Killing the Messenger 
 
Author: Romantique
 
Email: dolph1n@sbcglobal.net
  
Rating: R for mature themes and language.
 
Summary: The sequel to "Living The Lie," and "The Accusation" before it. Assumes 
"Indian Summer" never happened.

Author's Notes: Thanks again, Suz, for holding my feet to the fire. I wanted to 
post the first two sections before some recent spoilers come to pass. (Suz can 
confirm I was not spoiled when writing this sequel.)


~*~*~
 
Part 1
 
 
Pittsburgh Police Station
Central Precinct
April 17, 2002
10:00 a.m.
 
Nicholas Fallin sits alone in total darkness in one of the station's 
interrogation rooms. Staring vacantly ahead, his arms are tightly folded in 
front of him as if he could somehow shield himself from what is to come. All the 
while, his silent thoughts are becoming deafening.
 
My God, I shot my father! I shot my father!
 
Never had he felt so isolated. The somber man had nowhere to turn. His father 
had always been there for him, but not this time.
 
In another room nearby, he was questioned off and on for some ten hours after 
the shooting. No one at the station would give him any information regarding his 
father's condition. He didn't know if his father was dead or alive. The last 
time he saw his father, Burton was clinging onto life by a slender thread.
 
Throughout the lengthy interrogations, an exhausted Nick struggled to conceal 
the reeling affects of his cocaine withdrawal from the arresting officers, as he 
knew it was only a matter of time before his blood and urine tests came back 
"positive" for drugs. He swore to himself that if he never saw his snow mistress 
again, it would be too soon.
 
Dark circles began to surface underneath empty eyes. His hair was mussed from 
nervously running his hands through the sweaty strands of curled gold. His face 
was drawn and haggard with a shadow of a beard. The man hadn't had anything to 
eat or drink except for water since noon, the day before. Not that he wanted to 
eat.
 
The Watch Captain decided that, while Burton Fallin's shooting was being 
investigated, Nick would be held over for questioning based on suspicion of the 
illegal possession of a firearm. Such a charge would be a real problem for the 
probationer. After his recent, less-than-helpful testimony in his assault case, 
it seems Nick has no friends at the D.A.'s office.
 
Nicholas Fallin is alone this time, and both the police and D.A.'s office know 
it. Both also share the opinion that he has been a pain in the ass for years. 
Yet somehow, his father has always been able to bail his son out of trouble, but 
not this time. It is only after Nick vehemently asserts his right to counsel, 
and threatens to sue both the Police Department and the D.A.'s office for 
violation of his constitutional rights, Jake Straka is finally allowed to see 
him.
 
Jake is led to a small, darkened room where Nick is finally updated on his 
father's condition. Burton remains listed in critical condition after a surgery 
to repair his right lung, punctured by a bullet. The surgeon was able to 
successfully repair the lung, but a bullet fragment remains lodged dangerously 
close to the spinal cord, too close to remove without risking paralysis. Since 
the shooting, Burton has not regained consciousness. He was moved 
post-surgically to the Intensive Care Unit where only immediate family members 
are to visit. Sadly, detained Nick is Burton's only family.
 
After their brief meeting, Jake leaves the jail worried about his friend who 
said very little about the actual shooting. Nick told Jake he did not want to 
see anyone, including Lulu. He surmised that Nick could not face anyone. It was 
almost as if his colleague had resigned himself to accept whatever the fates 
would allow. Nick did manage to scribble out the name of a person on a piece of 
paper for Jake to contact on his behalf, before asking Jake to leave.
 
Now, almost 12 hours after the meeting with Jake, Nick is led back to the same 
room by a uniformed officer where he is left to sit alone, once more with his 
deafening repetitive thoughts. He has yet to be charged with a crime and is 
still wearing the same clothes he wore the day of the shooting. He sits alone in 
the dark, until someone enters the darkened room.
 
"Mr. Fallin. I was most surprised to hear from you." Dr. Davenport somberly 
comments as he closes the door behind him. "Why are you sitting in here in the 
dark?"
 
"Because I haven't slept in two days," Nick answers flatly and blanking staring 
past the doctor.
 
"May I turn the lights on?" the doctor asks.
 
"I'd rather you didn't," Nick replies before Dr. Davenport can flick the switch.
 
