Fragments part three

Detective Malone was to remember those words. Two days later, despite his plea to the Captain and despite a confrontational conference between Steve Sloan and his superior in the latter's office, the Lieutenant had not retreated from the case one iota. In fact, his efforts to uncover the killers on his own had grown more feverish, more determined.
Malone had visited the hospital again, hoping to get some more information from the only witness to the crime. Dr Travis was still hovering between life and death however, as he had been for the last week. He was in ICU and his condition had been listed as 'grave'. No-one was smiling.
Malone had cornered Dr Sloan to ask about the possibility of questioning the young physician later, but the good doctor had simply stared at him sadly and told him that Dr Travis was deeply unconscious. He added that he didn't think he was going to make it.
Malone had winced at the pain in the older man's haggard features and had left well alone. When Stan had asked him about his visit, he had repeated what Dr Sloan had said, not realising that Steve Sloan was passing his desk as he told his partner that Jesse Travis was going to die.

Steve fell into his chair and stared unseeingly at the coffee he had just poured. He felt numb. No, that wasn't quite true. He felt something. He just wasn't entirely sure what and he didn't want to investigate it too deeply because he was pretty sure that if he did, it would hurt.
"Dr Sloan said Travis isn't gonna make it."
The grim pronouncement had elicited a wave of mixed emotions. Regret, sorrow, guilt and anger all vied for the premier position.
Jesse was going to die.
Wasn't that what he wanted?
A long moment passed.
Grim realisation hit him like a thunderbolt.
No!
Oh god … he didn't want him to die.
Jesse …

Mark's gloomy prognosis was well founded. Jesse coded again that night. Mark and his team waged a desperate fight to bring him back. Amanda could only look on, her fist jammed into her mouth as all their efforts failed.
Just when all seemed lost and Mark, holding back bitter tears of defeat, his face etched with despair, was about to call 'time of death', the heart monitor picked up a faint beep.
Everyone watched with bated breath as another blip appeared, then another, then another. After several anxious moments, it settled into a steady rhythm and the readings began to stabilise.
The relief was incredible. Amanda leaned against the wall, sobbing quietly, her eyes riveted on her young friend as he came back to them. Mark, the paddles from the defibrillator still held in his hands, seemed mesmerised by the pattern on the screen. It was as almost as though he had never seen a heart monitor before.

Eventually, they recovered their equilibrium. Jesse was not yet out of danger, although a corner seemed to have been turned that night. His vital signs seemed stronger than they had in weeks and he had even regained a little colour. He still had a long way to go, however and he would have to be monitored very carefully over the next few days to ensure that he didn't slip back. They couldn't afford to be complacent.
Twenty-four hours later they felt confident enough to remove the oxygen mask, replacing it with a cannula. Another eighteen hours later he was deemed fit enough to move to a regular room.

