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Undercover
Memories Episode 6 written by Jackee Original air date: |
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Disclaimer: The characters in the following fan
fiction do not belong to me. They belong to CBS and Viacom and other powers
that be. I am only using them for the purpose of writing this story. No money
is being made from this writing it is for entertainment purposes only. And
now on with the show... His first sensation
was pain, a low-level ache which echoed from his head and throughout every
part of his body. It made it difficult for him to grab hold of a coherent
thought. Even the simple act of trying to focus his mind seemed only to make
things worse, as if awakening other pain centers along with a dizzying
nausea. Cold followed the
pain, uncomfortably settling against exposed skin, adding an additional sting
to what felt like a plethora of small cuts and scrapes. And he hadn't even
opened his eyes yet. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was just that it
was such a chore. On top of the aches
and other assorted lamentations, there was the added insult of exhaustion
weighing upon him. But he couldn't just lie there. Because it was apparent in
some small part of his subconscious that the rough gravelly surface beneath
him was not a bed; and despite the fact that his head felt like it had grown
to the size of a giant bowling ball, the hard surface beneath it was not a
pillow. It was a monumental
effort, but he managed to lift his lids. It took several moments for the haze
to resolve and for his sluggish synapses to put a name to the sight before
him. He was looking at
stars; millions of tiny white dots which simply wouldn't stay still. He
blinked slowly, dazedly, and came to the startling realization that he must
be looking up at the sky. He wondered vaguely what he might be doing out of
doors, lying flat on his back -- on the ground, from the feel of it. But the
answer didn't seem nearly as important as getting up and getting inside out
of the chilly air, and maybe finding a couple of aspirins while he was at it. He reached a hand
up toward his head and knocked his knuckles painfully against something hard.
He ran his hand tentatively over it, discovering the familiar smooth surface
of a motorcycle helmet. Had he had an accident? That shocking thought sent a
small burst of adrenaline through him and he immediately began to take stock,
moving each body part in turn. Legs? Check. Arms? Check. Neck? Check. Now for
the big test. Taking a deep breath, he half rolled onto his side, and then
upward to a sitting position. The motion was
unappreciated and increased the low-level pain in his head to a pounding
concerto inside his skull. The world
and all the stars seemed to spin out of alignment for a moment before
righting themselves. He tilted forward, and just managed to prevent himself
from crashing face down into the short grass and twigs that he had been
laying on. Blowing a careful
breath through his lips, he braced both his arms against the ground and
slowly, cautiously, managed to make it to his hands and knees. His head hung
forward from his neck, only seeming to be made heavier by the helmet as it
pounded in time to the rough beating of his heart. Perspiration beaded up on
his body and face, feeling prickly against his scalp as well. Expending a bit
of energy to remove the helmet was tempting, but the half-formed thought was
side tracked by a sound that stood out above the other night noises which
surrounded him. He stilled, trying
to get a fix on where it was coming from. Low and droning, it was very
familiar. He should know what it was, but then, suddenly, it was too late. The car's
headlights flashed past and the vehicle disappeared into the darkness leaving
him once again with only the sounds of nature to keep him company. But at
least he had gained the knowledge that he was only a few yards from a road. He attempted to
move to a standing position, but the world again started to spin and he
wobbled uncertainly before sinking back to the ground. He rested his heavy
head against the dirt until he felt a bit more stable. Then, squinting up at
the darkened landscape, he spotted what he thought would be a single tree
when his vision cleared. It was near enough to where he figured the road was,
and there was what he hoped was a nice long branch that would suit his needs.
With dogged determination he set off, moving one hand and one knee at a time
until his fingers nudged up against the tree's root stock. The branch was
just off to his right. Using the gradual
rise of the roots and the heavy trunk, he managed to work his way into a
half-standing, half-leaning position against the rough bark with the branch
clasped tightly in his right hand. If he moved carefully, things seemed to
remain relatively stable. Following that
logic, he took a careful step away from the tree, using the branch for
stability. He remained upright! It was a spot of light in a situation that
had been looking very grim. But there was little time to celebrate his
success. The sound came again, suddenly audible about the rasp of his labored
breathing. He only spared himself a couple of moments to gather his strength
before he started making his way toward the road. As he took one
careful step after the other, the car drew ever nearer. He could see the
lights now, flashing against the wooded areas as it moved forward. The light
of the moon revealed that the road curved farther along; once the car rounded
it there would not be much time to get the driver's attention. He had to get
closer to the road more quickly. The light washed up
against the nearby trees, cutting a path through the darkness as the vehicle
approached the curve. He was so near the road. Just a few more steps and he
would be visible. The engine sounds grew louder as he cleared the edge of the
trees and saw the black top. One more step and he would be there. Success! Then
suddenly he was going down. He wasn't sure if he'd tripped over the edge of
the pavement or if his legs had suddenly decided that they'd had enough. The
tar-covered surface rushed up to meet him. The last thing he saw was the impossible
brilliance of the approaching headlights. There was a loud, ear-piercing
screeching and then all was dark. ~*~ "Come
in." Mark called in response to the knock at his office door, not taking
his eyes from the evaluation in front of him. Student reviews were hardly his
favorite thing to deal with, so when he managed to actually get started doing
them, he tried to keep his focus for as long as possible. It made him feel
less guilty the next time he started procrastinating in that regard. "Dr. Sloan?"
The voice that he heard gave him immediate pause and he looked up to see
Captain Newman standing before him. It was mid-morning, and seemed an odd
time for his son's superior officer to be paying him a visit. More worrying
was the hesitation that accompanied the other man's usual take-charge
demeanor. "Yes? What is
it?" Almost subconsciously he held his breath. Some elemental sixth
sense sprang to life, alerting him that this was no ordinary visit. Suddenly
his heart seemed to be clamoring at his throat, desperately hoping that the
feeling was wrong, but knowing somehow that was all wishful thinking. Newman opened his
mouth but didn't speak immediately, seeming to weigh his words. "Please,"
Mark interjected. "Don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what's wrong?"
