by Lee Goldberg
"Better safe than dead," Mark said.
It sounded to him like something his son might say. Tough and cynical—two adjectives Mark had never thought of as applying to himself. He hadn't enjoyed shooting Kristen Nash, not one bit.
However, as frightened as he'd been last night, even with the gun for protection, he'd felt a thrill of victory, like a gambler scoring a blackjack, when he turned on the light and saw Kristen Nash standing in his bedroom.
In that chilling moment, he had still been able to take some satisfaction in having figured out the solution to the puzzle. But he had taken no pleasure from squeezing the trigger. It made him feel sick.
Steve looked out at the water, and Mark followed his gaze. The sky was surprisingly clear and blue for so early in the morning. Sailboats were already out in the bay. In the distance Mark could see a freighter or oil tanker. The ship seemed still, but he knew it was moving, just too slowly to notice from afar.
"You could have been killed last night and all because you were angry at me for keeping you out of the investigation," Steve said. "I did it for you. I didn't want you ending up in the ICU."
"You just wanted to solve the case on your own," Mark said.
"So did you," Steve snapped back.
"Well, we both succeeded," Mark said. "And look at what we risked to do it."
"I gambled with Alan Vernon's life and you gambled your own."
"Like father, like son," Mark said.
"Yeah," Steve replied, a smiling growing on his face. "I suppose you're right."
Mark smiled back at him. "What are we going to do?"
Steve shrugged. "We could become private eyes."
They shared a laugh and then were silent for a long moment. Finally, Mark sighed and said what needed to be said. "I don't want to compete with you."
"You don't have to," Steve said. "We both know you'd always win."
"That wasn't the point I was trying to make," Mark said. "I'm proud of you and I want you to succeed. I'm not trying to outdo you at your profession."
"You do whether you try to or not."
"Do you want me to stop investigating homicides?"
"You couldn't stop if you wanted to, much less if I wanted you to," Steve said. "And I don't."
"Do you hate me?" Mark asked.
"No, but sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be able to step out from under your shadow and prove myself."
"I think you just did," Mark said. "You solved a serial murder case on your own. I wouldn't have discovered those murders. I would have missed Paul Guyot and Wendy Duren."
"I would have missed Kristen Nash."
"So, I guess we need each other after all."
"Was there ever any doubt?" Steve asked.
"No," Mark said. "Never."
Mark spent the next few days in a hotel, then checked himself into Community General Hospital for the bone graft surgery.
While Mark was hospitalized, Dr. Amanda Bentley arranged for a crime-scene cleaning service to remove any signs that a shooting had ever occurred at the beach house.
Every inch of the room was cleaned and disinfected. The soiled bedroom carpet was pulled up and replaced with something new. The blood-spattered walls were repainted a different color.
Steve took the cleanup one step further than that. He bought Mark a new bedroom set and rearranged the room so it looked entirely different than it had before.
Although Mark hadn't said anything about being reluctant to come home, Steve couldn't imagine his father would be comfortable returning to a place where he'd killed someone.
But Steve wasn't going to let some insane killer drive him and his father from their home. That would be giving the killer too much satisfaction, even if she was dead and couldn't enjoy the manipulation.
It was the principle that mattered to Steve.
He couldn't tolerate the ugly precedent that moving away would set, the message it would send. He couldn't let the killers they pursued think they held any power over their personal lives.
The question that remained was whether his father felt the same way.
The morning Mark was released, Steve picked him up and drove him back to Malibu. On the way, Mark didn't voice any hesitation about returning home. He didn't talk much at all.
For the first time since Mark Sloan began investigating murders, he was dreading revisiting the scene of a homicide. But when Mark stood in the doorway of his remodeled bedroom, he felt tears well up in his eyes. His son had done exactly the right thing. It was a new room, and a fresh start, yet in a warm and familiar place.
"Thank you," Mark said, wiping his eyes.
Steve pretended not to notice the tears.
"There's more," he said, leading his dad back to the kitchen.
The table was set for two. Steve opened the refrigerator and started taking out items. First out was a cheesy noodle casserole.
"Homemade seashell casserole," Steve said.
"You made it?" Mark asked incredulously.
"It's not like I had to split the atom to do it," Steve said. "But that was the easy part."
He reached into the refrigerator and took out an amazing chocolate cake, layered with nuts and several different kinds of chocolate.
"Chocolate Decadence a la Sloan," Steve said proudly. Mark smiled broadly. "I don't believe it. What did I do to deserve all this?"
"We're celebrating your return to health and the end of your sadness."
"What sadness?"
"Over killing Kristen Nash."
"I don't think a slice of cake, not even Chocolate Decadence a la Sloan, can cure that."
"You didn't save just your life that night, Dad."
Mark nodded. "I know. I saved all the people she might have killed. That doesn't make me feel much better."
"You saved me." Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it to his father.
"What's this?"
"We found it on her computer," Steve said. "It was her kill list. I was on it."
Mark stared at the names. Hammond McNutchin, Joyce Kling, and Leila Pevney were on it, of course. And so was Steve. Not because Steve was his son, but because he'd once cheated death.
Several years ago, Steve had been shot by a would-be assassin during an early-morning breakfast with Tanis Archer and police chief Masters. He nearly died on the operating table, and even afterward his prognosis wasn't good. But luck was on his side. Apparently, it still was.
Mark had no reservations about killing to save his son. None at all.
Back then, when his son was shot, he'd been ready to kill to avenge him. The anger he felt even now, just at seeing Steve's name on that list, burned away the lingering sadness that had plagued him for days.
"Let's have some of that cake," Mark said, crumpling up the paper and tossing it away.
Steve started to slice into the cake. "I'm warning you, this is so rich and chocolatey, it could kill you."
"What a way to go," Mark said.
It was good to be home.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Ife