Jesse had been hovering near the edge of consciousness for a few hours, always on the verge of waking up, but never quite making it. He had opened his eyes a couple of times but had not been lucid enough to comprehend the words which were spoken to him by those present and had lapsed into sleep again within seconds.
Mark was once again sitting at his bedside. He looked considerably better than he had for the last week. He had been home, cooked himself a meal and had had a good nine hours sleep. It had gone a long way toward making him feel more human. Nevertheless, he had to suppress a yawn as he settled more comfortably in the chair beside his young friend, keeping a wary, hopeful eye on the other man.
His perseverance paid off a few moments later when little sounds coming from his patient alerted him to the fact that Jesse was about to return to them.
Long eyelashes fluttered on the pale cheeks and Jesse moved his head restlessly on the soft pillows. His fist clenched and unclenched and a small moan escaped his throat.
"Jesse?"
Nothing. Mark tried again.
"Jesse? Son? Come on - come back to us."
He waited. Another minute elapsed, then he was rewarded by the sight of the young doctor's eyelids flickering open and a pair of bleary blue eyes peering out at him.
"M … Mark?"
The croaky sound of his name was the most delightful sound he had heard in what seemed like forever. The older doctor placed a gentle hand on his friend's cheek. It was warm but there was no fever present now. "Well, hello there," he said, warmly. "We thought you were going to sleep the week away."
Confusion coloured the expressive features and Jesse's eyes flickered briefly over the room in which he was ensconced. "Not …. Not the same room," he managed, finally.
Mark shook his head. "No," he said. "You've been very sick, Jess. The infection flared out of control and you nearly died." He winced inwardly. Even now the memory of the flatline on the monitor had the power to terrify him. "We had to move you to the ICU."
"St … Steve?"
Mark swallowed hard. "Uh … Steve is at the precinct, Jess. It's midday and he's working."
Jesse shook his head - the movement was barely discernible, as weak as he still was. "No … no .. he … he said … "
Oh god. Mark so didn't want to have this conversation. He especially didn't want to have it the minute Jesse recovered consciousness! "Jess, don't you worry about that now," he soothed, hoping that his young friend would heed his words and move onto something else. Something safe.
He should have known better. "No," Jesse managed. There was a sob in his voice. "No, he .. he ... "
"Jesse … about what Steve said …"
Haunted blue eyes met his "I .. Mark …"
"Son, he didn't mean it. He's consumed with anger over what happened - to Ellen and you. You were a convenient target … he cares about you. You're his best friend. You do know that, don't you?"
"Okay." It was such a sad, subdued little word and it nearly broke Mark's heart.
"Oh Jess," he sighed.
Jesse had turned his head away. He looked toward the window, but Mark didn't for one minute think he was focused on it. He was hurting - deeply and he was trying desperately not to let it show.
"Jesse, you just need to give him some time." His words sounded lame even to his own ears but it was the best he could manage. He still hadn't forgiven his son for his cruelty to the sick young man. Even if Jesse had somehow been to blame - which of course he wasn't and it was ludicrous to even suggest it - then any reproach should have waited until he was at least well enough to defend himself. The bitter condemnation which had spilled from Steve had been sufficient to send the young doctor into a tailspin and the fact that it had very nearly killed him was something which Steve was going to have to deal with when he finally came to his senses.
Jesse didn't reply to Mark's words, however. He had turned away so effectively that the older man could barely see his profile and what he could see he didn't like. He didn't like it at all. His friend might be recovering physically but emotionally he had a heavy battle ahead of him. And Mark wasn't at all convinced that Jesse even cared about the fight.
"Jess?"
No response.
"Jesse."
Nothing.
Mark reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt his heart sink as he felt the young man flinch from the contact.
It was worse than he had feared. Jesse was lost in an ever-spinning vortex of guilt and self-condemnation, made worse by his self-perceived failure as a friend. The damage had already been done and Mark didn't know what they were going to do to resolve it.

"He's so withdrawn I don't know how anyone is ever going to get through to him," mourned Mark later as he sat in the doctors lounge with an equally troubled Amanda.
"He's stopped responding to you at all?" she asked in a shocked voice.
"I can't get him to speak to me. I can't even get him to look at me. Amanda, I'm going to have to turn this over to one of the psychologists on staff."
"Oh Mark …"
"I know, I know," he murmured. Distractedly, he rubbed his forehead with his hand. "I just don't know what else to do. We're too close. Too personally involved. We can't be impartial. All we want to do is help him and unfortunately our emotions are going to get in the way again and again. An outsider - someone who doesn't know him like we do - is going to be able to toughen it out. They're going to be detached and that's what he's going to need."
"Couldn't it just be depression from the shooting?" Amanda was clutching at straws, and she knew it, but she didn't like to think of her young friend being tossed into a psychologist's care … it made her feel so helpless.
Mark smiled thinly. "I wish it were just that," he said. "That we could deal with. I could explain it to Jesse and he would instantly recognise it and help himself. He's seen enough of his patients go through it after all. No, this … this … he's mired so deeply in guilt and self-reproach that he's stopped fighting. He's stopped caring - about anything. The nurses reported that he didn't even touch his lunch and he has to eat if he's ever going to get any stronger."
Amanda felt a sob rise in her throat. "Maybe … maybe that's the idea," she whispered, fearfully. "Maybe he doesn't want to grow any stronger. Maybe he doesn't want to live … "
Mark bowed his head. He suddenly looked ten years older - all the good that the last few days had wrought suddenly undone by his young friend's plight. "I'm very much afraid you're right, honey," he said, in a low voice. "And if he doesn't want to live … how is anyone going to persuade him otherwise?"

