywide task force to flush corruption out of the ranks and had been made a target for his trouble. Not that this had prevented him from doing everything in his power to help expose and get rid of the dirty cops. It may well have cost him any chance at promotion but Richard got the impression that Steve Sloan was happier on the streets where he could do some good than riding a desk. He probably had few regrets about what he had done and the Navy pilot admired him for both his ethics and his determination.
"Here," he said, handing over the object he had retrieved from the concealed VCR. "I hope this helps. This guy is dangerous."
"You don't need to tell me that," said Steve, darkly. "He's responsible for two murders and two attempts. But the good thing is he's getting sloppy. This attack on you was the first mistake he's made. He hasn't left us anything to go on before. Now …"
"Now you might be able to identify him and stop him from killing anyone else," Richard finished off for him. "He's already killed two people?"
Steve nodded grimly. "A doctor who works at the same hospital as my friend and an orderly. We believe the first one was simply a case of the guy being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anyone. The second - we think that was to cover up the fact that Jesse was his target all along."
"Your friend must have done something to really tick this guy off."
"He hasn't done anything," snarled Steve without thinking. Then he saw the slightly shocked expression on the other man's face. "Sorry."
"No, no. That's okay. I just hope you catch this guy."
"Oh. Don't worry. We will."
It was a promise.

The distant buzzing penetrated Jesse's consciousness. It sounded remarkably like the murmur of voices. His natural curiosity awakened regarding the identity of the speakers and the nature of their conversation, he struggled to listen, slowly surfacing from the layer of fog which permeated his mind.
"Mmmmm …"
The tube was still firmly lodged in his airway, he realised, as he tried to make his presence known. It felt uncomfortable and he had to suppress the urge to gag, manfully fighting back the panic that accompanied the reflex.
"Jesse?"
That was Mark's voice. Prising open his eyelids he found himself staring at a fuzzy white shape. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision and the form slowly solidified into the familiar figure of his mentor. The older man's eyes were crinkled at the edges, his entire face suffused with a warm, welcoming smile.
"Hey there. We thought you were going to sleep the whole day away."
The light-hearted reprimand would have made him smile had he been able to move his mouth but it felt strangely numb. He settled instead for lifting an acknowledging hand, staggered at the effort it took to do so and even then he only managed about an inch from the bed.
"It's all right, Jess, just take it slow," his mentor advised. "We're not going anywhere."
Relief flooded the younger doctor's mind at those words although for a moment he couldn't figure out why it should. Then a stray memory nagged at his subconscious - of lying in his wrecked Mustang, helpless and alone. He shuddered as he banished it to the dark recesses of his mind. He had no desire to revisit that nightmare time. He knew how it had felt to believe that he was destined to die without the comfort of friends and loved ones nearby. He didn't need to revisit it. Especially not now, when he was safe and amongst the people he cared for.
He tried to speak again, impeded by the intubation tube. Then he felt his hand being taken in a firm, warm grip and squeezed reassuringly.
"Don't try to talk." Mark's smile had faded, to be replaced by an expression of concern which he was trying valiantly to conceal. "Your breathing has improved a little. I'll consider taking you off the ventilator tomorrow."
Jesse wanted to wail in protest but he couldn't. Instead, he unknowingly managed to convey his distress at this prospect by the expression on his face.
"Now, it's no good looking at me like that, Jesse," the older man admonished him, gently. "It's not going to work. You'll come off the ventilator when you're ready and not before. Now, if you promise to behave, I'll let you have a visitor."
'Visitor?'
Despite his discomfort and the misery of knowing that he was going to remain on the ventilator for at least another 24 hours, the young doctor's interest was piqued. "That's better." Mark moved away from his line of vision, to be replaced by someone equally as recognisable but far prettier.
'Susan!'
"Jesse?" Soft fingers caressed his cheek, lingering for a moment on his brow. He could feel the minute tremors coursing through the touch and as he stared up at his girlfriend, he was appalled to discover that she was crying.