"All right," the doctor takes a moment for his own eyes to adjust, enough so 
that he finds his way to a nearby chair and takes a seat. "You called for me," 
the doctor begins. "Why are we here?"
 
Nick brings his hands up to his aching head. "Is this room bugged? Are we being 
listened to?"
 
"I've been assured we are not," the doctor answers. "Mr. Straka made a point to 
assure our privacy during this visit.
 
"How can my privacy be guaranteed when I'm being questioned for a shooting?"
 
"As I said, I've been assured that I am speaking to you, in private," the doctor 
repeated.
 
From out of the darkness, Nick's weary eyes catch a glint of what little light 
there is in the room. "I shot my father." An uncomfortable silence continues 
before he continues with no emotion in his voice, "I didn't mean to shoot him. I 
love my father."
 
"Are you saying the shooting was an accident?" the doctor asks.
 
"Absolutely," Nick responds without hesitation.
 
"Was the gunshot wound fatal?" The doctor's clinical nature is most direct.
 
"No," Nick clears his throat and shifts his position in the chair. "I think he's 
still in Intensive Care."
 
"I see," the doctor responds. "Tell me, how can I help you?"
 
Another pause occurs, then, Nick leans forward and quietly explains. "After the 
shooting, I was brought here to the police station and questioned."
 
"And they performed drug testing?" Dr. Davenport adds from seemingly out of 
nowhere. "You ARE using again, aren't you?" the doctor calmly confronts the 
young man seated before him.
 
Nick's liquid eyes make startled contact with the doctor's.
 
"How did you know?" Nick asks in utter surprise. "Are the lab results back 
already?"
 
The doctor takes in a deep breath. "I suspected you were high on amphetamines, 
probably cocaine, the night I first met you at your home. You may have convinced 
your father you had a cold, but you never fooled me. The second time I met you, 
when you testified in court, it was most apparent to me that you were exhibiting 
the classic symptoms of cocaine addiction. And now, here you are, fidgeting and 
sweating . . . in the dark."
 
Nick reluctantly shakes his head to let the doctor know his suspicions were 
correct and then, he hangs his head low.
 
"It's all going to come out," the doctor states the obvious.
 
"It can't come out," the monotone man suddenly becomes animated. "It's a 
violation of my probation. I could go to prison. I will most definitely lose my 
license to practice law. And my father . . ." Nick's voice trails off; as he 
takes a hard swallow.
 
"Didn't you consider these consequences before you decided to use again?" the 
doctor interrupts, again broaching the obvious.
 
"Dr. Davenport," Nick looks up. "It wasn't my choice to use again."
 
The doctor rejects Nick's statement by confronting him with it. "What do you 
mean it wasn't your choice?"
 
"Everything I tell you is confidential, correct?" Nick asks the doctor, shifting 
his weight in his chair again, already knowing the answer to his own question.
 
"That's correct," the doctor nods.
 
"I've been lying," Nick begins, "but not about the drugs. You know that I was 
falsely accused of raping a young client and then, after I was arrested, I was 
beaten in the holding cell of the county jail. You know what happened to me, but 
you don't know why."
 
The doctor is again surprised by the answers from the quiet young man. "You 
remember the beating? Did you lie about losing your memory?"
 
"No," Nick attempts to explain. "I did lose my memory. But it soon returned."
 
"How soon?" the doctor continued with his probe.
 
Nick didn't immediately answer. "Quite some time ago," he finally admits to the 
doctor, nervously drumming his fingers on the underside of his chair. "I know 
who is responsible for the false rape charge against me. It is the same 
individual who arranged to have me beaten."
 
After an even longer break in the conversation, Nick finally forges on. "My 
former drug dealer is very well-connected. He was involved in a fatal shooting 
last year in which one of my clients was falsely accused. Off the record, I gave 
some information to the police that connected him to that murder and exonerated 
my client."
 
"And you believe the false rape accusation and the beating were in retaliation 
for you blowing the whistle on him?" the Doctor asks.
 
"I know they were," Nick nods with conviction in his voice. "The dealer's name 
is Colin Bennett, and he paid me an unwanted visit when I was in the hospital. 
He swore that if I ever said anything to the police, he would harm me and my 
father. Although he didn't say anything about his involvement in the rape 
accusation or the beating, he didn't have to. I knew what he meant."
 
"How can you be so certain?" the doctor probes with the skill of a surgeon.
 