Every second was too long to wait, and yet he was afraid to know the answers
to the question. The question that he dare not ask because it was
unthinkable. Newman's expression
settled into the professional mask so similar to the one that Mark had seen
Steve don during some of the more emotionally trying investigations. He was
distancing himself. He knew the kind of news that he was bringing had the
potential for devastation. "Have you talked to Steve lately, Dr.
Sloan?" Mark breathed an
audible sigh of relief. Those words hadn't been the ones that he had been
expecting. And though he was grateful for that, he was also resentful at the
way the other man had approached him. He should have known better than that.
But as long as Steve's captain was asking questions there was hope. With some urgency
he groped around in his mind for a response. Steve hadn't come home the night
before, or the one before that. But that hadn't surprised him. Steve had
prepared him for the possible occurrence. "He's been working long hours
on a special assignment from what I understand. I would have thought that you
were aware of that. I've hardly seen him the past few days. Why do you
ask?" Newman looked
uncomfortable. "He missed a check-in. Two of them actually. One late last
night, and one this morning." Mark began to
notice the other man's rumpled appearance. The clothing he wore looked as if
he might have worn them the previous day as well. His face was lined with
exhaustion. Mark began to get the feeling that the man had come to him
because he was out of options. The fear began to grow again. "Weren't
there other officers on this assignment as well?" "That's just
the thing," Newman continued. "Our back-up man got out, but he's .
. . . unable to communicate with us at the moment. We'd infiltrated a robbery/arson
ring that we think has been hitting around the city about once a week or
so. We're expecting another one in the
next twenty four hours, but only Steve can confirm whether or not we got the
right guys. And he's the only one who can tell us where and when." "Is it
possible that he got held up somehow?" Mark asked, knowing that he was
probably holding on to vague hopes. Newman wouldn't have come unless the
situation was urgent. "Surely he'll call you." "Their jobs
were to get the surveillance equipment set up and get out if this was the
right group. The equipment was activated briefly, and then it went dead. We
lost contact with both Steve and his partner after that. From what we did
get, we figured they were up near Mark shook his
head, feeling his stomach began to churn as the worry settled in. "He
hasn't called me." And he had checked. He always kept his cellular close
and charged when Steve was on assignment. Even when the case was made to seem
innocuous and almost routine. "Okay. Well, Officer
Ruhaas is in your Intensive Care Unit for the time being. My team happened to
pick it up on the scanner when a boy scout troop found him with two bullets
in him. He was airlifted here. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know
discretely if you hear anything from Steve." Mark nodded.
"I'll let you know. And you'll let me know as well?" "The very
minute," Newman assured him, then without another word he turned and
headed out of the door, closing it gently behind him. Mark sat staring,
fear and uncertainty gnawing away at him. His son was missing. He couldn't
just sit placidly by and wait for someone to come and tell him one way or the
other what had happened. He had worked closely enough with the police
department to know that some parents never got those answers. They were left
forever perched on the precipice, never having the situation settled in their
hearts. Mark couldn't do that. He had to do something. And he knew just the
place to start. ~*~ His eyes were
easier to open this time, and the room wasn't quite so cold. But when he
looked up it was into the face of the most butt-ugly character he'd ever
seen. No one could blame him for the way he started with surprise. "You're not so
good to look at yourself." Butt-ugly's mouth moved, emitting a gruff
voice that perfectly matched his demeanor. "Welcome back to the land of
the living. We really thought that pig had gotten to you. Lucky thing I was
out doing recon and found you." He blinked as
Butt-ugly's words seemed to sink in. He supposed the man wasn't the big bad
wolf after all. Although, who he was exactly was still quite the mystery.
Knocking heads with a pig seemed a likely way for him to end up with the
whopper of a headache he was suffering from. His mouth felt dry and bitter,
but the nausea that was a hazy memory seemed to be mostly gone. He released a
breath at the realization. Butt-ugly chuckled
then turned away. The heavy black handle of a semi-automatic pistol poked out
of the back of a pair of grungy jeans. Steve felt a new sensation shoot
through his chest, kicking his heart rate back into high gear. The question
as to who the man was died on his lips.
"Why don't you
get up and grab some chow?" Butt-ugly asked over his shoulder while he
fiddled with something in the corner of the old, sparsely decorated room. He
then turned back and headed toward the door. "I'll tell Doug you're
up." He gestured back toward a sink set into a counter along one wall.
"You might want to clean up a bit." The mention of food
roused a surprising physical response. Despite wariness of the guy with the
big gun, he found that he was actually hungry. And thirsty. Very thirsty.
