It's amazing where the mind wanders to while in Mass...the service, not the state.

I was sitting in Mass this morning when this idea came to me. Why I was thinking about Woody and Jordan in the middle of a lovely service, I had no idea. But as the peace and serenity of my church engulfed me and I couldn't help but hope that everyone I knew could at some time experience what I was feeling at the moment. And from there, I guess my mind wandered to my two favorite characters and made the same wish for them and the series.

And I came up with this. It could take place anytime during the series. I haven't spoke French in awhile, so Babelfish was used. If there are any errors, please be kind. The Latin – straight from the Catholic Encyclopedia. I can speak it, just didn't want to depend on my memory for the spelling.

As usual, I own nothing. Wish I did, but I don't. Wonder if Tim would sell it to me cheap now?

In Terms of Love

Chapter One

Now and Then You Cross My Mind

It was hot. More than hot. It was hot and sticky and more humid than Woody had ever thought it possible to be. He shifted in his seat and tried to discreetly peel his shirt away from the skin on his back, stuck there with the cloying dampness that could only be found in the areas located near the equator.

The plane trip had been uneventful. Woody had killed time by flipping through the three thick files he had brought with him. Re-reading each detail he had already read more than a thousand times. Re-focusing. Centering himself. Telling himself not to get his hopes up too high because after all, they had crashed and burned many times before in the past two years. Promising himself that he would look at this new evidence with fresh eyes and a wary heart.

"Monsieur Hoyt?"

A soft, male voice drew Woody out of his thoughts and he rubbed his hand over his face as if to wipe off his thoughts of the past and bring him back to the present. "Oui?"

"Mon nom est père Jean Louis. Je suis celui qui vous a appelé l'autre jour. J'ai eu connaissance de votre situation difficile sur l'Internet. Je suis très désolé pour la faute à temps et la douleur qu'elle vous a causé."

Woody looked at the short man with confusion visible in his blue eyes.

The priest chuckled. "I am sorry. I assumed by your answer that you were fluent in French. My name is Father Jean Louis. I am the one who called you the other day. I read about your plight on the internet. I am very sorry for the lapse in time and the pain it has caused you." The priest held out his hand to the detective.

"Thank you, Father." Woody shook the priest's hand shifted his weight restlessly. Patience had never been one of his graces and the last couple of years had done nothing to cultivate it. "I would like, as soon as possible, to see…"

The priest held up his hand to stop Woody. "Veuillez être tranquille," he began and paused. "I mean, please. Now is not the time for you to talk. Now is the time for you to listen."

"But…"

The priest began to walk out of the receiving area of the church where Woody had been sitting and on to a covered walkway, motioning for Woody to follow. For a long minute, there was nothing heard but the soft swish of the priest's floor length robes. It wasn't until they had put considerable space between themselves and the church that Father Jean Louis spoke again.

"You must listen to me, Monsieur Hoyt. It is very important that you hear before you see…" The priest paused and waited for Woody to nod in agreement before he continued.

"Here at Fond-Parisien, we are somewhat isolated, even by Haiti standards. Our population is less than 10,000 and we serve the poorest of the poor here…"

Again Woody nodded, but this time it was quick and his neck nearly snapped with tension. Wading through oceans of red ink and miles of bureaucratic red tape had never been his idea of a good time. But Woody had gritted his teeth, swam the ocean and cut the tape, because that was what it took to get him into Haiti in a record three days. Now he was here tracking down yet one more lead. A lead that was probably one more dead end, but he had vowed to let no stone go unturned until he held the evidence in his hands and it was confirmed by Garret.

"So we aren't able to always hear and see the news as it happens. I'm afraid we are one demographic that CNN has overlooked." The priest continued and chuckled again at his own wry joke.

"Look, Father, I fully sympathize with your isolation and your poverty. When I get home, I'll make a recommendation to my parish that we send you a large donation. But you said you thought you had something that would help me solve this case."

"I think I do."

Woody swallowed hard. "Then can I see it?" His stomach churned with nerves. A part of him wanted to see it, and bring closure. Another part of him hoped Jean Louis was desperately wrong and Woody could go on clinging to hope.