"Because I know," Nick asserts. "Believe me, I wish I didn't, but I know.
 
Dropping his head, Nick averts his eyes, adding, "When Colin threatened me again 
in the hospital, I told him I was suffering from a head injury with memory loss 
. . . which was true. But when my memory began to return, I decided it was in my 
best interest to keep that information to myself."
 
The troubled young man sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, somehow surprised 
that the truth finally slipped out, the truth he had managed to hold in for such 
a long time.
 
Dr. Davenport breaks the intense silence in the room by concluding, "And then, 
your friend, the one who testified before you in court, went to the District 
Attorney with the name, Colin." The doctor nods his head in understanding. The 
testimony he heard that day in court suddenly takes on an entirely different 
meaning.
 
"Lulu doesn't know any of this. No one knows; no one but you." Nick looks up.
 
"I don't understand. Where does the cocaine come in?" the doctor asks, missing 
this key element of events.
 
"I was at home from the hospital, recovering from the beating. A few weeks ago, 
Colin broke into my house," Nick explains and uses his hands to help with his 
re-enactment. "He put a gun to my head; uh he assaulted me, again. He . . . he 
forced me to take cocaine, a powerful, pharmaceutical grade of cocaine. And he 
threatened to inject me with it if I did not do as he said. Then, once he was 
satisfied I was re-addicted, he made certain to supply me with more of the drug. 
Colin hooked me to insure my silence."
 
Dr. Davenport utters, "Wow. That is quite a story."
 
"I know," Nick wearily counters. "I tried to tell my dad about it at one point, 
but I didn't think he would believe me. Hell, I didn't think anyone would 
believe me."
 
"I probably wouldn't believe you, Nick, except your story makes too much sense," 
Dr. Davenport concludes.
 
Nick flashes the doctor a look of unexpected relief.
 
"So what do you want to do?" Dr. Davenport asks, in true, mental-health fashion.
 
Nick holds his head in his hands. "I'm going to see my father through this. He 
has to live."
 
"Yes," the doctor concurs, "but what about you? I don't know if you've 
considered this: Not only does your probation prohibit the illegal use of 
controlled substances. It also prohibits the possession of a firearm. Where did 
you get the gun?"
 
"I have considered that." Nick looks up with saddened eyes. "It's my father's 
gun I took from his home after the trial. After Lulu went to the D.A., I knew 
Colin would come after me. In fact, Colin called me to let me know I was as good 
as done. I took the gun to protect myself . . . and my father. While waiting for 
Colin to arrive at my house, I mistakenly shot my father with his own gun."
 
God, what have I done?
 
In response to his question, Nick draws his feet up into the chair and wraps his 
arms around his legs, resting his heavy head against his knees. Curled into a 
ball, the confessions of this troubled young man poured out of him, leaving him 
even emptier than before.
 
"Nick," Dr. Davenport finally speaks. "The first thing we need to do is to get 
you detoxed."
 
"I've already been through the worst of it," Nick answers. A shiver jolts 
through his bones, as he stuffs his strong desire to snort a line deep within 
himself. For as much as he despises her for what she's done, the snow mistress 
still lets her hold over him be known.
 
"You know as well as I do that physical withdrawal is only the first stage. When 
are you going to address the toxic spiritual and emotional aspects of your 
addiction?"
 
From out of the darkness, Nick raises his head, his eyes glistening with tears. 
Utterly defeated, he reluctantly shakes his head. "Now would be a good time."
 
Allegheny General Hospital
Substance Abuse Rehabilitation Ward
Psychiatric Floor
April 19, 2002
10:a.m.
 
The Pittsburgh Police did indeed proceed to charge Nicholas Fallin with the 
unlawful possession of a firearm, while the investigation into the shooting of 
Burton Fallin remains active. Nick appeared in front of Judge Henry Wellerman in 
Superior Court where he entered a plea of not guilty. Jake then successfully 
argued for Nick to be released to a drug rehabilitation program under the 
supervision of Dr. Davenport prior to trial. A court date was set, and Nick was 
transferred from the jail to Allegheny General Hospital. Although Nick cannot 
see is father, Burton is at the same hospital where Nick is able to at least 
obtain periodic updates on his father's condition through Dr. Davenport.
 