Other sensations flooded his system as he pushed himself into a sitting
position on the cot. More muscles than he'd ever wanted to acknowledge made
known their displeasure with each aching motion. He paused at semi-upright,
allowing the slight spinning to settle. Then with a grunt
of determination he allowed his feet to settle on the floor. He made it to
standing and paused again waiting for the added pounding in his head to
become more manageable this time. He contemplated the incongruity of
simultaneous hunger and nausea as he moved toward the sink a little more
steadily. The cold water felt
good against his face. He took time to thoroughly rinse out his mouth and
clean up the dozens of tiny scrapes on his arms. When he finally stood and
grabbed a wad of paper towels from the roll that sat on the edge of the
counter, he was beginning to feel a little better. He caught his
reflection in the small mirror mounted slightly off center from the sink and
was surprised at the pallid face and sunken blue eyes that stared back at
him. What the . . . ? His appetite completely deserted him when he realized
with sudden shocking clarity that something was very, very wrong. He had
absolutely no idea who the man was who was looking back at him. Mark climbed out of
the car and stretched his back. A combination of tension and the drive had
caused his muscles to bunch painfully. He probably should have let Jesse or
Amanda drive, but he hadn't given himself time to think about it. His only
concern had been getting to Lake Wickobee as fast as he could. He glanced at his
two companions as they climbed out of the car as well, both dressed for their
alleged camping trip. It hadn't been difficult to convince the two to come
along with him. They had practically insisted once they'd learned about what
was going on, and Mark had to admit it helped to have them with him. "This is a
little like stepping back into the past," Jesse announced as he looked
up at the rustic building before them. "What would Steve be doing out
this way? I didn't even know LAPD extended this far." "I don't
believe that they do, Jess," Mark replied. "I got the impression
that it was a bit of a surprise when the investigation took them this
far." Mark didn't add that the possible inclusion of other law
enforcement agencies might complicate matters. "And the troop leader
whose group found Ruhaas works here." "So this is
where we start," Amanda said as they all started toward the log
building. There was a large sign out front which declared that a camping
license could be purchased there as well as equipment rentals. "Yes, this is
where we start." One hour and two
tent rentals later, Mark, Jesse and Amanda found themselves on a two lane
road which led to the area near Lake Wickobee where Ruhaas had been found. The
area had only recently been obtained by the Department of Parks and
Recreation, so there were no marked trails or rangers. But the map that the
troop leader had drawn on the back of a brown bag had been very detailed. They all fanned out
away from the car, checking out the surrounding areas. Mark noted a lot of
damaged foliage. Although, he couldn't be sure if that had been caused by the
rescue workers or by something else. Ruhaas had been
found at the bottom of a ravine, a broken and damaged motorcycle was found
nearby. It looked to Mark as if he had skidded off the road and gone over the
side. While Jesse and Amanda started down toward the ravine, Mark moved back
along the road, following the path that the police officer would have likely
taken. As he walked, he
thought back to the time decades earlier when Steve had first asked him if he
could have a motorcycle. He had been completely set against it, even
forbidding him from riding the one that one of his young friends had recently
acquired. The argument and silences that followed had faded into the back of
his mind. When Steve had
grown older, he hadn't lost his interest in motor bikes. In fact, he'd
eventually purchased one of his own, but he had made certain that he knew how
to operate it safely. That conversation hadn't faded from Mark's mind,
remaining vivid in his memory. "Dad, I wanted you to know that I bought a
dirt bike." Steve raised his hands in defense when Mark would have
spoken. "Now, I know how you feel about them, but I promise you that
I'll be careful. I've even taken a class on safety. But I didn't want to do
this behind your back." Mark looked at him and sighed, settling the coffee
he had been drinking on the table. Steve was 26 years old and living on his
own. He didn't have to make his father aware of all of his decisions, but he
had in this case. "Son, of course that was your choice to make.
And though I think they're dangerous, I'm not going to try to tell you what
to do with your life. You're a police officer, and an adult. I'm just going to
have to trust that you've gotten all of your facts and gone into this with
your eyes open." "I'm glad you feel that way, Dad," Steve
had smiled at him. "I wouldn't want this to come between us. It's a
hobby that I really enjoy." "All I ask is that you enjoy it
sensibly," Mark replied with a chuckle. He didn't want anything to come
between the two of them either. They only had each other these days. Carol
had disappeared from their lives earlier in the year when she'd run off with
Bruce Hilton. Both had been careful to be extra sensitive to the other's
feelings since. "I will. Um . . ." Steve looked around
the restaurant where they were having lunch, seeming a little embarrassed as
he adjusted the neck of his blue policeman's uniform. "I, uh, sorta won a
place on a team for a biking event that's going to be coming up in about
three months. Now, I'll understand if you don't want to come, but I wanted to
invite you, anyway." Mark sensed immediately that the event was
important to Steve, and that he was trying to give him an out. But regardless
of what he said, Mark knew that he would be disappointed if he didn't come.
"I suppose I could give it a try," he said. "But I reserve the
right to be a nervous father." Steve smiled brightly at him. "Thanks, Dad.
You're the best." Mark's lips drew up
into a smile at the memory. Steve had won an award at that event, and quite a
few more over the intervening years at the local level. Mark had attended
each occasion when he could. In time Steve had begun to work with teens,
teaching them how to safely and responsibly operate the machines as well.
Mark was very proud of his son, and the type of role model he had become. The smile faded
away as he continued along the road. Would those memories be all that he had
left? ~*~ It was blazingly hot. Even the air was
uncomfortable to breathe. And he was so tired, mentally, physically and
emotionally. But then it started. The gunfire echoed through the surrounding
jungle, sparking the kill-or-be-killed adrenaline rush that had become a part
of him. He had to fight to stay alive. That was just the way things were. And
then later, when the adrenaline wore off, he could talk himself into
believing that it was all for a good cause. But for now, the gunfire rang and
the survival instinct sang in his blood. "You going to
eat that? Or just play with it?" The gruff voice interrupted the sights
and sounds that had taken over his thoughts. Steve looked up
from the unappetizing plate before him toward the man who had done the cooking.
Tiny was what the other men had called him. At 6 feet 6 inches, and about 350
pounds, the name was something of an oxymoron. It was clear that Tiny was
part of the 'bad element', but Steve was having trouble reconciling himself
to the fact that he was among them. Was this what he had become? Part of some
biker gang? Or was it some trick? Though he vaguely
remembered someone picking him up the night before, he distinctly had the
feeling that he wasn't in 'Nam anymore. The men who'd helped him up and tossed
him into the back of the pick-up truck had definitely been American, and he
had was sure that he had been wearing a motorcycle helmet. In fact, he'd
found it in the room where he had initially awakened. But that didn't
coincide with his memories. His knew his dad
hadn't wanted him to get a motorcycle, even before he'd been drafted. He had
explained that he'd seen enough injured riders in the emergency room to know
that it wasn’t the type of activity that he could endorse for his teenaged
son. Steve couldn't imagine that either of his parents would appreciate the
sort of life he'd apparently taken up. He didn't appreciate it, and he was
living it. Why couldn't he remember the things that had happened to bring him
to this point in his life? He fought to get past the invisible barrier of his
memory, but there was nothing. Suddenly, he felt
incredibly home sick. He needed to see his family; his mom, dad and even
Carol. The last decent memory he could recall of them was when they'd met him
when he'd hobbled into the Los Angeles airport on crutches on his return from
Vietnam. All he had seen in their eyes had been love. Surely he wouldn't
repay them this way. More worrying than
the missing memories and his current situation was the length of the loss.
