Skeletons by Guardian

Part 3

"Dane, wait!" Mark hurried into the corridor after the retreating form of Jesse's father. For one moment, he thought that he was going to be ignored, but then the other man halted and slowly turned.
"We don't have time to waste, Mark."
"This won't take long." When Dane merely nodded curtly, the doctor pressed on: "You said that Jesse had already suffered enough because of that family. That means you know what Wayne Burton did to him."
Regret flashed across Dane's features and he looked at Mark with unmistakable torment in his eyes.
"What is it you want me to say, Mark?" he asked. "Do you want me to say that if I hadn't walked out on Jesse all those years ago then none of this would have happened? Well, you're right. It wouldn't have happened." His eyes hardened and the remorseful father was gone, leaving the government agent in his place. "None of that would have happened, but I might have gone home one day to find my wife and son murdered in their beds."
"Dane…"
"The threat to my family was very real," the agent continued, ignoring the other man's attempt to interrupt. "A colleague of mine ignored the warnings and he paid the ultimate price." He didn't need to elaborate on that statement, the implications were obvious. "So I was left with a choice to make. I made what I thought was the right one. I know that Jesse suffered after my departure and I know that he's suffering now because of it, but he's alive and, for that reason only, I cannot have any regrets for what I did."
"I do understand," Mark replied with absolute honesty. He didn't even have to ask himself what he would have done in such circumstances. The answer was etched into his heart. "And it wasn't my intention to accuse you of anything. I just wanted to know…" He paused, wondering how to phrase his question. "Did you know that Wayne Burton was murdered?"
Dane snorted bitter laughter: "And you think that I killed him." It wasn't a question. "I love Jesse and I would do anything for him. And you know that I've killed before." He smiled humourlessly. "You can draw your own conclusions from that - perhaps you already have - but I'm sure that you must have read the police reports by now. Didn't they tell you that I wasn't even in Elgin that day?"
"Dane…"
"And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start tracking down my son."
Before Mark could utter another word, the agent had resumed his progress down the corridor. He didn't look back when Mark called after him again.

*****

"Come on, kid, wake up." Burton had dragged Jesse across the cellar and sat him propped up against a wall. "You don't get away from me that easily." He punctuated his words with none too gentle slaps to his captive's face and was rewarded by a grimace and then a fluttering of eyelashes. "Wake up, dammit."
Jesse's eyes flickered open, but his brief spell of unconsciousness had done little to clear the clouds in his mind. Pain and fear dominated his every sense and he couldn't prevent himself from cowering away as a man's face filled his field of vision.
"The truth." Burton spat, still paying no heed to the unnatural distance in the other man's eyes. "Now!" He jerked him forwards by the collar. "Who are you protecting?"
Jesse's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He couldn't understand what was being demanded of him, didn't know what he had done wrong. But he did know better than to try and lie to his tormentor. Wayne always knew when he was lying.
Burton abruptly released him, shoving him back against the wall. He got to his feet and began to pace, running one hand through his thinning hair. It was all going wrong. He had the doctor cowering and terrified, he should have given him the answers on which so much rode by now. The money that he craved was slipping through his fingers and he didn't know what else he could do about it. He paused long enough to glare at the bound man.
The kid was protecting someone, he had to be. And it was a loyalty that was frightening in its ferocity that he would endure such punishment to maintain it. A slow smile spread over Burton's face. There weren't many people in a person's life that could inspire such feelings.
Crossing swiftly back to where Jesse was hunched against the wall, he grabbed him by the shoulder, bunching the material of the tee shirt in his fist and hauling him to his feet.
"It's your mom, isn't it?" he hissed, his face very close to the other man's. "That's who you're trying to protect. What? Did she do it herself? Or did the slut have some other boyfriend who she got to do it for her?"
"M… mom..?" Jesse murmured, that one word having registered in his regressed mind.
"Tell me why she did it!" He used his free hand to grasp his captive's chin, forcing him to look at him. "Why?"
Jesse's breath was coming in harsh gasps, his terror and the injuries he had sustained to his ribs making each inhalation more and more difficult. He couldn't have spoken even if he'd had any words to say.
He didn't know what was happening; didn't know where he was or who was holding him - and hurting him.
Burton looked into the eyes that stared blankly at him and, releasing Jesse's chin, drew back his hand to administer another slap. He stopped himself at the last moment and a cold, calculating look entered his eyes. Using more force than was necessary, given that Jesse would have collapsed the moment that he was released, he flung his captive to the ground.
"Alright," he said, his voice deceptively calm, but with a cold rage glittering in his eyes. "Maybe I should just ask her instead."

*****

Mark sighed heavily as he re-entered the doctors' lounge, causing both Steve and Amanda to look up in concern.
"Mark?" It was Amanda who voiced the question, seeing how haggard the older man looked.
"It's not easy being a parent," Mark muttered, almost to himself.
He was remembering the one time that he and Jesse had spoken at length about his relationship with his father. The young man had been fighting for his life, infected by a mutated smallpox virus and had probably said more than he ever would have in normal circumstances.
It had saddened Mark when Jesse had tried to casually brush off that relationship as not being bad, but just not being anything. His closeness to Steve had prompted him to probe ever more deeply and had resulted in Jesse admitting that he thought his dad just didn't care; that the last time he had seen him, they had had nothing to say to each other. He remembered the exact words that he'd used at the time: sometimes it's like that when there's really too much to say.
The conversation had moved on then, but Mark knew that he had spoken the absolute truth. Dane did what he did because he loved his family too much to put them in danger. The fact that danger had visited his son regardless was not his fault, but how could he ever have explained that to his only child who was being so dreadfully abused. Jesse had thought him to be an accountant and had no clue as to the real reason for him leaving the family home - but all of the reasons in the world would not have justified what had then transpired. And, if Jesse could still lie some of the blame with his father, didn't it only follow that the man would feel some of the guilt?
"Dad?" Steve prompted, when nothing more was forthcoming. "What happened? Where did you go rushing off to like that?"
"There was something I needed to ask Dane." Mark shook himself out of his musing. "And he said the strangest thing. He said 'you saw the police reports, I wasn't in Elgin that day'."
"That's right," Steve frowned, wondering where his father saw strangeness in that statement. "Dane's name wasn't even mentioned in those reports."
"No, it was the way he said that it was in the police reports." Mark explained. "He didn't just say himself that he wasn't there."
"Implying that he was?" Amanda put in, struggling to follow the older man's train of thought.
"Maybe I'm reading between the lines, but that was the impression that I got. Dane wasn't lying to me; he was making sure that he didn't have to." Mark looked at the two of them seriously. "He was in Elgin that day and he killed Wayne Burton. I'm certain of it."