"In a moment, Monsieur Hoyt. In a moment. You must hear before you see." The priest stopped walking and eyed Woody carefully. When one of the nuns had read about the Boston detective's plight on the parish's recently acquired internet and pointed it out to Jean Louis, the priest had to think long and hard about calling Woody. To bring such attention to a very quiet and settled parish might not be a good thing. It might bring not only the unwanted watchful eyes of any number of higher-ups in the church and the legal system, but it could also disrupt some very settled and productive lives.

"Are you willing to listen before you learn?" Jean Louis asked.

"Yes, Father." But can't you hurry….

Stifling a smile at the detective's poorly hid impatience the priest resumed walking. "You have heard of the plane crash a couple of years ago off the shores of Etang Saumatre?"

Woody nodded. "Small craft. We call them 'puddle jumpers'. It held about fifteen people. Caught fire in mid-air. Crashed off the shore. There were no survivors."

"You have seen the manifest." It wasn't a question.

"I have." A deep breath kept Woody's voice from breaking.

"Dr. Cavanaugh's name was on it."

"Yes." Woody had no idea that Jordan had even taken a flight into this part of Haiti until about six months ago when he had finally been issued a warrant to search international flight manifests. A search had turned up Jordan's name on this particular document.

"And her remains were never found?"

"No." Woody shook his head. "There weren't very many remains recovered and we found nothing of hers but a piece or two of her luggage and her bag with her ID and credit cards." Of the pitiful pieces of human flesh and bone that had been recovered, none of it tested positive for Jordan's DNA. Woody and Garret both had poked and prodded the Haitian government for more details about the test results. They had even gotten federal and state officials involved, but to no avail. The Haitian medical examiner was adamant that the US government and the Boston officials had received everything from the plane wreck.

So Woody had nearly closed the case just to give himself and Garret some peace of mind. But he kept coming back to the evidence. Or rather the lack thereof. No body, no remains, no DNA. Garret had to remind him that just as in the Twin Towers and 9/11, sometimes you find nothing. And you just have to go on the evidence you have.

But then Father Jean Louis had e-mailed him, saying that he may have evidence which would help Woody close the case once and for all – and he had something that would shed light on what had happened to Jordan. This was all it took for Woody to put the gears in motion and three days later, the detective was in Haiti, looking into yet another lead.

A lead, that once he carefully examined the details, wasn't so far off-base. At least in his mind. The message from Jean Louis had been cryptic: Come to Fond Parisien in Haiti. I have evidence to close the case on Dr. Cavanaugh. After that the good Father had been stingy with the details, refusing to discuss anything else over the phone – even over a land line communication.

But the more Woody thought about it, the more it could make sense. The plane crash was off the shores of Etang Saumatre, which bordered Fond Parisien. Perhaps, over time and currents, some of Jordan's remains had washed up on shore and were not identified. Being good Catholics, the Father and the sisters probably prayed over and then interred the bones and clinging flesh. After reading on the internet about Jordan's story involving the plane crash near his small town, the priest had probably put two and two together and decided it was time to call the Boston authorities.

"Good." The Father's statement jerked Woody back to the present.

"Good? How could that possibly be good, Father? It's bad enough to lose someone like Jordan, but then to never be able to bring her home to rest and not to give those of us who loved her closure…how could that be good?" Woody snapped back at the priest.

And then immediately apologized. "I'm sorry." He rubbed the moisture off the back of his neck with his hand. "It's just that every time we think we have this case closed, there's something else..."

"You miss her, don't you?" the priest bluntly interrupted.

Woody nodded, now not sure if it was sweat or tears that was making his eyes burn. "We all do…"

The priest stopped walking again, this time in front of the small chapel to the side of the church. "But you especially miss Jordan, don't you?"

Woody nodded again, this time feeling a miserable wave of grief and regret wash over him. It was a familiar emotion that he had yet to come to terms with. But he needed to see this through, get it over, and bring whatever he could of her back to Boston to bury. He looked at Father Jean Louis expectantly as the priest opened the door the chapel, assuming that he was going to lead the way to some sort of mausoleum and the place where they had interred her. Instead, the priest led him into the familiar vestibule and motioned for Woody to look down a short aisle. And at the end of the aisle, a woman knelt in prayer.

"Then answer me this question, my son. Is this the woman you've been looking for?"