When he'd come out of the ramshackle old house to sit at the big wooden table
where the food was being prepared, he'd taken a moment to look over the
activity in the dirt yard. As he did so, he caught sight of the license tag
on the big tarp-covered truck parked near an old barn. It put the year at 20
years past the last one that he recalled. That bit of information had nearly
taken his knees out from under him. But everyone in the
camp seemed to know him. Or at least, partially. They all called him Mick.
The best he could figure was that at some point he'd started going by a
shortened version of his middle name. But none of that mattered. These people
all gave him a bad feeling. He didn't like any of them, and they didn't seem
to like each other. He hated it here. He just wanted to go home. He could
only hope that this wasn't it. "Yo,
Mick!" Tiny got down in his face and yelled. "I asked if you're
gonna eat that? I ain't got time for you to go off in another daze!" Steve startled back
to the present once again and pushed the plate away. "No, Tiny. I’m not
feeling so good. Maybe later." Tiny's response was
a grunt as he gathered up the plate and slung its contents into the large
heavy metal trash can that sat at the end of the outdoor picnic table.
"Just as long as you're ready for tonight," he added, turning to
point a meaty finger in his direction. "We ride in before dark. You're
going to have to ride in the truck with me since you busted your bike up last
night." Steve nodded
carefully even though he wasn't really clear on where exactly they would be
riding. The pain that still throbbed in his head wasn’t much helping the
situation. But at least he knew that it was a motorcycle accident that Ray
Kreger aka Butt-Ugly had been telling him about. He was certain that was why
he couldn't remember nearly half his life. He figured that he probably had
some sort of amnesia. His dad would know what kind. If he could just talk to
him. But Ray was what passed for a doctor in the camp, and he'd declared him
well enough as long as he was still breathing and walking around. "Hey, you
think I could go to the store?" he asked Tiny. "The stuff Ray gave
me isn't working." There was no phone at the house, at least not one
that he'd seen, and he didn't like the idea of having to ask any of the other
men where it might be. If he could find a phone, maybe he could contact his
dad. He wondered if he still worked at Community General. If he didn't, maybe
someone there would know where he was. Tiny jerked his
head toward one of the younger men helping him. "Jake here needs to get
a couple things. You can ride in with him. But you better be 100% by tonight.
This is a big score and we're already down a man." "I will. I
just . . . need some things." Steve tried to sound reassuring, but
wasn't sure that he succeeded. Hearing that they were to make a 'score' that
night shook him. That sounded suspiciously like something illegal. Which
wasn't surprising considering they were a bunch of guys living out in the
woods in an old house that had probably been abandoned years before. But the
thought that he might be a bad guy grated against some internal sense. It
just didn't feel right. More than ever, he felt the need to contact his
family, if only to ground himself in this bizarre new reality. Jake, a wiry man
about six feet tall led him to an old Ford truck. No words were spoken as
they set off along the dirt road. The jostling on the uneven surface
aggravated the aches and pains in Steve's body, reawakening the previous
night's nausea. That the other man
didn't speak was fine with him. It allowed him more time to try to figure out
just how his life had turned out so different than he would have planned. He
must have dozed at some point because his next view was of a log building
that looked like something out of Butch Cassidy. That sign stated that
camping licenses could be purchased and equipment could be rented there.
There was another entrance attached to the other side of the store which was
equipped with gas pumps and a large flashing sign that broadcasted the fact
that cold beer could be had. Jake completely
ignored him as he climbed out of the truck and headed into the side of the
story that sold beer. Steve ignored him right back and walked toward the
camping store, went to the desk and asked if there was a phone. Mark had gone quite
some distance before it occurred to him that he might be getting out of
earshot of the others. He was preparing to turn around and head back when he
saw something glinting up ahead, just off the road. He moved toward it,
squinting as the early afternoon sun flashed off of it. He wasn't sure that
it would mean anything, but he wanted to check out every possible lead that
might help him to find Steve. It wasn't like him not to call, or at least let
someone know what was going on. He knew without a doubt that his son was in
trouble. He had to scramble
around some thick roadside bushes to get to the shiny object, and when he
finally had it in hand all that he could do was stare numbly at it. It was
the front edge of an Acer-B motor bike fender. It had once been a gleaming
silver color, but was pitted with dirt and debris. Mark remembered the
day Steve had ordered just such a fender for his bike. A chill swept over him
and his grip tightened on the piece of metal. It looked as if it had been
sheered off from contact with something hard and unforgiving. Silver fenders
weren't all that uncommon, but what were the odds that one the same color as
Steve's would be found out here on the side of the road. The same road near
where Ruhaas had been found. A sudden thought
occurred to him. What if Steve was still out here, as well? "Jesse!
Amanda!" He began to frantically call to his friends. Despite the fact
that Newman said that a team had covertly gone over the area, he felt the
need to start a search. He had to find the answers for himself. He trudged farther
into the bushes, looking around, seeking any sign that his son was there.
There had to be more to the motorcycle. "Steve!" he called, moving through
the dense growth. "Steve! Are you out there?" "Mark, what is
it? What'd you find?" Jesse and Amanda appeared behind him at a run.