Malone and his partner had finally caught a break. Forensics had come up with a vital piece of evidence in the case and they had narrowed down their search for the two men who had broken into the Sloan house. The computer had thrown out a name - one Gus Brewer, a smalltime crook who had a history of burglary. That he had progressed to rape and murder was not surprising, given his character. He had been up on charges of spousal abuse in the past and had also viciously attacked an ex-girlfriend, putting her in the hospital. She had been physically scarred for life. He was a big man, capable of extreme violence. He had served a prison term and whilst locked up had garnered quite a reputation. One of his fellow inmates had made the mistake of crossing him and had suffered brutally at his hands as a result. The man had recovered - eventually - but the beating he had received was consistent with the attack on Dr Travis.
Malone and Walker were triumphant. They had got him!

Steve had been following his own leads during his offtime and his dogged perseverance had finally paid off when one of his informants called him for a meet, saying he had something important to tell him.
The lieutenant had wasted no time. Haring out of the precinct, he had reached his car only to discover Cheryl standing in his way. She had a glint in her eye that spoke of her determination not to let him do this alone and, reluctantly, realising she would only follow him anyway, he had relented, allowing her to accompany him.
"So, what have you got for me, Jo?" demanded Steve as his snitch emerged from the shadows of the derelict building where they were meeting.
Jo glanced around nervously. He seemed skittish and apprehensive. "Got a name for you, Lieutenant," he said.
"Well, let's have it," ordered Steve impatiently.
Another uneasy glance around, then he leaned forward. "Gus Brewer," he whispered, conspiratorially.
Steve frowned. "Gus Brewer?" he echoed. "Why does that name seem familiar?"
"He beat a girlfriend of his almost to death," the other man reminded him. "And in the joint, he did the same to one of his fellow cons."
"Right, of course. So, what makes you think he's the guy?"
Jo smiled wanly. "Heard he's been mouthin' off about a job he did," he replied. "A job in Malibu. Went there for some valuables and got somethin' else instead."
Steve's mouth thinned out at the words. "Go on."
"Said he got him a woman. Did her good and then shot her through the head. I … I'm sorry, lieutenant," he temporised, backing off as Steve's face darkened with rage. "That's what he said. I'm just repeatin' it. Not sayin' it was right or anythin'."
"Yeah … all right," came the terse response. "You got a location for me, Jo?"
The man handed over a slip of paper. "Here's where you can find him most nights - when he's not out on a job."
"And will he be there tonight?" asked Cheryl.
A nod. "Oh yeah." Then, "Listen … you won't tell him it's me who said anythin', will ya? Gus is dangerous. He's like a loaded weapon - primed and ready to go off at any time. I don't want to be anywhere near him when he explodes."
Steve smiled, grimly. "No," he said. "We won't say anything to him. You have my word."
That earned him a grateful, if somewhat uneasy smile. "Your word's always been good enough for me, Lieutenant."
"Thanks for the information, Joe," said Cheryl. She fished in her jacket, extracting some bills, and handed them over.
Joe clutched at his reward feverishly then pocketed it and ran back into the shadows.
Cheryl turned to Steve. "So, what now?"
The lieutenant's face looked like it was set in granite, his blue eyes blazing in their sockets. "Now we go get us a killer," he rasped.

So it was that two sets of detectives converged on the one location. It was bound to end in disaster.

Mark was on duty when the first ambulance rolled up outside ER. He ran forward to greet the gurney and was staggered at the identity of the patient.
"Cheryl!" he exclaimed. Despite his shock, he guided the gurney into the nearest trauma room and issued orders about the detective's care. She was bleeding from a shoulder injury and she had a bad contusion on the side of her face. She was unconscious and the paramedics had reported her as being unresponsive, but her vital signs were good and the injury to her shoulder was not life-threatening.
Another gurney rolled through the door. This one contained Detective Malone. He looked like he had run into a wall. There were contusions on his face and body, and one massive bruise covering his abdomen, which looked particularly nasty. Mark immediately ordered x-rays and sent the detective into Trauma room 2.
The next gurney contained the only conscious victim of the melee. This was someone Mark knew only too well and his heart skipped a beat as he registered the multicoloured bruise on the man's cheekbone, the blood pouring from an open wound on his forehead and the way he was holding his right wrist, which was either badly sprained or broken.
"Steve!"
His son was sitting up on the gurney - despite the protests from the paramedics accompanying him. One of them pushed him down but he brushed off the restraining hands, rising upwards once again. "Dad!" he barked. "Dad, how's Cheryl?"
Mark shook his head in mute exasperation, tempered by the relief he felt at seeing the minor injuries his offspring had sustained. "She's being treated," he said, vaguely. "I think she'll be all right although she's unconscious at the moment. Steve, what in god's name happened?"