*****

Burton stalked over to where Jesse lay, confident that this new tactic would work. If he was so desperate to protect his mother, then he would do anything to prevent her from being hurt.
Jesse's eyes were open, but he was staring blankly at the wall. Burton nudged him with his foot and then crouched next to him.
"Did you hear what I said, boy?" There was no indication that he had, but Burton was undaunted. "I'm gonna find out the truth and if I have to drag your mom down here then that's what I'll do."
The words were meaningless to Jesse. His entire world consisted only of his pain and his fear - and the utter certainty that he was going to die. And his mind dragged him back in time to the one occasion that he had genuinely believed that Wayne was going to kill him.
"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Wayne snarled as he advanced across the lounge.
Jesse backed up until he felt the wall against his back. He knew that he'd made a mistake and he also knew that he was going to pay for it. It was three days after Christmas and Wayne had confiscated every single present that he'd received. He said it was because Jesse was ungrateful, but nothing could have been further from the truth. It was just another excuse to torment the child.
But Jesse had been so subdued the next day that even his mom had picked up on it. When she had gently asked what was wrong, he had seen his opportunity.
Unfortunately, Wayne had walked in on them before he had barely even begun. Jesse couldn't lie and nor could he hide what he was feeling. The terror on his face gave Wayne an unmistakable message - telling him loud and clear exactly what he had interrupted.
When Jesse's mom had gone to work, he pinned the petrified child to the wall by his throat.
"I should kill you for that," he hissed, slowly tightening his grip. "You're not gonna ruin what I've got here. You understand that? You breathe so much as one word to anyone, ever again and I will kill you. And then I'll kill your mom. Is that what you want? Is it?"
Jesse couldn't answer - couldn't breathe. Darkness clawed at the edge of his vision, but still Wayne didn't relent.
The darkness encroached even further and his tortured lungs screamed for air. As unconsciousness claimed him, he had time for one last fleeting thought:
"Please, God, don't let him hurt my mom."

*****

"Mom…"
Burton heard the whispered word and smirked triumphantly. His plan had worked. The threat to Jesse's mother had proved the key.
"That's more like it," he muttered, forcing Jesse to look at him and ignoring the disconcertingly vague gaze that didn't quite meet his. "Now, start talking."
Jesse wasn't seeing him. He was staring into the past, looking at the familiar pattern of his mom's carpet, marred by a scattering of pine needles that had fallen from the Christmas tree. The only constant between the past and present was the difficulty he had in breathing - the child because of his bruised throat and the adult because of the fire in his ribs.
"You don't wanna test me, kid," Burton was quickly running out of his limited patience. "Your mom's not gonna be in Europe forever. You really want to do this to her? You really want to stay down here, locked away, until she gets back - and then I go drag her down here? You really want that? Huh?"
It took him a moment to process the fact that he wasn't dead. He was lying in the lounge where Wayne had dropped him. He tried to swallow past the agony in his throat; tried to quell the sobs that rose up in him. He was alone and he wanted things to stay that way. More than anything, he didn't want to attract Wayne's attention, or else he might come back and finish the job.
But suddenly he wasn't alone. A threatening shape loomed over him and rough hands grabbed at him, while a harsh voice said words that he couldn't understand. And he couldn't understand because the memory was wrong.
"You think I won't do it," Burton growled, grabbing the front of Jesse's tee shirt and dragging him upright. "You think I wouldn't hit a woman? Guess again. I'll do whatever it takes. I want my money." He shook his captive as he spoke, his desperation growing. The threats against Jesse's mom were a bluff. He couldn't afford to wait for her vacation to end; couldn't take the risk of another kidnapping. But it was his final throw of the dice.
And the elation that he'd felt when he thought his ploy was working was quickly replaced by dark fury. He flung Jesse away from him and got to his feet.
"I was hoping it wasn't going to come to this," he murmured, his hands moving to his belt buckle. "But you're leaving me with no choice."

*****

"Bill Burton has rented a house, privately, in West Hollywood," Dane's voice on Steve's cellphone calmly informed him. "That's why you couldn't find him."
"Dane…" There were so many questions that Steve wanted to ask, following his father's theory about what had really happened in Elgin. And it was only a theory - a gut instinct that he knew was right, but didn't know how he knew. The more he'd thought about it, the more the detective had been forced to agree. Dane certainly had the motive and the means and, recalling what he'd read in the police reports, Jesse's father had never been questioned - had never had to provide an alibi. But knowing it was the truth was one thing, knowing what to do with that truth was a different matter entirely.
"Just meet me there." The agent interrupted him sharply before reeling off the address. He hung up without saying another word.
Steve scowled at his now dead phone and then turned to Mark and Amanda, who were looking at him expectantly.
"We've got an address on Burton," he told them, pocketing his phone and heading towards the door.
"I'm coming with you," his father predictably said.
"Mark…" Amanda looked distraught and Mark fully understood why. Two major emergencies in as many days had left her with a backlog of work to catch up on. There was no way that she could leave the hospital for any length of time.
"We'll call you the moment that we know anything," he promised, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"Just find him, Mark," she whispered, even as they exited the lounge. "And please let him be alright."