"Where's Steve?" They skidded to a halt as Mark's phone started to
ring. He snatched it out
of his pocket almost distractedly. The number on the caller ID wasn't one
that he recognized. He had a lead to finding his son. Whoever it was, he
intended to get rid of them quickly so that he could get back to the task at
hand. "Yes. This is
Mark Sloan." His voice came out more sharply than he'd intended. "Dad?"
The quiet, insecure voice that greeted his ears froze him to the spot. For a
half second he almost forgot to breathe. "Steve? Steve
is that you? Where are you, son?" The fender fell from his hand,
completely forgotten. "Dad."
Steve's voice sounded so weak and unsteady. "I don't know. Can I come
home?" Mark frowned.
"Of course you can come home." He moved out of the bushes and
headed along the road toward the car. "Tell me where you are and I'll
come get you. Jesse and Amanda are with me, right now." There was silence
for several seconds on the other end of the line, then, "Can Mom and
Carol come with you, Dad? I really miss them." Mark stopped.
"Steve? Son, your mom died, and Carol lives up in Barstow, remember? I
can't bring them with me." He spoke the words slowly and carefully, but
an urgency began within him. He reached into his pocket and handed Jesse the
keys, directing him toward the car. The younger man took off at a run.
"Where are you, Steve? Just tell me the name of the place and I'll find
you." There was a
weighted silence from the opposite end of the connection. "Steve?"
Mark spoke into the void, hoping that his son was still there. "Please
tell me where you are." A sound, almost
like a sob sounded and then Steve spoke urgently into the phone. "I've
gotta go, Dad. I'll call you again when I can." There was a soft click
and then there was nothing. Mark pulled the
phone from his ear and began to go through the menu commands on his phone. He
had to find the number that Steve had called from. "Mark, what
happened? What did he say?" It was Amanda. Mark had forgotten that she
was standing there. "That was
Steve, but something was very, very wrong. I've gotta find out where he
is." ~*~ Steve somehow
managed to stumble out of the store and back to the truck. He'd wanted to ask
his dad more questions, but Ray had come in and he didn't want to try to
explain the phone call. And he didn't think he could deal with whatever else
his father might have to tell him. From the sound of things, he had been gone
for a while and his father wanted to know where he was. Mark Sloan was the
kindest, most loving person that he'd ever known. He couldn't imagine why he
might leave without keeping in touch with him. But for now, he needed a
minute to come to terms with the fact that his mother had died. How could he
have forgotten that? Settling heavily
into the passenger side seat, he rested his head back and closed his eyes.
His world felt so out of control. All he had to hold on to was the crumpled
piece of paper on which he'd written the number that the hospital had given
him when he'd quietly identified himself and asked to speak to Dr. Mark
Sloan, and the remains of the battered twenty that he'd found in his pocket.
It was all too much. He felt tears welling and a wave of grief coming that he
was sure would overwhelm him. And then suddenly it was clear. Cancer. His mom had
died of cancer. He gasped as the realization hit, as well as other memories
that accompanied it. They came at him in a slow rush. Himself going through
the paces at the police academy. Graduating. His first patrol. But things
began to fade after that. Before he could
come to terms with the fact that at some point in his life he'd become a
police officer, Jake was climbing back into the truck beside him. As wordless
as the trip in, they headed out of the parking lot. This time Steve forced
himself to remain awake. He had to figure out what was going on. ~*~ Jesse pulled Mark's
sedan to a stop near the camping store that they'd earlier visited. He was
sure that he'd broken every back-road traffic law in his haste to return to
the place where Steve had made the phone call from. During the high speed
journey Mark had contacted Newman to explain their current situation. Once he
put the car into park, they all climbed out and headed into the store. "Is this the
man who used the phone?" Mark displayed the 3" x 4" image of
Steve that he'd brought with him. Jesse felt his own anxiety building within
himself as the attendant took the photo from Mark's fingers and studied it
for several moments. He was sure that neither he, Mark nor Amanda drew breath
while they waited for the man's response. After several
moments the man nodded and handed the photo back. "Yeah, I believe it
was. If you clean him up a bit. He really didn't look all that good, kinda
pale, you know?" "Where did he
go?" Mark asked, immediately looking about the store. "Sorry
Mister." The attendant seemed to genuinely sympathize. "You just
missed him. After he got off the phone, he headed straight out the door and
went and sat in an old truck in the parking lot. He kinda looked like he'd
just lost his best friend . . . ."
Jesse rushed over
to the doors and looked outward, his mind still focused on what the man was
saying. His heart sank when he noted that the lot was empty save for Mark's
car and a rusty blue Chevy Cavalier. The attendant spoke
more loudly as he followed Jesse's movements. "Uh . . . He left with the
other guy." "What other
guy?" Mark wanted to know. Jesse moved back toward the group, anxious to
hear the answer. "The one who
came in while he was on the phone. When he came in, the guy there in the
picture got off in a hurry. Then with the other guy left, he got in the
truck, too, and they drove off together. Couldn’t have been gone more than a
minute before you showed up." Mark seemed to
deflate at the news. "Did you see which way they went?" The
question hadn't been asked with a lot of enthusiasm. The man shrugged.
"The road starts out past the filling station. I can't see which way
they turned from here." Mark acknowledged
with a small nod and slipped his picture back into his pocket.
"Thanks." "Did you know
the other man?" Amanda asked the attendant. "Have you ever seen him
around here before?" "Sorry."
The attendant shook his head. "I've never seen him before. Looked like a
drifter to me." "Well, are
there any hotels or lodges anywhere that you think he might have gone to? Did
he say anything?" That question from Mark. The attendant
shrugged. "All the man wanted was a half dozen tubes of fire paste.