And Nick was granted his wish to see no one, no one but Dr. Davenport. He isn't 
allowed any visitors until the end of this treatment plan. Once each day, with 
the exception of weekends, he is required to spend an hour in therapy with Dr. 
Davenport.
 
Past the point of exhaustion, Nick's sleep is interrupted by recurring dreams of 
being beaten over and over again. He caused such a ruckus the first night in 
rehab, orderlies were called to wake and then calm him. Being again confined, 
this time in a locked hospital ward, only intensifies his terror. He is afraid 
to sleep.
 
The cocaine is out of Nick's system, but the cravings are as strong as ever. The 
young attorney has been put on a regimen of vitamins, diet, exercise and, of 
course, one-on-one therapy sessions. Nick is not one for the naturopathic 
approach to de-tox, but he's decided it is preferable to sitting in jail like a 
sitting duck. And even though he cannot see his father, he is close by.
 
The first session in the hospital found Nick in his customary, uncooperative 
form. The doctor was fast becoming impatient with his new patient and told him 
so. "I'd say you have twenty years or more of work to do in a compressed period 
of time, Mr. Fallin." Dr. Davenport did not hold back any punches. "Either you 
roll up your sleeves and begin some of the hardest work you will ever do, or you 
can spend your time prior to trial in jail . . . because that will be my 
recommendation to the Judge."
 
Today's session, it seems, will be no different. The reluctant patient again 
remains closed mouth as the session begins.
 
"Did you have some time to think about what I said yesterday?" Dr. Davenport 
asks.
 
"Yes," Nick answers, but that is all he would say.
 
"And?" the doctor impatiently waits for an answer.
 
"Before we begin, how is my father, today?" Nick changes the subject.
 
The good doctor clears his throat. "Oh, no you don't. I am not giving you 
anymore information about your father until you help me help you."
 
Nick glares at the doctor with burning hatred. This man, this stranger, has the 
power to send him back to jail where he would be vulnerable to another beating 
from Colin's thugs. This man has the power to withhold information about his 
father.
 
Son of a bitch!
 
"For the last time, what are you thinking, Mr. Fallin?" Dr. Davenport crosses 
his arms in front of his chest and lets out a sigh of building frustration.
 
"I'm thinking I'd like to knock your head off your shoulders," Nick sneers 
through his teeth.
 
"Oh really?" the doctor asks. "Pray tell, why would you want to do that?"
 
Nick shakes his head, unable to say another word.
 
"Let me take a guess, okay?" the doctor begins. "You can't stand the fact that I 
have control."
 
Nick's steely eyes rise up and glare once more in the doctor's direction.
 
"You gave me control or have you forgotten?" the doctor reminds his young 
patient. "It is you who asked me to come to you. It is you who asked me for 
help."
 
"I didn't ask you to threaten to send me back to jail, back to where I can be 
harmed!" Nick raises his voice. "I didn't ask you to control me by withholding 
information from me about my father's condition!"
 
In a very even voice, Dr. Davenport replies, "Your father is still in Intensive 
Care, but he's regained consciousness. And he's holding his own."
 
Nick takes in a deep breath and lets out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
 
"You are welcome." Then, the doctor continues, "Do you think you are in control 
of your life?"
 
"It could be strongly argued that I am not in control of my life," Nick answers 
the obvious with the obvious.
 
"When did you lose control?" the doctor asks without missing a beat.
 
What are you talking about? I control EVERY aspect of my life.
 
But then, Nick stops for a moment and thinks.
 
Have I lost control?
 
"Don't over analyze the question, Mr. Fallin. When was the first time that pops 
into your mind?"
 
Rubbing his fingers over his tightened lips, Nick begins to speak. "My life was 
pretty much decided when I was a kid."
 
"I'm not sure I know what you mean?" the doctor expresses his need for 
clarification.
 
"I mean, my life had already been pretty much decided for me. Where I would 
spend vacations, where I would live, where I would go to school, with whom I 
would play, what I would become when I grew up."
 
"And who would make these decisions for you?" Dr. Davenport probed.
 
"My mom, my Dad." Nick clasps his hands together on his lap and nervously begins 
to tap his fingers against one another.
 
"How did you feel about having all these decisions made for you?"
 
The rehab patient looks down, thoughtfully. "Sometimes, I didn't mind. I mean, 
if I didn't make decisions, it meant I didn't have to take responsibility for 
them. That was sort of nice."
 