*****

It was the one thing that he couldn't ignore. As Bill pulled the belt free from its loops, Jesse's eyes were immediately drawn to it and his breath caught in his throat.
"No…" His voice was barely audible, but filled with horror. He tried to find some purchase on the floor with his blood slicked feet; tried to back away, but there was nowhere for him to go.
It was a nightmare - a nightmare in which Wayne had risen from the dead and come back to torture him further. Nausea churned in his stomach as the man relentlessly approached him.
"Please, no…" he whimpered, unable to tear his eyes away from the soft leather as it sailed through the air.
He couldn't survive this, he knew that he couldn't - not again. The agony of such a beating was forever etched into his memory, no matter how hard he tried to repress it. And he couldn't endure it again.
Jesse wanted to throw his arms up to protect his face, but his bonds held him immobile, adding to his helpless terror. Then the belt smacked against his chest and he tried to scream, tried to beg some more - even though he knew it was futile.
He managed to roll partly onto his side and the belt struck his shoulder. The next blow struck his bare arm. Desperate prayers - that had so often gone unanswered - raced through his mind. But there was no respite, no escape and nothing he could do to end his torment. Even unconsciousness eluded him.

*****

Burton had lost control completely. He heard the pitiful pleas that escaped his captive, but they only served to enrage him further. The man lay broken and bleeding on the floor; was a cowering, crying wreck - and yet he still held out against him. He was still keeping him from his money.
"You piece of shit!" he ranted, continuing to rain blows on the helpless form at his feet. "You little bastard! Is this what you want me to do to your mom? Huh? You want to sit there and watch while I beat the crap out of her?" Spittle flew from his lips as he continued to rant. "I want my money and dammit, I'm gonna get it. I'll kill you if I have to. I'll kill both of you!"
He put his full strength behind each and every blow. He had suffered the same many years ago and knew the agony he was inflicting. Nobody could hold out for long under such torture - he was certain of it.
"I'll take every inch of skin off your body, damn you!" He targeted the same spot on his captive's right shoulder, whipping it repeatedly until the skin broke and blood stained the leather belt. "Tell me! Tell me, dammit!"
His rage was all encompassing and he took a perverse pleasure - that bound him to both his father and his brother - in the power that it gave him.
He didn't hear the cellar door slam open, was barely aware of the footsteps on the stairs - nor the voice that cried out in anger.
The first he realised that they were not alone was when an arm snaked around his neck and then tightened, brutally cutting off his airway. The belt fell from his nerveless fingers and darkness rushed up to assail him.
As consciousness was torn from him, he heard a voice: "Dane, don't."

*****

"Don't kill him, Dane." Steve locked his eyes with those of Jesse's dad and put the full force of his will behind that command.
"Give me one good reason." The agent held Burton in a potentially deadly headlock; one that had already robbed him of consciousness and that, with a little more pressure, would rob him of life.
"It's not the right thing to do," Steve responded. His eyes flickered towards where Jesse lay, but his view was obscured by Mark, who had rushed to the young doctor's side.
"He's not getting away with what he did to my son," Dane snapped. He tightened his arm fractionally. Another ounce of pressure would finish the job.
"He won't," Steve told him, implacably. He saw the tightening of the grip and took a half step forwards. "He'll pay for what he's done. Through the courts, through jail." He took another small step. "I can't let you do this."
"You can't stop me."
"I can arrest you - and I will if you kill that man." His eyes were again drawn towards his stricken friend. "And I think Jesse will need you at his side and not rotting away in jail."
"Jesse…"
Abruptly, Burton was released to collapse in an inelegant heap on the floor. Dane went to approach his son, but then suddenly found that he couldn't. He could hear Mark's soothing tones, could see the doctor fumbling at the ropes that bound his wrists - but Jesse himself seemed completely unresponsive. Dane stood where he was, wondering what it was that held him paralysed - and then instantly recognising it as fear.

*****

"Jesse, can you hear me?" Mark kept his voice deliberately calm, appalled by what they had walked in on and understanding that the young man must have been utterly terrified.
The ropes around his wrists were slick with blood where he had struggled and the knots were too tight for him to gain any purchase. The weight of a penknife in his pocket solved that particular problem and he made short work of the bonds - aware of the voices behind him, but paying them no heed.
His focus was solely on Jesse. His colleague was bloodied and bruised, but his eyes were open and he appeared to be conscious.
"Jesse?" He reached down, intended to cup his friend's cheek, to gently turn him to face him. But he withdrew his hand as though it had been burnt when Jesse cried out weakly and flinched away.
Oh dear God. Mark suddenly remembered the way that Jesse had regressed back to his childhood when he had gently tried to question him about it. His treatment at the hands of Bill Burton had been anything but gentle.
"Jesse," he tried again, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Even as he spoke, his hands were busy, quietly preparing an injection of painkillers. Unable to touch Jesse, he couldn't even begin to guess as to the full extent of his injuries, but he was obviously in agony. "It's Mark. Mark Sloan. You're safe now, Jess. Can you understand that? You're safe."
The only response he got was a barely audible moan and a feeble moving of Jesse's legs as he tried to crawl further away from this latest intrusion.
"Jesse, I want you to focus on my voice. Can you do that, son?" He never considered the fact that Jesse's true father was standing behind him. He just wanted to find some way to reach his stricken friend. "It's Mark Sloan. You know me, I'm your friend. You're safe now. It's over, Jesse. I promise you, it's over."
But Jesse merely whimpered softly and, now that his hands were free, he wrapped them around his midriff and inched his knees slightly upwards towards his chest.
"Jesse, please…" Mark trailed off, realising that he was only serving to further traumatise his friend. He was too far gone, too lost in his memories, to recognise even his voice. He needed to get him to the hospital where they could look after him properly. "Steve," he murmured. "I'm going to need an ambulance."