Sounds like he's camping outside if you ask me. Since Parks & Rec took
over some of the land around here there's been a lot of talk of marking
trails and setting up rules and stuff, but aside from some old abandoned
places up in the hills there's just the Motel 6 down the road, private
property and a lot of empty spaces. Sorry I can't be more helpful to
you." ~*~ Steve leaned
heavily against the side of the old house and closed his eyes. Just for a
moment. He rubbed the fingers of one hand against his temples, hoping that in
some small manner it might lesson the painful ache in his head. Even the
light of the sun where it poked through the trees hurt his eyes. It was
making it hard for him to think straight, and the aspirin wasn't helping.
Further clouding his thoughts was the fact that he was so tired. So very,
very tired . . . . He jerked awake as
his body began to relax against the building. He was about to fall asleep
right there leaning against the outer wall. But he couldn't afford to sleep
right now. He now knew that he had gone to the police academy. Sure it had
been a while ago, but no way did he believe he belonged here with these men.
He couldn't accept that. There was something illegal going on there, but he
just wasn't sure how he could prove it. He only knew that he needed to find
out what it was so that he could call in the police and then he could go
home. Home was the reward at the end of figuring out what was going on at the
farm. Pushing himself
away from the building, he began another circuit around the yard. He'd done a
head count and knew that excluding himself there were twelve men on the
property. He'd discovered a kind of hierarchy among the ranks. Doug was the
leader, and Ray Kreger seemed to be his right hand man. They talked often in
subdued tones. Beyond that there seemed to be several cliques where no group
seemed to trust the other. But all of them came together beneath Doug and
Ray's authority. Steve figured that had something to do with the fact that
Doug and Ray were armed at all times. He headed around
toward the back of an old barn that was a part of the property. Ray and Doug
had gone back there several times during the day. Since it was shielded from
the rest of the yard, Steve wondered if there was something back there worth
checking out. He sighed at the
relief that came as he walked along the side of the barn that wasn’t exposed
to the sun. The dimness brought on by being in the shadow of the building was
a relief to his eyes. All of the motorcycles were lined up neatly there.
Kreger was busy working on one that looked like it had seen better days. The man looked up
and pinned him with a look. Steve stared back, caught in the moment as a new
memory flooded his mind. That was his bike.
He remembered the day that he'd purchased it. He was a young patrol officer
at the time and had used money from his savings account. He'd worried about
what his dad might think, but he'd taken care to learn as much as possible
ahead of time. After a couple of
days of screwing up his courage, he'd invited Mark out to lunch one day where
he'd broken the news. He'd been so worried that he'd just blurted it out, and
then before his father had even spoken, had started to feel defensive. But,
as usual, his father surprised him, letting him know that he trusted him. The
memory touched him to his heart. He so loved his dad. Steve came back to
the present and found that the world was tilting around him. His back was up
against the barn and his knees must have left him at some point. Kreger was
again in his face. "That's twice,
Mick. You're gonna owe me big." Steve pulled
himself together enough to shrug the other man's hands off of his arm.
"Yeah. Right." He made his way to his feet and looked at the other
man, but in his mind he was remembering another. One with kind eyes and a
gentle way about him. Kreger merely
laughed and went back to working on what Steve now realized what his own
bike. It wasn't in too good a condition, but it was repairable, though not
anytime soon. Before Steve could decide whether there was anything aside from
motorcycles to be found behind the barn, he heard Doug yelling from the yard.
It was time to go. Part Four: Things Not Forgotten Night was falling,
and still they didn't have any more leads on where Steve might have gone. He
hadn't show up back at the store, and Mark felt as if they had covered half
of the countryside. There were simply too many places to hide in the rural area.
The two detectives that Newman had sent out to the area after Mark's call
were headed back toward LA. Mark felt that he had little choice but to follow
them. He had gracefully
allowed Amanda to take the wheel this time, leaving him to his own distracted
musings. Jesse, who had joined them after a double shift, was dozing in the
back seat. The dark sedan which belonged to the two detectives was directly
ahead of them on the highway. They would be reaching the city limits soon.
With each mile that separated them from the Lake Wickobee area, Mark felt as
if he was losing that much more ground in finding his son. Suddenly, the car
ahead of them put on a burst of speed, shocking Mark out of his stupor. The
blue cherry was turned on as they sped along the highway. "Amanda, keep
up with them!" Mark encouraged. "Maybe they've found something
about Steve?" Amanda increased
her speed, even as she argued. "They might be going on a police chase,
too, Mark. Besides, wouldn't they just call if it was about Steve?" She
weaved through the traffic like a professional, sticking with the flashing
lights ahead of her. One particularly
abrupt lane change must have awakened Jesse, because he started a disoriented
mumbling as he tried to right himself. "What's going on?" "I'm following
the detectives," Amanda replied. "They turned on their lights and
starting driving fast." Her eyes remained glued ahead as she spoke. The
detectives were taking a ramp off of the interstate. "Huh?"
Jesse sounded incredulous. "You? Maybe they got called for something
somewhere?" "Or maybe it's
about Steve?" Mark said. "That still
doesn't mean that we can follow them. Aren't we speeding? Breaking some kind
of law?" "Jesse, I
can't believe you're trying to be the voice of reason. Mark's a consultant to
the police department. And, well, that's almost like being deputized." Jesse made a face.
"Now that sounds like something I would say." If Mark wasn't so
worried, he might have found the entire conversation amusing. But, as it was,
there was no time for anyone to respond because the officers ahead pulled
into an industrial area. A narrow street led into a large parking area.
Sirens wailed as other police cruisers, with lights flashing, appeared behind
them. In the parking lot
itself, chaos reigned. Men came pouring out of a hulking building heading for
motor cycles which were parked alongside a huge tarp covered truck. Mark's
heart was in his throat as he urged Amanda to draw up closer to the truck so
that he could scrutinize each of them. But as some of them
were getting their bikes moving around the lot, along with the policemen in
cruisers trying to stop them, Amanda found that she wasn't sure where to go.