The story came tumbling out. How Steve and Cheryl had gone to the bar Gus Brewer frequented when he wasn't out committing burglary, rape and murder and how Malone and his partner had arrived at the same bar seconds after the other two detectives.
An argument had erupted between Steve and Malone. Malone had felt - quite rightly - that it was not the lieutenant's place to be there. This was his case and goddammit, he was sick and tired of Steve interfering.
Steve, on the other hand, was determined to catch and arrest the guy who had killed his fiancée and, more than likely his best friend and nothing was going to sway him from this course of action.
The argument had threatened to get physical before Cheryl and Stan had stepped in. Their cooler heads had prevailed, reminding their hot headed partners that they were cops first, adversaries second. They were here to arrest the suspect in Ellen's murder and if they continued this dispute, their quarry might well escape.
"We're a team," Cheryl said, glaring at her partner - whose fury at Malone had dissipated upon being reminded of their goal and the reason for it. "Let's act like one."
"Yeah," Stan joined in, much to his partner's amazement. Stan was normally the more introverted of the two men. "We don't like you being here on our bust, Lieutenant," he went on. "But we've gotta make the best of a bad situation. This works out to our advantage in case we need backup."
"In case you need backup?" Steve had echoed derisively. "Oh no, this is my call. I'm going in there."
"No, Steve, you're not." Cheryl's voice was quiet but resolute. She stood in front of her partner, almost as though she were physically preventing him from setting foot in the bar. "This is their bust. They were assigned this case. They did all the work on it. I understand why you want this one but we play backup this time. We can still be in on the bust. You still get to bring in the guy who murdered Ellen and attacked Jesse but we're the second stringers. Otherwise you can find yourself a new partner."
He stared at her for a full minute, not believing what she had just said. But it was there in her face. She meant every word. If he didn't back off, she would walk. He admired his partner. More, they formed a great team. He hadn't had a rapport this good with anyone since Tanis and he didn't want to lose it.
Despite his thirst for revenge; despite his need to be the one to bring in the guy who had ruined his life, he suddenly found common sense and his own innate morality prevailing. With very bad grace, he ceded to Cheryl's advice and her out and out threat. "Okay," he said, grumpily. "We wait outside and give you guys backup if you need it. Just one thing though."
"Yeah?" Malone was still standing his ground and the word sounded like a challenge.
Steve glared at him. His eyes were like ice. "Don't lose this guy," he said, in a low voice.
Malone grinned rakishly. "Oh don't you worry, Lieutenant. We have no intention of letting this guy go."

