"Broken Circle"

"How you feeling?"

"Like a man who needs brain surgery."

His head felt like someone had jammed a screwdriver through it before they shoved it in the vice. Every time he looked down, he expected to see pieces of his skull strewn about the seat and floor. He closed his eyes and gingerly leaned his right temple against his palm, elbow resting on the window frame.

"You know how dangerous this is, right?" Bruce asked him. His friend's voice sounded splintered, as if it had ricocheted around the world before it reached Johnny's ears. A semi roared past, the noise of its engine a blur that seemed to come from every direction. "I mean, for all you know...what if the next time you don't wake up?"

His tongue felt heavy, thick with the lingering effects of the sedative. He swallowed a few times before responding. "I don't think I was supposed to wake up this time."

"What do you mean, 'supposed to'?"

"I think...I was slipping back into a coma. And the vision I had, somehow it pulled me out of it."

"I don't get it. Aren't the visions causing the blackouts in the first place?"

"I don't know. I just know I can't solve this with surgery. Not yet, anyway. We have to stop Rebecca."

He saw her again as she raised the gun, saw her wrist jerking with the recoil – but there was no sound. Then the memory of the vision slid into the vision itself and he was there again, except it wasn't the shooting, it was just Rebecca herself, bare skin lit in hazy dream light, and that inexplicable blank expression on her face as she leaned over him...

"You said you saw her kill Stillson?"

His eyes snapped open and the vision ended.

"Right. And then his security killed her."

For a moment, the inside of the car was very still.

"John...what if you're right? I mean, in the future. What if this is something that needs to happen-"

"How can you say that? Christ, how could I say that?" He shifted belligerently in his seat to glare in Bruce's direction. Pain flared across his temples. He sighed and tossed his head back, trying to keep still and relax the muscles.

"Look," Bruce continued reluctantly, tossing him a concerned look. "I can't believe I'm saying this but...it's one life. One life to save how many?"

Johnny leaned his head back and tried not to grit his teeth. "I won't make that kind of decision again," he whispered. "I won't."

"Then your weakness will kill us all."

Johnny whirled at the unexpected, familiar voice and found Christopher Wey occupying Bruce's place at the wheel. It was only then that he noticed he had reached for the head of his cane.

"I won't make that kind of decision again. I won't."

Bruce sighed, immediately regretting his words. Hadn't he been the one who objected so strongly when Johnny had tried to extract a promise of similar action from him? Would he be willing to let Johnny die – or even to kill him – in order to prevent the deaths of thousands, probably millions? Hadn't he once done for Johnny exactly what Johnny was trying to do for Rebecca? He knew for a fact that if Johnny were the one going after Stillson, he'd be doing everything he could to stop him. It was an easy thing to talk about the relative value of human life, but something else entirely to actually decide who should live or die.

But before he could respond, Johnny grunted in pain and slumped against the side window. His cane tumbled to the floor. He didn't respond when Bruce called his name.

"Shit!"

As gently and as quickly as possible, he swung the car through two lanes of traffic and grated to a halt on the shoulder. He ripped off his seatbelt and jumped out of the car. The passenger door bounced on its hinge when he yanked it open. He reached in to press his fingers against Johnny's carotid and was rewarded with a steady pulse. He unhooked the passenger seatbelt and maneuvered his friend out of the car to lay him gently on the asphalt. Airway was clear. He checked the pulse again. Still regular.

"John! Johnny!"

"So, those visions you had of yourself on fire, they were like...your past's future. But a future that never happened."

Sunlight winks off the rocks in Bruce's scotch. He swirls the cubes around a little, letting the light from the mansion's bay windows tumble over the crystal facets of the glass. "Man, that's..." He shakes his head and downs the last of the scotch before sinking deeper into the sofa.

"Tell me about it," Johnny replies, pouring himself another shot. "It was almost like my head was trying to tell me something, you know? Like some part of me knew I had to go back there."

"I thought Dr. Gibson specifically told you no alcohol?"

"What?" Johnny glances up, confused. Bruce is suddenly standing as he was a few minutes ago, saying things he has already said.

"Okay, but I'm only doing this so you don't finish that off yourself."

Johnny looks down at the bottle of Glenlivet. It's a quarter of the way full, just as it was when he took it out of the cabinet to share a much-needed drink with his friend. The glass in his hand is now empty.

When he turns to ask Bruce what the hell is going on, he finds the room empty except for a reddish light streaming through the windows. When he looks outside he sees not his backyard, but something almost as familiar: Washington D.C. in flames.