So, she simply put the car in park where she was. "We don't want to get
in the way, Mark." Mark didn't take
the time to argue with his friend. He simply opened the dark and climbed out
into the melee. ~*~ Steve sat with his
back against the wall of the dark little room, feeling relief flood his
system when he heard the sirens. It was almost over. It had to be. After Doug
had announced it was time to go, the bikes and men had been loaded into the
back of the tarp-covered truck and then they'd set off. Though Steve had
ridden in the front of the big truck with Tiny, he was hard-pressed to keep
track of where they were going. He felt so near exhaustion that he could
hardly focus on anything for more than a few minutes. Even the aches and pain
seemed peripheral. While the other
guys were busy loading whatever stolen goods into the back of the truck, it
had been no difficulty for Steve to convince Ray that he couldn't stand any
longer and needed to rest for a few minutes. He'd taken the opportunity to
sneak into the office sections of the building and find a phone. After having
called the operator, he reported that there was a robbery underway in the
building and that he couldn't help her with the address. He'd then settled
back onto the floor, leaving the phone off hook, and waited. He wasn't
entirely sure that he could move if he wanted to. The sudden acrid smell of
smoke changed his mind. Calling on
everything he had left, he made his way stiffly back to his feet and tried to
get out of the building. The smoke was getting thick, but he knew the exit
door was near. He simply put one foot in front of the other as he headed
toward the sound of voices yelling. Some claimed innocence, some yelled
derogatory statements to the policemen and others ordered ones to put their
hands up. Beyond them all, he heard another voice yelling about the fire,
pleading with someone to let him check on the inside of the building. Steve
knew that voice. He followed its sound. He cleared the dock
door and half stumbled down the ramp in the direction of the form that was
working to escape the restraining arms of a uniformed policeman. He noticed
in his peripheral vision that other officers were starting to converge on
him, but his primary focus was the white haired man that he would recognize
anywhere. Someone yelled his
name. Steve wasn't sure who, because in the next moment, his dad turned
toward him. Lines of worry seemed to ravage Mark's face, but right before
Steve's eyes, they seemed to soften and ease.
"Steve." His father's
relieved voice reached his ears even though he'd spoken softly. The words
echoed through Steve's mind, reverberating with a physical force as memories
returned . . . . It was getting dark out when Steve pushed his bike
through the tree covering that led to a small clearing beyond. It was where
the vehicles were kept to keep them out of the sight of any who might pass
by. He'd nearly gotten through the trees when a gruff voice barked, "I
asked you what you were doing near my bike?" Ray Kreger looked toward Steve as he stepped more
fully into the fading light. His expression turned suspicious as he looked at
the very quiet Ruhaas before returning his gaze to Steve. "You in on
this with him?" Steve looked toward Ruhaas and read the worry
behind the could-care-less expression. He'd known Ruhaas since he'd taught
him how to ride when he was 17 years old, and he knew that the young man was
scared. This was one of the younger officer's first undercover ops. Something
must have gone wrong. He focused back on Kreger and affected the gritty
attitude that was rampant among the gang members. "In what with him? I
just came to stow my bike." "He was messing around with my cycle,"
Kreger growled. Steve grunted noncommittally while he pushed
motorcycle toward the other vehicles lined up in two neat rows. "Maybe
he likes it," he muttered, moving in closer. He'd seen something in
Kreger's hand and thought he had an idea of what had gone wrong. If Kreger
had found the tracking devices, there was no way that the operation could be
saved. He was hoping to get himself and his bike between Ruhaas and the other
man. If they hit hard and fast, they could get the drop on Kreger and perhaps
get away before he was able to sound an alarm. If Kreger got off a yell,
though, they'd have twelve no-holds-barred bikers on their backs in a moment.
"No, I don't think so." Kreger shoved a
handful of small squarish devices toward him. "He was up to something
else. Found these on some of the other bikes. You might want to check
yours." Steve looked down at them, and prepared to throw
himself bodily at the other man. But in that instant, something happened.
Ruhaas pushed the first of the neatly lined bikes and three of them tumbled
like dominoes. While Kreger was reacting, Ruhaas jumped on his
bike, started it and headed off through the field behind them. Steve cursed
under his breath, jumped on his own bike and followed. He'd just started out after Ruhaas when he heard
gunfire behind him, he thought he saw Ruhaas flinch up ahead in the growing
darkness, but couldn't be sure. Either way, he didn't slow down, but kept up
his speed across the rough terrain. The ride was harrowing dashing between trees and
shrubbery, but Ruhaas managed to make it to the road with Steve fast on his
trail. Unfortunately, so were Kreger and whomever else had been spurred into
action by that gunshot. Full night was upon them as they sped along the back
country roads. Ruhaas was riding like
a mad man and Steve was pushing it in the hopes of catching up to the other
man before someone else did. Already, some of the other guys with more
powerful bikes were gaining behind them. They were on a straight stretch and Steve had
managed to come up nearly alongside Ruhaas. It was only a matter of time now
before they were overtaken, and then there would be real trouble. He could hear
the sound of the throaty bass of their engines as the others drew ever
closer. Ruhaas turned his head toward Steve and started to
try to yell something. Before he could speak, there was a spark at the back
of his bike as someone behind them took a shot. The bullet impacted somewhere
along the rear of the machine. Bits of rubber and plastic began to come off
the bike directly into the path of Steve's front tire. Ruhaas' head turned abruptly forward, and Steve
knew that maintaining control was the young man's primary focus now. Steve
backed off a bit, giving him room. He seemed to be pulling it off when a bit
of the debris flew off Ruhaas' bike and got caught beneath one of Steve's
tires. The younger cop shot forward as Steve began his own
struggle. The road was narrow and they were heading into a turn now, the
other bikes were nearly upon them. By the time he regained control Steve
could only think of one option. It was a dangerous maneuver, but he'd done it
before in stunt shows. He fought to cut back on his speed so that he could
swing out into a side skid. But suddenly, something in the road flew out at
his tires. There was nothing he could do as he'd already started the bike
into the precarious leaning position. The engine revved loudly as one of the tires
abruptly left the ground. Steve felt the sick sensation of being unpleasantly
airborne. He didn't remember the hard stop. Steve came back to
the present to the disorienting sensation of falling. The sound of the motor
cycle's engine still echoed in his head even as the sound of hazy voices
registered all around him. He couldn't make sense of any of it. But gentle
hands had taken hold of him, easing him downward. Through fading vision he
saw his father's worried expression. "Dad," he whispered the word.