"And at other times?" the doctor proceeded.
 
A deep sigh came before Nick responds. "At other times, I resented it."
 
The doctor probes a little deeper. "During those times when you resented it, how 
did you feel?"
 
Beginning to steam from rising internal pressure, Nick states the obvious, "I 
was pissed off."
 
"Pissed off at whom?" the doctor counters.
 
"At whom?" Nick repeats another ridiculous question in disbelief. "What do you 
want me to say, Dr. Davenport? That I was angry with my parents?"
 
"Were you pissed off at your mother?" the doctor asks without skipping a beat.
 
"Oh Jeez," Nick huffs in disgust. "Are you one of those Freudian bastards?"
 
Very evenly, Dr. Davenports retorts, "I assure you I am not Freudian. Now once 
again, were you pissed off at your mother?"
 
"No," he tries to explain that which he can not. "My mom died when I was twelve. 
I don't ever remember being angry with my mom. I loved her."
 
"Then, you were angry with your father?" the doctor deduces.
 
"Yeah, I've been angry with my father, more times than I can count." Nick 
admits. "After my mother died, he sent me away. He shipped me off to boarding 
school."
 
Now, the doctor has to ask, "Have you ever been angry enough with your father, 
angry enough to kill him?"
 
Shocked and insulted at the insinuation, the young patient replies with a 
resounding, "No!" Then, he reaches inside himself to calm himself down and 
eventually continues. "My father may be one controlling son of a bitch, but I 
would never harm him."
 
Sensing he is not being believed, Nick leans forward in his chair and 
emphatically adds, "Honestly!"
 
"Mr. Fallin," Dr. Davenport interrupts. "Who are you trying to convince of your 
honesty, me or you?"
 
Nick maintains a hard stare of disbelief. He says nothing.
 
A period of time passes before the doctor breaks the silence. "Did your father 
choose your career?"
 
"He wanted me to be a lawyer and to work with him in his firm. I thought I 
wanted that, too."
 
"You thought you wanted that?" the doctor parrots his patient's response.
 
Nick rubs the uncomfortable feeling of being exposed off his face with his 
hands. "After this year, I'm not sure what I want anymore," Nick confesses, 
surprised to hear his own response.
 
 
~*~*~
 
Part 2
 
Allegheny General Hospital
Substance Abuse Rehabilitation Ward
Psychiatric Floor
April 21, 2002
4:00 a.m.
 
Spent from exhaustion, Nick finally surrenders to welcome sleep. He sleeps 
deeply for a couple of hours, until the abrupt clashing of metal from the 
hallway startles him awake. Unfocussed eyes, heavy with sleep, make out the 
backlit figure of a member of the night staff just outside his darkened room. It 
seems someone dropped a tray of flatware. The shiny eating utensils ping in a 
chaotic echo as each bounces off the floor.
 
The jolting noise causes his heart to nearly jump out of his chest. Immediately, 
he springs straight up in bed with adrenaline rushing through his veins, 
quickening his breathing and making him break out in beads of cold sweat.
 
"Who's there?" he calls out. "Oh, God. Colin?
 
Damn it! He found me!
 
"I am so sorry," an embarrassed, young woman softly calls out to him from down 
on her knees. The nurse scrambles to quickly pick up the utensils off the floor. 
When she has finally collected the last spoon, she stands and pokes her head 
into Nick's room.
 
"Sorry I woke you. Please, try and get back to sleep." And the slight, young 
blonde woman slinks away until she is well out of Nick's sight.
 
It's not him.
 
Relieved, Nick takes in deep breaths to calm himself. The commotion is now over. 
Nick rolls over onto his side, turning his back to the open door and the light 
from the hallway. Eager to return to sleep, he pulls the covers up under his 
chin and closes his eyes. Within minutes, he re-enters the ethers of slumber; 
however, his peaceful journey is soon interrupted for a second time tonight.
 
"No!" he mumbles from somewhere in his subconscious. "Please, no!" His face 
winces in fear, and his head begins to toss about. "Don't," he pleads from his 
subconscious. "No, don't hit me!"
 
The sleeping man draws his limbs into his body as a tight ball and his head into 
his chest, as if to protect himself from the strikes of a phantom beating. He 
flinches with each ghostly punch, and the volume and intensity of Nick's cries 
increase until pleas for his life are made almost without sound.
 