Moments later, Steve and Cheryl were recipients of a call for backup. They entered the bar to absolute mayhem. Malone was lying on the floor, bleeding, his shirt and jacket ripped and looking dazed. His partner was being restrained by two men whilst another one, at least six foot four and built from sheer muscle, advanced on him, his fist pulled back for a roundhouse blow.
"Hold it!"
The big, burly guy half turned at the command, smiling nastily at Steve and Cheryl, who had both drawn their guns, which were now trained on the entire group. "Oh, look," he sneered. "Reinforcements! Well, guys, you can try, but you're not takin' me in!" So saying, he continued with his swing toward Stan, who tried his best to avert the blow, but before he could make contact, Steve fired. The bullet entered the man's shoulder and was enough to deflect him from causing any injury to Stan, who used the distraction to struggle free of his captors and deliver his own punches, catching both of them in the nose with the force of the blows.
Then chaos ensued as the big man launched himself on the two newcomers. Steve and Cheryl were ill prepared for such an attack and Cheryl got the worst of it as his fist caught her a glancing blow on the forehead. Falling backward, she collided with a table, which splintered under the force of the impact, one of the larger splinters of wood then piercing her shoulder from front to back.
Steve was luckier. He managed to swerve out of the way, but as he fell to the floor, he landed badly on his right arm, and a jolt of agony blossomed outward from his wrist, making him black out momentarily.
Stan had drawn his gun by this time and was holding it on the other protagonists, as Steve forced himself up from the floor to face the man who had killed Ellen.
He was beyond fury, beyond reasonable thought. All he could feel was a cold, hard craving for vengeance. This monster had raped and murdered the woman he loved and had shot Jesse. A distant pain sliced through his heart. Jesse was probably dead by now. And this guy had killed him. If there was the slightest recognition of his own part in that process, he didn't acknowledge it.
"You bastard!" His voice was like ice. "You stinking, perverted, bastard scum! You killed them. You killed them and now you're going to die."
He could hear Cheryl's voice in the background, but he didn't understand the words. Stan's voice was a counterpoint but the sound of it was distorted and he dismissed it as irrelevant. He aimed his weapon at Brewer's head, then his chest. His own chest was heaving and a haze of red had fallen over his eyesight. It was almost as though he and Brewer were the only ones in the room.
His need for revenge was overwhelming. It completely consumed him, blocking out all rational thought. All he could see was the image of his dead fiancée and, in the periphery of his vision were the paramedics working frantically to save the life of his friend.
Killing this man now could put an end to the images. It could put an end to the pain. If he murdered him, then he could atone for his mistakes. Leaving them alone to face this monster; not being there to protect them when they needed him … Here was where everything could be put right. Just one bullet to the forehead … maybe another to the chest just to make sure. And perhaps another in the groin - that would put an end to this rapist.
His finger tightened on the trigger. Brewer stood tall, grinning at him, laughing at him. Obviously the guy thought he was invincible.
Then Brewer moved. For a big man he was awfully light on his feet. Like lightning, he was on top of Steve before the detective could actually fire the gun and they went down together. Steve felt his head impact with the corner of a table as he fell, but even that pain was nothing compared to the agony slicing through his heart. He couldn't fail - not again! He had failed them once. Now … he had the chance to repair all the damage that had been done and he couldn't fail again.
As Brewer grabbed his head and prepared to slam it into the ground below him, a shot rang out. A shower of blood erupted from Brewer's other shoulder. It didn't even faze him. Steve struggled for purchase on the floor, trying to find a way to heave the guy off him. His fingers found themselves wrapped round a piece of wood - probably from the table which had shattered when Cheryl had fallen on top of it. With a grim smile of satisfaction, he firmed his grip and swung it round. It exploded on impact with Brewer's skull. The big man looked dazed for a moment then toppled sideways, to fall to the ground.
By this time, unformed cops had arrived and ambulances weren't far behind. Brewer was taken into custody, his limp body being manhandled into an ambulance by several officers. Stan was examining his unconscious partner and Cheryl, after levelling a look at Steve that spoke eloquently of her feelings on his actions, lapsed into the same oblivion.

"So where's Brewer now?" asked Mark. He glanced around the ER. No ambulance had arrived bearing the murderer and he momentarily wondered whether he would be able to suppress his own abhorrence of the man who had taken one life and had tried his level best to snuff out another.
"He's on his way," said Steve, tightly. His face was lined with strain, the deep blue eyes showing his torment. "I wanted to come in the same ambulance - to make sure he didn't escape. But I was dazed myself and they'd loaded me into another one and set off for the hospital before I could protest."
'Just as well,' reflected Mark, silently, only now comprehending how close his son - his decent, by-the-book cop son had come to actually killing the man. "Well, we'd better take a look at that wrist … and that head," he said, in a matter of fact tone of voice. Gently, he examined the bleeding head wound. It would probably require a couple of sutures but it was not serious. The wrist looked swollen but he didn't think it was broken. It was undoubtedly a bad sprain. Both injuries would hurt for a while but they would heal. He wasn't at all sure about his son's soul.

Brewer was wheeled into the ER about ten minutes later. He had woken up in the ambulance but was now unconscious again. Inexplicably, he had acquired another wound on his head, but no-one was talking about how it had happened and Mark didn't bother to ask.
After treating his son for the minor wounds he had received at Brewer's hands, Mark had been back in the ER reception when the murderer was brought in. He was forced to quell his distaste at having to treat the man, but it was difficult. He counted amongst his victims now not only Ellen and Jesse, but also Cheryl, Malone and Steve. Granted, the latter three were going to be fine - at least physically, but still … This was the man who had committed a heinous act in his house; who had forever tainted their lives. For the first time in a long time he found it difficult to assert his professional persona over his personal feelings. The man even looked like the brute he was.

Two hours later, Brewer was taken up to a room where he would be held under guard until he could be taken to jail where he would hopefully be incarcerated until his trial. The operation to extract the bullets from his shoulders and patch him up had been undertaken in a strange atmosphere of silence. There had been none of the urgency which normally characterised such procedures. It had been merely a clinical exercise, performed with efficiency and skill but absolutely no feeling whatsoever. The staff assisting Mark were well aware of the identity of the man and what it was alleged he had done. Whilst they knew Ellen from her association with Steve and Mark, it was Jesse who dominated their thoughts. The young doctor had almost died and this monster was the reason why. Their compassion would be wasted on him.