'No, Susan. Don't …'
But she couldn't hear his wordless plea and, utterly frustrated with his inability to communicate his thoughts, he uttered a strangled whimper before managing to find the energy to raise his hand to hers, taking it in as firm a grip as he could in order to offer her the reassurance she so obviously needed.
"Oh Jesse, I'm sorry!" she cried, collapsing into the chair at his side and burying her head in his chest. He winced at the pressure on his bruised flesh but, quickly concealed the pain, determined not to add to her torment, gently disentangling their interlaced fingers in order to reach for her. Somehow, he managed to get his hand beneath her chin and lifted it so that he could look her in the eyes. It was difficult but he offered her as much of a heartening smile as he could, dismayed when this only prompted a fresh round of tears. Helplessly, he looked toward Mark, begging silently for assistance, relief washing through him as his friend smiled in understanding and moved toward the distraught young woman.
"Susan. Susan, it's all right. Jesse's going to be just fine, aren't you, Jess?"
Drained of strength now, Jesse's hand fell back to the bed, limp and flaccid but he managed a half-smile in the young woman's direction, silently urging her to believe Mark's words, silently begging her to stop crying; her anguish threatening to cleave his heart in two.
"R … really?" Susan seemed dubious about the assertion, her forehead crinkling into a frown as she studied the young doctor assessingly. She hiccupped as she fought to suppress her anguish, trying instead to focus on the fact that Jesse was awake and aware, although his eyelids were now at half-mast as he struggled to stay awake. "I … Jesse, I … I should never have believed … I can't … this is all my fault!"
That got Jesse's flagging attention. 'What?'
Mark sighed heavily, recognising the young nurse's need to blame herself for Jesse's plight as punishment for what she had put him through prior to the accident. But self-flagellation was going to do no-one any good, not least the two young people at the centre of it all. "Susan …"
"No, if I hadn't … I should never have blamed you, Jesse," she sobbed, averting her gaze from the beloved face, thoroughly ashamed at how she had treated him and not wishing to see the condemnation she knew would be present in the deep blue eyes once he remembered how she had behaved. "I … I know you can never forgive me, but …"
"Susan."
"But I …. "
"Susan."
"I need to tell you how … how sorry I am …"
"Susan!"
Startled, she glanced up. Mark's gaze was directed pointedly toward the bed and, cautiously, she allowed her eyes to travel in that direction.
Jesse's expression was soft and loving, a lone tear sliding slowly down his pallid cheek as he forgave her without hesitation before trembling eyelashes finally fell and he began to slide back into sleep.
"Jesse?" Susan whispered, reaching out to tenderly stroke his face, marvelling at the life that throbbed below the surface. "J … Jesse?"
"It's the best thing for him just now." Mark's voice was gentle - as was the touch on her shoulder. "And I think you could do with a rest too. Don't you?"
She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears. "I don't … I can't …" she stammered.
"He's going to be all right, Susan. And I'll be right here with him. Go. Get some sleep. I'd tell you to go home but I don't think you'll actually go. There's a bed in the on-call room. I'll tell the staff you're not to be disturbed."
"But I …"
"Go." There was no room in his tone for further argument - and she was still a little too intimidated by him to offer more. He might be Jesse's friend, but he was her boss, regardless of how genial and kind he was.
Nodding wordlessly, she rose to her feet, swaying a little unsteadily before feeling a strong arm wind itself around her shoulders, holding her upright until she found her equilibrium.
"I'm all right," she said, very quietly.
"And you'll be even better once you've had a rest. And then you need some food inside you. I don't want to see you back here until then. All right?"
She bit her lip. The demands were growing. Next he'd be telling her to have a shower and change and put on some makeup.
Reaching the door, her hand paused on the handle and she turned. "What about you?"
He smiled wearily at her from his position in her vacated chair at
Jesse's bedside, his stethoscope clutched tightly in one hand, the other scrubbing at his eyes. "I'll be all right. Thank you, Susan."
Sceptical, but loathe to argue with him, she offered him a wan smile in return and left.

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