In response to Nick's cries, a nurse and two orderlies race into the room where 
they observe their patient thrashing violently in the bed. "You're hurting me. 
Please, stop!" he cries.
 
"Mr. Fallin," the nurse calls out calmly but sharply. "You're okay! No one is 
trying to hurt you, do you understand?"
 
"No, no," he continues, thrashing to and fro.
 
"Okay, on the count of three," one orderly nods to the other. "One . . . two . . 
. three!"
 
The two large, uniformed men move at exactly the same instant to restrain the 
thrashing young man onto the bed. All the while, the older nurse continues her 
calming mantra as she ties Nick's feet down with restraints.
 
"You're okay, Mr. Fallin. No one is trying to hurt you, but you need to calm 
down," she continues, moving up to the head of the bed were she begins to tie 
down Nick's arms.
 
The nurse, a middle-aged woman with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses, is now 
able to see her patient's face. She is a different nurse than the one who 
previously woke him. She observes the young man's eyes are closed. His eyeballs 
move rapidly underneath his eyelids, and she immediately determines he is 
asleep.
 
"I've got to get away," he struggles against the restraints. "I'll die if I stay 
here!"
 
"Wake up, Mr. Fallin," she commands, tying the last of the restraints. "You're 
having a bad dream," she speaks directly into his ear. "Wake up."
 
Finally, the nurse's call penetrates through the terror, and Nick begins to 
wake. The fear on his face looks like a man who has just stared down the devil 
himself.
 
"What . . . where . . . ," a groggy Nick is out of breath. He looks around the 
room in confusion.
 
The nurse now gently responds, "You're in the hospital, Mr. Fallin, remember? 
And you were having a nightmare, a horrible one from what we can tell. Do you 
remember what you were dreaming?"
 
Still breathing heavily, Nick tries to form an answer. "I . . . I was being 
beaten. I couldn't stop it."
 
"Who was beating you?" the nurse looks into his face with such compassion.
 
As Nick forms an immediate answer, the look of fear on his face suddenly changes 
to one of astonishment.
 
"Uh, I can't, I can't remember," he stammers, lying to the nurse.
 
Jesus, it wasn't Colin's goons this time!
 
"Well, maybe it will come to you tomorrow," she offers.
 
She can see her patient is calming down. Seeing that Nick is now under the 
nurse's control, the two orderlies ask if they are needed any longer.
 
"No, he seems to be wide awake now," she responds. "I think he's over it."
 
It is at this time, as the orderlies are leaving the room, Nick notices he is 
tied down in restraints.
 
"What's this?" Nick demands to know, obviously becoming upset.
 
The nurse quickly answers, "You were thrashing about so in your sleep. We had to 
restrain you so that you wouldn't hurt us or yourself."
 
Nick wants out of these restraints. Looking sheepishly up into the nurse's kind 
face, he apologizes. "I'm sorry I caused any trouble. But I'm fully awake now. 
How about taking these off?"
 
The Fallin charm works to get what he wants, but only partially.
 
"I can loosen them for you, but the doctor on duty will have to take a look at 
you before we can take these off," the nurse explains as she begins loosening 
the restraint on his right leg. "Those are the rules after a patient is put into 
restraints, but I'll make sure he comes in to see you as soon as possible."
 
She moves to loosen the restraints near his arms. Then, she pulls down the damp 
t-shirt he managed to twist around his muscular torso.
 
"How long will that be," Nick is obviously disappointed the restraints are still 
tied.
 
Smiling at the handsome young man, she can see that he is, indeed, much calmer. 
"I promise to tell him personally. He should be here soon."
 
I suppose I have to play the game while I'm here.
 
Nick reluctantly nods his head and lets out a sigh.
 
"You may want to try and stay awake until you speak with the doctor on call. You 
probably won't have the nightmare again, but just in case," the nurse suggests.
 
If you only knew how many times I've had this very same dream. Only this time, 
it was different.
 
"I'll do that," Nick nodded again from his pillow, playing the game.
 
 
Allegheny General Hospital
Intensive Care Ward
6:00 a.m.
 
Burton Fallin lies in bed, staring straight up at a ceiling that is as sterile 
as the strong, medicinal odor in his room. Monitors beep rhythmically in time 
with his heartbeat in the background.
 