*****

Those words spurred Dane out of his paralysis. Mark had sounded so grave, so fearful that he could no longer simply stand by and do nothing. He dropped to his knees at his son's side.
"Jesse?" He reached out to tenderly stroke the back of his head, his stomach tightening in horror as Jesse pulled away. "Jesse, it's dad."
"Dane…" Mark felt that he had to intervene - to explain to the other man about how Jesse had reverted back to his childhood and that it was unlikely he was even aware of any of them, but a soft, anguished voice silenced anything that he might have said.
"It's a bad dream…" Jesse's voice was cracked and broken. "I prayed and prayed that you'd come, but you never did… I prayed so hard… You never came… It's just a bad dream and I'll wake up and you'll be gone…"
Tears welled in Mark's throat at the pitiful words. Jesse was still lost in his past, but he had heard his father's voice. That was something, at least. He looked at Dane, but the agent - trained to deal with almost any situation - had found the one thing that he couldn't handle: his son's twelve-year-old voice accusing him of not being there when he needed him. He could only stare down helplessly at the broken body on the floor.
"Try again," Mark whispered, giving the other man a gentle nudge. Dane looked up sharply, confusion in his eyes. "He heard your voice," Mark explained. "You belong in that time where he is - I don't. Talk to him, Dane. Get through to him."
"Jesse? Son?" Dane's voice was hesitant, uncertain. "I'm really here, Jesse. It's not a dream."
"You never came… I prayed and prayed…"
"Yes I did, Jesse. I came the moment that I knew you needed me." He reached out again and this time there was no flinch in response to his touch. "I promise you Jesse, when you prayed, when you needed me, I came to you son."
"D… dad?" The bloodied face turned upwards, the blue eyes still not completely focussed. But it was a start.

*****

Mark watched the scene unfold before him and wished that he could give the father and son the privacy that they so desperately needed. But he had continued to examine Jesse with his eyes and he didn't like what he was seeing. The young man was covered with contusions and bruises and had obviously been beaten even before the brutal assault that they had walked in on. More worrying were the lacerations to his shoulder, which bled freely. More blood on the floor drew Mark's eyes down to Jesse's bare feet and he winced at the sight of the grime encrusted cuts that marred the soles. Then there was the bruised lump on his temple, indicative of a hefty blow and warning of possible concussion.
"We need to get him warm," he said, gently touching Dane's arm to get his attention. "He's in shock and..." He paused, listening and then shook his head. "I don't like the sound of his breathing.
Dane looked at him with barely suppressed panic in his eyes. Then he nodded and stripped off his overcoat, wrapping it around Jesse's trembling form.
"Keep talking to him," Mark instructed him. "He seems to respond to you and I need you to try and keep him calm."
The agent nodded again and Mark reached for his stethoscope. Relief flooded through him when Jesse didn't flinch away from its touch.
"Jesse, there's something that I need to tell you," Dane said, as he carefully manoeuvered his son into his arms.
Something in Dane's voice stilled Mark's hands and he looked up at him, sharply. Guilt was written all over his features and the forthcoming confession was evident in his eyes.
"Don't, Dane. Not now." Mark shook his head to emphasise his words. "It's not the right time. You need to keep Jesse calm."
He silently willed the other man to comply. He didn't want Jesse to be agitated any more than he already was. And a confession as to what had really befallen Wayne Burton would surely do just that. The young man's breathing was ragged and his gentle examination had confirmed Mark's fears that he had suffered broken ribs. He didn't want those injuries compromised.
"Then what should I say?" Dane asked.
"Anything." Mark offered him an encouraging smile. "Just let him keep hearing your voice. That's all that he needs right now.

*****

Steve watched silently as the two older men ministered to his friend and silently wished that there was something he could do to help. His view of Jesse was completely obscured and, aside from his one brief glimpse of him as they'd entered the cellar, he had no idea as to how badly he had been hurt. Steve shuddered as he remembered that moment; the sound of leather impacting against flesh; the ranting of Burton as he'd whipped his victim and the minute sounds that were all Jesse had been able to voice in protest.
His restless gaze shifted back to where Bill Burton lay. After making sure that Dane had only incapacitated the man and not killed him, Steve had cuffed his hands behind his back, mostly as a precaution. He didn't know how long the agent's technique would keep him out for and he wasn't about to take any chances.
Remembering what they had walked in on made Steve wonder exactly what it was that had caused him to stop Dane from killing the man. He himself had been furious enough to do exactly that, but the burning rage had been quelled by the instinct that made him who he was: his cop's instinct that simply knew that one more death would not make things right.
But that didn't quell his burning desire to see Burton get exactly what he deserved, to ensure that he never hurt Jesse again. And nor did it negate his need to do something - anything to help.
Then he heard Mark mutter something about Jesse needing to be kept calm and, at last, Steve saw a way to make a contribution towards the young man's wellbeing. Jesse most certainly wouldn't keep calm if Burton were to wake up in his vicinity. Grabbing the still unconscious man by the scruff of the neck, he hauled him semi-upright. The sudden movement caused his father to glance in his direction.
"I need to keep an eye out for that ambulance," Steve said, by way of explanation. "And I've got a patrol unit on the way to take this scum downtown."
"Steve." There was a flash of guilt in the older man's eyes as he remembered the one remaining member of his extended family - and the promise that he'd made to her. "Please, will you call Amanda?"

*****

"Amanda, it's okay. We've found him."
Steve heard Amanda sigh in sheer and utter relief as he said those words. Stuck back at the hospital, alone in her pathology lab and surrounded by the dead, her worry must have been all consuming.
"Is he..?" Amanda's voice was dry and hesitant. Some of the fear obviously still remained. "How is he?"
Steve paused, wondering how he could possibly answer that question. He didn't know how Jesse was; he hadn't asked. But he did know that it wasn't just his physical wellbeing that had his father concerned - and he had heard Jesse's small voice for himself.
"Steve?" The hint of panic in Amanda's voice told him that he had allowed the silence to drag on for too long.
"I'm sorry." He gave himself a mental shake. "He's… he's hurt, Amanda. Burton…" He paused again, unable to put into words exactly what he had witnessed. "He was determined to get his answers," he concluded, lamely. "And Jesse… I don't know, Amanda…"
"Oh God…" Her response was spoken on a sigh.
"He'll be alright," Steve said, with as much reassurance as he could muster. "Dane and my dad are with him. He'll be just fine."
The wailing of sirens in the distance, growing ever louder, forced Steve to conclude his call. Help was on the way and he could finally start to allow himself to believe that he had told Amanda the truth.