Once Brewer was ensconced in his temporary abode, handcuffed to the bed and with three guards on him, Mark made his way down the hall to see his son. He was exhausted. Truly, utterly burned out. He recognised that he should be feeling some relief at this point. The murder investigation had yielded a result. The suspect was in custody and he would no doubt pay a heavy price for what he had done. But the damage he had caused was like a cancer, eating away at everyone; growing day by day. And there seemed to be nothing Mark could do to stop it.

Steve was lying in the bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling when Mark entered the room. The older man recognised the posture and the dark, forbidding look on his face.
Steve was brooding.
Heaving a heavy sigh, the distinguished doctor sank into the chair at his son's bedside and ran weary hands over his face.
"You okay, dad?"
It was the first time he had heard Steve express concern for anyone else for a long while. Then again, they hadn't seen each other much since Steve's outburst in Jesse's room. He pasted a smile on his face and let his hands fall listlessly into his lap. "I'm fine," he said.
Seemingly satisfied with that, Steve returned to staring at the ceiling. Silence reigned for several moments, then, "You know, I've been lying here, thinking."
"That could be dangerous," Mark teased him. It was a half-hearted attempt but Steve cast him a thin smile of gratitude anyway.
"I … I've been thinking about … the night of the .. you know …"
He couldn't say the words and Mark nodded silently, understanding only too well. Searching for the man who had caused his world to crumble around him had consumed Steve for weeks. And whilst he had been involved in it, it had kept his mind occupied so that he didn't have to deal with Ellen's death and what had happened to Jesse. It had shielded him, in a way, from having to face all his turbulent emotions after the first swell of grief. Now that shield was gone and all those feelings he had been ruthlessly suppressing would be fighting for release. And there was nothing Mark could do except be there for him. Succour was all he could offer. He could not bring him the peace he knew his son would crave. Only Steve himself could find that and it would be a very personal journey.
"Dad … that guy … Brewer?"
"Yes, son."
"He … he nearly took out all four of us. My god, he would have killed Malone and Stan if we hadn't been there."
Steve sounded tortured and Mark winced, pretty sure he knew what was coming next. "I know," he said, calmly, however. "You told me."
"I … I didn't realise," came the hoarse voice. "I … guess I never thought … I've had a long time to do that whilst lying here and … god, what was I thinking? No-one could have fought that monster off …"
"Steve …" Mark wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. Steve sounded as though he were in hell and indeed, that was where he had been since Ellen's murder. He forced himself to remain quiet. The stranger who had taken up residence in his son's body had gone and in his stead was Steve himself.
Steve's fingers were fumbling restlessly with the bedcovers now and he couldn't look the older man in the eye. "I … was just thinking about Ellen and Jesse and what they went through," he said. His voice was practically inaudible and Mark had to strain to hear it. "My god, dad, they didn't stand a chance. Ellen … I … I can't even picture what she went through at his hands and Jess … he was beaten to a pulp … the size of the guy, dad, and Jesse's half his size! And then he was shot … through the heart. I know, I remember. And … and I didn't care. He's my best friend and I didn't care!"
"Steve, your fiancée had just been raped and killed," Mark pointed out, gently. He stroked his son's arm soothingly, trying to give him the absolution that he so desperately needed and knowing that only one person was capable of giving him that.
"I know! I know that! But … god dad, what the hell gave me the right to blame him? How could I have done that? I blamed myself more, you know? And I couldn't deal with it so … I guess I projected it onto Jesse. But I … god, I can't believe I told him … I can't believe … it was me who killed him, dad. Not Brewer. Me. I killed my best friend and I don't know how to deal with that. I don't … I didn't deserve him as a friend and now it's too late to tell him I'm sorry …. " The words ended on a sob and Mark enfolded him in his arms as Steve completely fell apart. Grief for Ellen and Jesse, coupled with guilt and shame came pouring out in a virtual torrent and Mark thanked god that the walls had finally come down, although that was tempered by worry. How was Steve going to react when he was told he hadn't killed his friend after all? And was this the catalyst that Jesse needed in order to bring him back to them?

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