Then looking beyond his dad, he caught sight of two more familiar faces.
"Jess. 'Manda." All of the struggle
and the fight went out of him. He was finally home. The tiniest of smiles
touched his face as he closed his eyes and gave in to the night. ~*~ Steve opened his
eyes and stared at the ceiling. Aside from feeling some residual aches, he
didn't feel too bad. Still a little tired, perhaps, but definitely much
better than the last time he remembered having his eyes open. Looking around, he
was happy to find it very familiar. He was in a room at Community General.
The only thing missing was his father beside the bed. He didn't have much
time to worry about it though as he heard his voice from the hall outside of
the door. Steve smiled at the
comfort just the familiar sound brought. Briefly contemplating his temporary
memory loss, he felt fairly certain that everything had returned. But it had
been disconcerting, to say the least, to be unable to recall 20 years of
one's life. He was half afraid that it might happen again. He made up his
mind then and there that if his dad wanted him to stay in the hospital a few
more days and go through a million tests, he would do it. Gladly. He couldn't
risk losing all the memories that he had made with his family and friends
over the years. Even the bad times were precious to him. And he was happy to
know that for the moment he remembered everything. Even the times when he had
been missing chunks of his life. He hoped the Ruhaas had gotten away safely.
He would have to remember to ask his dad. Unfortunately, he hadn't been
conscious to even make a memory of how that event ended for everyone else. "I see you're
awake," Mark interrupted his musings. A warm smile was spread across his
face as he continued on toward the side of the bed. "How are you
feeling?" "Whole again."
Steve drank in the sight of his father. It was that he didn't appreciate him,
but having had his world turned on its side, however briefly, had given him a
renewed appreciation for how fortunate he was to have such a relationship
with his dad. "You're
looking better, too." Mark replied as he rested a hand on the side of
the bed. Close, but not quite touching. "I take it all of your memories
have returned?" "Yes. It all
came back when I walked out of that warehouse and saw you." Mark's expression
softened. "For a while there I was pretty worried," he admitted.
"Especially when Newman showed up and Officer Ruhaas couldn't help us." "So he did get
out?" Steve asked, relief in his voice. "They moved the camp after
he got away. I realize that now." "He got out,
but he was hurt pretty badly. Fortunately some boy scouts found him in the
woods. He's still in ICU, and he's going to have a long road ahead of him,
but I think he's going to be okay." Steve was glad that
he'd gotten away, but saddened that he'd been so gravely injured. Ruhaas was
a good cop who had just been frightened by the situation. He regretted that
he hadn't been able to keep him safe. He blew out a heavy breath. "That's
too bad. Things got a little sketchy out there for a while." He saw the
acknowledgement in his father's gaze. He remembered how he had sounded over
the phone when he'd called him from that store. It couldn't have been easy
for his father to hear that he didn’t remember something as important as his
mother's death and the location of his sister. "I'm sorry I worried you." "Oh, there is
nothing for you to apologize for," Mark scoffed. "You did the best
you could with the situation you were in. And, unless I miss my guess, you
even managed to contact the authorities from that factory despite the
injuries you were suffering." "I might have
a vague recollection of doing that," Steve admitted, with a grin. He
sighed, then, "Dad, please tell me that I'm never going to lose my
memory like that again. I don't think I could stand it." "I can't
promise you that, Steve," Mark said gently. "Memory can be a funny
thing. But I can tell you that along with dehydration, a moderate concussion
and quite a surprising array of cuts, abrasions and contusions, I believe
that you were also suffering from a condition known as Transient Global
Amnesia or TGA. Opinions vary widely on what causes it from restricted blood
flow to certain portions of the brain, to intrathoracic pressure. I think
that blow to your head contributed to your experiencing TGA. The condition
usually clears up in 1 to 24 hours." "So what does
that mean?" Steve asked, conditional relief flooding his system. "Am
I all clear, or are you going to tell me that I need some more tests and
observation or something?" "Well, you do
still have a concussion, so you're not out of here scott-free. And a
neurologist is going to follow up with you. But, TGA clears up on its own
with no medical intervention needed. I think you're going to be just fine."
When Mark started
to move slightly away, turning toward the chair that sat near the foot of the
bed, Steve reached forward and touched the hand that was still lying on the
bed. He wasn't quite ready for that much space yet. Mark turned back,
immediately attentive at the contact. "You know,
through everything, there was something that I didn't forget," Steve
told him. The emotion in the words came out more readily than under normal
circumstances. Though Steve knew that it was probably just an after-affect,
he didn't want to hold them back. His father deserved to hear them, and he
needed to say them. "Yeah? What's
that?" Mark asked him. Steve didn't
hesitate. "That I love you, and what a great dad you are." His father's eyes
softened, and they both seemed to move automatically into a rare embrace. Mark's
softly spoken words came from over his shoulder. "I feel the same way
about you. I love you, son." The End End Notes: For
those who might have noticed, I wrote this story before I saw Blast From The
Past and realized that Mark bought Steve a dirt bike when he was a young boy.
I had thought to modify the story to match this episode, but then decided
against it because I think it rather works for the story. So, please forgive
that bit of creative license, and consider this one Alternate Universe as far
as the bikes go. If anyone is
interested, this link has info on Transient Global Amnesia: (see, I totally
didn't make it up - although I might have skewed it just a bit to suite my
needs) www.emedicine.com/neuro/topic380.htm |