*****

Mark eased the overcoat back from Jesse's shoulder and gently dabbed at the raw flesh with a sterile gauze. The young man moaned softly and tried to pull away, but Dane tightened his embrace, allowing Mark to continue his treatment.
"It's alright, Jesse." The agent's voice was calm and soothing, as he tried to heed Mark's instructions. "This is no worse than that time you fell down the stairs. Do you remember that, Jesse? To this day, I'll never know what you were thinking. How many times had I told you only to use your skateboard outside?"
Mark allowed himself a sad smile at the fond indulgence that had been so evident in Dane's voice. It must have been nigh on impossible for him to leave the boy, whom he obviously loved very much.
"'m sorry…" Jesse's response was filled with contrition. Then he shifted slightly again. "Dad?"
"Yes, Jesse?"
"'m hot…" he murmured, closing his eyes. "Please may I have a soda?"
Dane looked worriedly up at Mark, who placed his hand against Jesse's forehead. He was disappointed but not surprised to feel the heat that radiated from it. The conditions he had been kept in had made infection almost inevitable.
"He'll be alright just as soon as we get him to the hospital," Mark murmured, though he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. Any hope he'd dared nurture that Dane was getting through to his son had been killed by those soft words. Jesse was as lost to them as ever.
"Dad!" Steve's voice from the top of the stairs came right on cue. "The ambulance is here."
Exchanging a glance with Mark and seeing his own profound relief mirrored in his eyes, Dane gathered his precious bundle even closer still and carefully climbed to his feet.

*****

Steve glanced up from his morbid contemplation of nothing as his father emerged from the open cellar door. Dane was right behind him, carrying Jesse cradled in his arms. He saw the way that his best friend flinched as they entered the brightly lit kitchen, turning his face into Dane's chest and closing his eyes. Then Jesse's broken voice reached the detective's ears.
"I… I'm sorry… I won't do it again… Please don't send me back down there…"
Sudden fury raced through Steve as he recalled the one time that he'd spoken to Jesse about Burton; his friend's anguish as he'd raged: "How about the time he locked me in the cellar and left me there all night?"
Steve turned his murderous glare towards Bill Burton. The man was slumped on the floor, his hands still cuffed and he was still unconscious. But Steve had to physically resist the urge to get to his feet and kick the hell out of the man - no matter how helpless he was.
In fact, if the sudden screeching of car tyres outside hadn't told him that the patrol unit he'd requested had arrived, then he might have done exactly that.
As Mark directed Dane out to the waiting ambulance, they passed close by Steve and he could see the unhealthy flush on Jesse's cheeks, hear his continued cries - apologising to a man who was long dead but still causing him immeasurable suffering. And he was immensely glad of the cops' arrival. Not only was he at risk of landing himself police brutality charges but - the way he was feeling - his actions could sorely compromise the case against Bill Burton, for making his dear friend relive that nightmare.
Biting down on his temper, he waited until the other three men had exited the room and then crossed back to where Burton lay. He had been none to gentle with the man as he'd hauled him up the cellar steps - not caring if he was bruising him and a part of him hoping that he was. He exhibited the same lack of gentleness as he dragged him upright and handed him over to the waiting cops.

*****


"So it was all about money?" The quiet anger in Dane's voice made Amanda wonder if she'd maybe said too much.
Steve hadn't accompanied the ambulance back to Community General. Instead, he'd gone back to the precinct bound and determined that everything about Bill Burton's formal arrest would be done by the book. He knew that the man came from a wealthy family and would probably be able to afford the best of lawyers - and he wasn't about to risk him walking free on a technicality.
Then when they had finally arrived at the hospital, Mark had immediately whisked Jesse into an examination room. Amanda had been waiting and, seeing her worry, Mark had offered her brief words of encouragement before disappearing through the doors to tend to his protégé.
That left her alone with Dane and she had guided him to the doctors' lounge. He didn't belong in there but she knew that nobody would object to his presence.
With nothing left to do but wait, she had filled Jesse's father in on everything she knew about Bill Burton and his motives for digging up the long-dead crime. It was her recounting of Steve's theory that there was a several million dollar inheritance at stake that had provoked the reaction.
"Steve thought that with the mother's death and Bill's totally irrational, obsessive behaviour…" she tried to explain.
"It was all about money." Dane's lips were pressed into a thin line. "I should have killed him."
Amanda sucked in a shocked breath when she heard those words. Though she knew full well what Dane did for a living - and had seen his handiwork in her lab on occasion - she had had no idea as to what had happened during Jesse's rescue. Alone in her lab, she'd had plenty of time to speculate and now it seemed that some of her scenarios maybe weren't so far fetched.
"You're a parent, Doctor Bentley." Dane continued, his eyes boring into hers. "You know that you would do anything to protect your children. If you'd have walked in on… If you'd have seen someone hurting your kid… beating him…" His voice broke and his gaze faltered at the sudden memory.
"Dane…" Amanda's compassion rose swiftly to the fore and she sat down next to the agent, covering one of his hands with her own. She'd felt a fierce surge of protectiveness at the very mention of her boys and knew that Dane had spoken the truth. She would, indeed, do anything - go to any lengths to keep them from harm. And she knew, without a doubt, that what Mark had suspected was true. "You've already killed for him, haven't you?" she asked, without a trace of judgement in her voice.
Dane's reaction took her totally by surprise. He got swiftly to his feet and headed towards the door, pausing only long enough to glance in her direction: "There's something I need to do," was all he said by way of explanation.