Nicholas, where is Nicholas?
 
He cannot understand why his son has not been in to see him. Each time a nurse 
enters the elder Fallin's room, he asks him or her to please find his son for 
him. His gut tells him something is very wrong. Nick would be there with him if 
at all possible. Something must be very wrong.
 
Burton's surgeon had been into to him late the night before. His condition has 
been upgraded to stable, and he was informed he would be moving to the 
post-surgical ward later, in the afternoon. He decides to call Gretchen as soon 
as he gains access to a telephone. He simply has to find Nick!
 
 
Allegheny General Hospital
Substance Abuse Rehabilitation Ward
Psychiatric Floor
10:00 a.m.
 
Once again, Nick sat in a chair with Dr. Davenport nearby. As far as Nick was 
concerned, this counseling is a waste of his time; however, this 28 day 
encampment served two purposes. One, it provided a place for Nick to work out 
his withdrawal and these nightmares in private. But more importantly, being 
sentenced to re-hab was definitely most preferable to sitting in jail like a 
sitting duck before trial.
 
Nick mentally placed his counseling into perspective. 
 
He reminds himself, I just have to play the game.
 
The young man dons a pair of sweatpants, a white thermal shirt, and socked feet. 
Freshly showered, he nurses a hot cup of herbal tea. His face is pale, tired, 
and drawn. He wasn't able to get back to sleep.
 
Rifling through Nick's hospital file, the doctor asks, "How are you feeling 
today?"
 
"I have a headache," Nick complains, narrowing his steely eyes.
 
"What kind of a headache?" the doctor seems to be interested.
 
"Like the top of my head is about to blow," he answers. He puts his hand on the 
top of his aching head. "I believe it's from the withdrawal."
 
"Hmmmm," the doctor utters. "You shouldn't still be having headaches at this 
point in your recovery. What I mean is that they should be significantly 
diminishing."
 
"Not from the cocaine," Nick begins to explain. "I'm talking about withdrawal 
from caffeine."
 
"Do you drink a lot of coffee?" Dr. Davenport asks.
 
"Not as much as some people I know." He is referring to Alvin Masterson's 
legendary Espresso habit. "I typically have a couple of espresso drinks a day."
 
"Espresso is strong stuff," the doctor remarks. "Why do you need to drink 
Espresso?"
 
"With a full time law practice, plus community service," Nick gives the doctor 
the superfluous information. "I suppose I drink it to keep going."
 
"And without it, are you able to keep going?" the doctor asks and makes a 
gesture to the tea.
 
"I'm very tired. It's like I'm in a fog this morning," Nick looks down. "A cup 
of coffee would make me feel much better."
 
Despite the doctor's sympathy, he remarks, "I'm sorry Nick, but no stimulants." 
Returning his attention to Nick's file, Dr. Davenport continues, "According to 
the chart notes, lack of coffee is not the only reason you're tired."
 
Nick looks up at the doctor and is unresponsive.
 
It soon becomes apparent Nick is not going to continue with this topic. So, the 
doctor continues. "The doctor in charge notes you had a nightmare, one severe 
enough to put you in restraints."
 
"Uh, yeah," Nick runs his fingers through his hair, over the top of his 
throbbing head. "Before we get started on this, how is my father?"
 
"I'm going to check on him as soon as we're finished here, but I'm informed he 
had a restful night," the doctor answers. "Now, lets get back to the subject I 
brought up . . . your nightmare."
 
Nick lies, "If you are going to ask me what it was about, I don't remember."
 
"The notes here state you were calling out in your sleep to someone to stop, to 
stop hurting you. Who was hurting you, Nick?" the doctor asks directly.
 
The doctor clears his throat. "Before you testified in court, your girlfriend 
testified about a recurring dream where you were being beaten. And you would 
call out the name of your drug dealer."
 
"I told you once before, Lulu is a friend. She's just a friend," Nick trails 
off.
 
"A friend who was sleeping at your house, evidently," the doctor shoots back. "I 
took notes in the courtroom." Dr. Davenport holds up a file folder. "Was the 
nightmare you had last night the same recurring one you were having several 
weeks ago?"
 
"When the nurse woke me up, I'm sorry, but I couldn't remember anything," he 
lies smoothly. "It could have been the same dream. I just don't know."
 
I wish I didn't know.
 
 
To be continued...