*****

Amanda was saved the need of having to try and stop him - or, worse still, to explain why Jesse's father had apparently deserted him - by the sudden arrival of Mark. The door opened so abruptly that the two men only narrowly avoided a collision.
"Mark!" There was undisguised relief in her voice and that relief only increased when he offered her a gentle smile.
"How's Jesse?" All thought of leaving forgotten, Dane turned his full attention to the man who had just arrived. He had, he realised, faced death with less fear than he was feeling at that precise moment in time.
"I've had him admitted." Mark directed his reply to both of them. "He has three broken ribs and they were affecting his breathing but, thankfully, the lungs were intact. There was some minor internal bleeding, but we soon got that under control. He's still running a fever and I've got him on antibiotics to combat the infection in his feet." Mark continued with a soft shake of his head. "As for the rest… Well, the cuts and abrasions are mostly superficial and shouldn't cause any problems - even the wound on his shoulder. It looked nasty, but it shouldn't leave a scar."
"Oh God," Amanda breathed, closing her eyes as the catalogue of abuse finally came to a halt.
"Mark?" Dane's response was guarded. He had been in the cellar, had seen first hand the extent of Jesse's suffering and he'd heard the effect that it had had on him. "What about..? Will he be..? I mean, will he still think that he's back there - that he's twelve years old again?""
"We won't know the answer to that until he wakes up." Mark's tone grew grim. "It might just have been the fever making him delirious. It might have been the surroundings and the fact that Burton was abusing him in the same way that his brother did all those years ago. I don't know." He attempted a smile. "Now that he's back in a safe, familiar environment, he might wake up back to his old self."
"But he might not," Dane retorted, horror and fear making his tone unintentionally sharp.
"Dane…" Mark rubbed a weary hand across his brow. "Jesse underwent severe emotional trauma - as well as being hurt physically. It's impossible to anticipate how he's going to react now that he's safe."
"I know and I'm sorry." The agent was instantly contrite. "It's just that…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, striving to find some way to put into words what he was feeling. "My son…"
"It's alright." Mark's gentle voice saved him the need. Both he and Amanda, as parents themselves, understood completely. "He's sleeping right now, but you can go up and see him. Just don't wake him."
Dane's responding smile was filled with gratitude and he barely retained the presence of mind to ask for the room number before he was gone.

*****

"Mark?" Amanda's voice was hesitant and her eyes were wide with trepidation as she sought to understand what she had just heard. "What did you mean 'emotional trauma'? And what did Dane mean about Jesse being twelve years old again?"
"Let's sit down, honey." Mark led her to the table and got them both a coffee before beginning to tell her exactly what they had rescued Jesse from.
He was almost done by the time the door opened again and Steve entered the lounge. The detective was obviously not happy and the way he flung himself into the nearest available chair eloquently bespoke his feelings.
"Burton's citing diminished responsibility - or at least his attorney is," he growled, helping himself to his father's coffee and then grimacing at the sweetness. "He's claiming that the trauma of finding out that his brother was murdered made him act irrationally and totally out of character."
"Surely he's not going to get away with that," Mark frowned. "The kidnapping had to have been premeditated. It's not the sort of thing you just do on the spur of the moment, no matter how traumatised you are."
"Unfortunately, that's not for us to decide," Steve groused. "He's having a psych evaluation tomorrow. We'll know more then."
"I'd keep that from Dane until you know for sure, if I were you," Amanda put in, quietly. "He's already wishing that he'd killed Burton. There's no telling what he'll do if he thinks there's a chance he might get away with it."
"Where is Dane?"
"With Jesse." It was his father who answered him and seeing the sudden panic flash across his son's face quickly sought to reassure him. "And Jesse's sleeping at the moment. It's the best thing for him."
"How's he doing?" Steve felt guilty at not having asked after his best friend sooner, but Burton - and his attorney - had infuriated him.
"He'll get there, given time."
"Dad?" Steve's tone grew pensive. "When do you think he'll wake up? I really need to talk to him. I need to know what Burton said to him - whether he was at all irrational or…"
"Steve," Mark interrupted, shaking his head. "You were there. You saw how Jesse was when we finally got him out of that place. Do you really think he's going to be able to tell you anything?"
"But that was just because he was scared, wasn't it?" Steve's eyes widened with horror when his father didn't immediately answer. "I mean, he's not still gonna be like that when he wakes up… Is he?"
"I don't know, Steve." Mark had no choice but to be totally honest, even if he didn't like the way his son's face paled at his words. "But you might have to accept the fact that you're going to have to make a case against Burton without Jesse's help."

*****

It was too warm. As Jesse gradually returned to consciousness later that night, the first thing that he became aware of was the fact that he was uncomfortably hot. He shifted slightly, wanting to kick the bedclothes away, but sudden pain flared through his side, forcing a low moan from him.
"It's alright, Jesse." A familiar voice filtered into his brain and he felt the warmth of a touch on his arm. "Just take your time. You're going to be okay."
Though his pain and discomfort tried to convince him that waking up would not be such a good idea, he could not ignore that voice. As it continued to speak to him in soothing tones, he fought past the last residues of slumber and cracked his eyes open.
Kindly blue eyes stared down at him and he tried a smile, wanting to dispel some of the concern that lurked in the gentle gaze.
"Hey, Mark…" He had to force the words past the dryness in his throat, but it was worth the effort as the other man's smile widened.
Mark almost sagged in relief when he heard those simple words. Even more encouraging was that the gaze that met his - though hazy with pain - held none of the terrifying blankness that had confronted him in the cellar.
"Hi there, Jesse." He perched on the edge of the bed and smiled again at his patient. "How are you feeling?"
"'m hot…"
Mark's smile froze on his face and he felt his heart lurch. The words were a direct echo of those he'd said in the cellar and had been spoken in such a similar voice that he fully expected the next line to be: 'please may I have a soda?' But those words weren't forthcoming. Jesse merely shifted again in a futile attempt to get more comfortable.
"Mark?" he gasped as fresh pain assailed him. "Hurts…"
"God, I'm sorry Jesse." Mark snapped himself out of his fear induced reverie and placed one hand to Jesse's forehead. "I'll get you something for the pain."
"'m thirsty too…" That the words were spoken on the merest whisper attested to that fact.
Mark administered a fresh dose of painkiller and then reached for the cup of ice chips that had been left on the nightstand. As he eased one into Jesse's mouth, the young man sighed and relaxed back onto the bed. His eyes closed and, for a moment, Mark thought that he'd drifted back off to sleep. Then one eye cracked open.
"Mark, what happened?" His voice was small and plaintive. "How did I get here?"
Mark paused for a long moment before answering. This was a crunch moment and he had to be careful how he handled it. Jesse might have seemed to be back to his old self but he knew that the slightest thing might trigger a relapse.
"Do you remember anything, Jesse?" he asked, carefully. "Anything at all?"
"Um… I…" A frown furrowed his features as he sought the memory. "Um… there was a car?" He looked up at Mark hopefully, as though seeking confirmation that there had indeed been a car.
"Anything else?" Mark responded with another question, gently encouraging Jesse to do this by himself.
"I think… I remember a garage… And then…" An open cellar door, beckoning darkness, Wayne dragging him towards that terrifying place. "No…" He screwed his eyes shut against a memory that couldn't be real - at least not in this time. "No, I… It was a nightmare… He was… He…" Jesse began to fight for breath as his panic threatened to overwhelm him.
"Easy, Jess." Mark placed a calming hand on his forearm. "Take slow, even breaths. It's alright." He continued to talk soothingly as Jesse gradually began to calm down. It was as he'd feared: Jesse was going to be of no help to Steve. He could remember nothing of his captivity.
"Mark?" Jesse breathing had evened out, but Mark was disconcerted to see tears shining in his eyes. "Why can't I remember?"
Mark sighed, wondering how he could possibly answer that question. How could he tell Jesse that he had reverted back to his childhood? How could he describe the abuse that he'd endured? And how could he tell him that Bill Burton might yet walk away with little more than a slap on the wrist?
"Jesse…" He had to say something - and Jesse would learn of his ordeal eventually. "It was Bill Burton."
"Bill..?" Confusion filled his blue eyes. "I don't understand. Why, Mark?"
"He wanted to know what happened to his brother." The older doctor held his breath as he said those words, wondering if the mention of Wayne might be the trigger to send Jesse spiralling back into the past. But Jesse just closed his eyes and turned his face away from his friend.
"He was in my nightmares," he whispered.
"I know, Jesse." Mark's eyes softened in sympathy. "Try to get some rest now. You've been through a lot."
"Mark?" Jesse spoke still without looking at his mentor. "Could you..? I mean, um… Will you please leave the light on?"
"Of course I will." Somehow Mark managed to keep his tone calm as sudden fury flared through him. He knew just what it had cost Jesse to make that quiet request. His young friend didn't like to show any sign of weakness; didn't even like to ask for help. But Bill Burton had instilled a terror in him that overrode even his fiercely independent streak. It made him all the more determined that the man would pay - in full - for what he had done.

*****

Jesse waited until he heard the door close before he allowed his tears to fall. He had already humiliated himself in front of his mentor and he wasn't going to further add to his shame.
He had scarcely been able to recognise his own voice as he hesitantly asked for the light to be left on - but he'd had no choice but to ask. The very prospect of being left in the dark filled him with a terror that he couldn't even being to describe. And he had no clue as to its cause.
He had never been afraid of the dark - at least not for many, many years. Memories of his nightmares crept back upon him - of the longest night of his life, trapped by Wayne in the cellar. Even after that, he hadn't slept with the light on. Wayne hadn't allowed it. He'd laughed at the boy's fears and used it to further belittle him. Then he had taken great pleasure in plunging his room into darkness - issuing dire warnings as to what would happen if he dared turn the light back on.
Why had that fear come back to him now? He couldn't understand - and the fact that he had no memory of whatever had befallen him was equally disturbing. He had been hurt - badly hurt if the bruises on his torso were anything to go by. Then there were the bandages on his wrists and shoulder. He had no idea as to what injuries lay beneath those dressings, but surely he should have had some memory of them being inflicted.
Instead, whenever he tried to remember, his mind was filled with the image of Wayne Burton and the memory of the things he had done to him. And it had reawakened his childhood fears.
He had lost time before - there was still a five day gap in his memory from the time he had been kidnapped by Paris Pharmaceuticals. But, on that occasion he had been drugged and false memories implanted in an effort to destroy his reputation and his credibility.
This time was different. This time, he knew, he should remember. Mark had told him that Bill Burton had been asking questions about Wayne. That meant he must have been conscious for at least some of his captivity. So why could he remember nothing more than the gentle motion of a car and bright, harsh lights shining over his head?

*****

Steve was waiting impatiently outside Jesse's room when his father emerged: "How is he?" he demanded, almost before the door had even closed.
"He's scared, hurting and a little overwhelmed," Mark sighed in response. "Everything you'd expect, considering what he's been through."
"Can I see him?"
"I really don't think that would be a very good idea right now," Mark answered, with a slight shake of his head. "He's tired and needs to rest. He certainly isn't up to answering any questions."
"I didn't want to see him as a cop, dad," Steve protested. "I just wanted to see that he's okay." He peered in through the half-closed blinds. "He looks upset."
"He is upset." He wasn't about to mention the real reason why and settled instead for a half-truth. "He has no memory of what happened and that's bound to be disturbing."
"Do you think that he'll ever remember?"
"I'm not convinced that there's anything for him to remember," his father replied. "He had regressed back to his childhood so completely… He wasn't in that cellar - he was somewhere else entirely." He paused and looked downwards. "Steve, how much of the case against Burton is going to rely on Jesse being able to testify?"
"Hopefully, none at all," the detective answered. "The way that we found them and Jesse's injuries… And Burton's already confessed by pleading diminished responsibility." He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets. "A lot more is riding on that psyche evaluation."
"Hmm…"
"What?" There was something about his father's reaction - and the thoughtful look that crossed his face - that piqued Steve's curiosity.
"The LAPD ask for my help as a medical consultant - wouldn't you agree?"
"Yeah." The answer was so obvious that the younger man didn't even try to hide his confusion.
"So what if, say, an arresting officer was looking for a professional opinion - a medical opinion? It wouldn't be at all unusual for them to come to me. Strictly in my role as consultant, of course."
"I understand what you're trying to do, dad." The surge of hope that he'd felt at the thought that his dad might have come up with a plan was swiftly fading. "But you're not a psychiatrist. If you were to declare him fit to stand trial, your testimony…"
"Not me, Steve." Mark offered him a mischievous smile. "But I can recommend a very highly qualified psychiatrist - one who, incidentally, is renowned for her hard-nosed attitude towards criminals who try to cite psychological reasons for their acts, except in the most extreme of circumstances. She's very good and her qualifications are beyond question. In fact, she works right here at Community General. And she just happens to be very fond of a certain Jesse Travis."
"In that case, I think I might just have to recommend her services," Steve responded, with an amused smile of his own - trust his father to come up with such a solution. "I don't suppose you happen to know when she's next working."
"No, but it won't take long to find out."
Steve hesitated, his wistful look towards Jesse's room giving his father the obvious reason why.
"Just give him a little time," Mark murmured, before leading his son gently down the corridor.

*****

Jesse must have slept again because the next time that he opened his eyes, daylight was filtering through the windows. But he was still exhausted and he knew that his sleep had not been restful. He knew that he needed the rest; his body demanded it as it strove to recover.
His mind, unfortunately, had other ideas. It insisted on plaguing him with questions; demanding to know just what had happened during the terrifying blankness that filled his recent memory.
He could understand that Bill Burton's sudden appearance might bring back memories of his childhood - though he had kept them buried deeply, Mark had been right when he'd said that there were scars. But he couldn't understand why they so dominated his every waking thought. And they certainly shouldn't have been powerful enough to block out what had happened in the real world.
Jesse sighed to himself and shifted restlessly. Sometimes he hated the insatiable curiosity that was inherent in his nature. It constantly nagged at him, demanding that he learn more, that he find answers, that he revealed truths. Now was no exception.
But he didn't even know where to start looking. He had been left alone - there was no-one he could ask - and he certainly didn't feel up to getting out of bed and going in search of anyone.
The pain that had greeted him on his awakening reminded him that he was dealing with more than a simple case of amnesia. He had been badly hurt - by Bill Burton, he surmised from what Mark had told him - but he didn't know exactly how. Bandages covered his wounds and the bruises that he could see offered no clues. But that was one mystery that he could go some way towards solving.
He didn't want to tamper with the dressings on his wrists. He knew that he'd have the devil of a time reapplying them - and he could easily imagine Mark's reaction should he ruin his handiwork.
The gauze on his shoulder, however, was another matter entirely.
Carefully, Jesse eased back the edge of the dressing that extended from his right shoulder down his arm, unconsciously wincing in anticipation of what he might find. The raw, bloody flesh that lay beneath did little to enlighten him. He peeled it back further still, his eyes locked on the mess that lay beneath. It was as though the skin had been flayed from his arm.
Jesse gasped in a breath that was almost a sob as a stray memory niggled at the back of his mind. He remembered pain; he remembered terror.
Suddenly, he tore back the entire dressing, exposing his brutalised skin and there, on the edges of the open wound, were the telltale welts - red and raised and ugly. He had thought - prayed - that he would never see such welts again.
He dropped the dressing onto the bed and stared in horror at the unmistakable marks.
His hand clutching at his abused ribs, Jesse rolled onto his side, burying his head into the pillows in order to muffle the sobs that he could not prevent. Wayne had never hurt him so badly before. A shout from a neighbour - or a passer-by - had stopped his punishment, but not in time to spare him from utter agony. He had cried and he had begged, but that had only served to further enrage his tormentor and still the blows had rained down on him.
"Why didn't you come, dad?" he whimpered, softly - too afraid to make any further noise; knowing what his punishment would be if he did. "Why?"
He had awoken that morning full of excitement. His case was already packed and he spent the morning staring out of the window looking for the familiar figure of his father. He was spending three whole weeks with the man and had been looking forward to it for what felt like forever.
Noon came and went and his mom began to try and prepare him for the fact that he might not come. Jesse had refused to believe her. It was his dad - they had made plans for those three weeks. It was going to be the best summer of his life.
Two hours later - after his mom had been called into work - he was in his room, crying desperately from the pain of the beating and the betrayal of his father's absence.
He had never felt so lonely in his life before.

*****

"So, what do you think?" Mark asked his son as they headed towards the doctors' lounge. They had just been to see Patricia Carter, the psychiatrist he had previously referred to.
"I think that Burton doesn't stand a chance," Steve responded with a grim smile. Doctor Carter had been formidable indeed and, when told the details of the case, her confidence that she would be able to shatter that line of defence had been emphatic. When she'd learnt that it was Jesse who had so suffered at his hands, she had taken out a notebook and begun making preparations for the evaluation that afternoon.
She had also given both men their first positive news in what felt like an age. Burton was going to be punished - and to the full extent of the law - for what he had done. It was one less thing to worry about and there was no need to even mention the diminished responsibility plea to Jesse, who needed no further trauma in his life.
As Steve poured them both a coffee, Mark sagged into one of the hard-backed chairs. He had slept, badly, in the on-call room. There was still the very real threat that Jesse might suffer from nightmares - that they might cause a relapse - and he wanted to be on hand to stave them off before they could cause him any harm. And, though he hadn't been called to his friend, he was unwilling to believe that the nightmare was over.
Just then, his pager sounded. With a muffled groan, he squinted at the digital display. Then he was on his feet in an instant. His belief had been right.
"Steve, I'm needed in Jesse's room."
He didn't need to say any more. The coffee was forgotten as the father and son headed back out into the corridor at a run.
When they arrived at their destination, the sight that met them shocked both men to a momentary halt. Jesse was lying on his side, curled up foetally and the whip marks on his arm were completely exposed. The dressing that Mark had applied had fluttered to the floor.
"Oh, Jesse," he murmured, breaking out of his stasis. "What have you done?"
A nurse - the same nurse who had paged Mark - stood helplessly at his bedside.
"I can't… He won't respond." The young woman looked scared and Mark could hardly blame her. He had witnessed Jesse's regression back in the cellar and it had scared him.
"It's alright, I'll take over here." He moved to sit on the edge of Jesse's bed and reached out to gently touch his arm - but the blonde head merely turned further away from him, burrowing more deeply into the pillows. Mark could still hear his quiet crying. It sounded like his heart was breaking.

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