He hears gunshots. Rebecca is standing next to him, shooting at the fire as it climbs in through the windows, devours the walls, leaps at the floor. He calls her name, but she doesn't respond, just keeps pulling the trigger. The last thing he sees is her detached, emotionless profile wreathed in the future's flame. And then everything explodes in heat and sound and motion.

Johnny!

"John?"

He opened his eyes.

For a moment, all he could think was, "It's happened again. I'm waking up and I don't know where I am or how I got here." He glanced around and tried to sit up. Bruce was leaning over him, looking relieved. The Cruiser was standing there with its engine running and its doors open. Cars and trucks swept by at sixty miles per hour, filling the air with the smell of hot exhaust and baking asphalt.

"Take it easy, man," Bruce cautioned as he helped Johnny into a sitting position. "You blacked out again."

He sat there for a moment, trying to ignore the ever-present headache long enough to think. Yes. He'd been in the car, talking to Bruce and then...

"I saw Wey. In the car. Just for a second. And just now there was something…but it didn't make any sense. It was..."

"It was what?" Bruce prompted.

"It was you and me, a vision from the past. We were having a drink at my place, but the conversation was all out of sequence. And it was all mixed in with other stuff, Rebecca and Washington."

He sighed. He hated this. It made him feel like he was missing chunks of his life. Well, he was already missing six years, wasn't he? Compared to that, six minutes was nothing.

"You have to go back to the hospital," Bruce insisted as he helped Johnny to his feet.

"No."

"You can't help Rebecca if you're dead!"

"I can't help her from the hospital either!" Johnny shot back. "Bruce, please. Please, I have to do this."

Muttering to himself, Bruce walked back around the car. Johnny ducked in the passenger side and pulled out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Rebecca. See if I can stop this before it begins."

She stared at the caller ID display for a long moment before forwarding it to her voicemail. By now, Johnny had probably figured out what she was doing. She hadn't expected that hypnotic block to hold him off for very long, but it had given her a head start. She didn't know if she could pull the trigger with him watching. With any luck, Stillson would be dead by the time Johnny reached the capital.

She passed through the metal detectors easily, but their presence frustrated her. It would have been much simpler if she could have brought her gun with her today. Then she wouldn't have to play this sick game of smiling in the face of her sister's killer. Greg Stillson was moving up in the world, and each rung on the ladder of power carried extra protections. He became harder to reach as time passed, but he was not invincible yet.

She rode a smooth elevator to Stillson's floor and emerged in a paneled hallway. There were people in suits everywhere. She followed the directions she had been given, made herself known to Stillson's unsurprisingly attractive secretary and after a short wait was admitted into the lion's den.

Greg met her at the door with his smooth, impeccable courtesy and offered her a chair before resuming his seat. Lounging behind that desk with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a confident, friendly grin on his face he looked every inch the skilled politician with the blue-collar heart.

But she knew what he really was. She would have likened him to a used car salesman except no used car salesman had ever been so dangerous. He was a tiger, solitary and ruthless. And she really wished her brain would stop thinking in tired metaphors when stressed.

"It's so good to see you again, Rebecca."

Without Johnny Smith, you mean.

"I only wish it wasn't under such tragic circumstances," he continued, switching easily from a tone of amiability to one of solemn respect for the grieving.

I'll bet you do.

She was forcing a sad, appreciative smile onto her face when Stillson's father and campaign manager entered the room. She was momentarily taken aback by the unidentifiable emotion that flashed across Greg's normally controlled expression as he glanced up at the new arrival. In her mind, he was the monster that had murdered her sister; he was huge, unstoppable except by extreme force. It was disconcerting to watch his control slipping at his father's mere appearance. But the lapse was over almost as soon as it began.

"What happened to Rachel was...unforgivable. That's why I'm so glad you decided to reconsider my offer. Rachel's Law will protect other families from going through the same thing. And it will keep Rachel's case front and center with the Justice Department."

She wanted to spit in his face.

"What made you change your mind?" James Stillson interjected. "If you don't mind my asking."

"I realized that I'd been lied to. Everything I thought was true...it all turned out to be wrong. I just want Rachel's real murderer brought to justice so I can put this whole thing behind me."

"Even if it's Johnny Smith?" Greg asked, his voice still skillfully controlled to betray only curiosity and sympathy.

"Especially if it's Johnny Smith," she replied, trying to project her feelings for Stillson onto Johnny. It was grotesque, but she could do it. "The bastard used my sister's death to get close to me."

"It's hard to be objective after the death of a loved one," Stillson replied in his best "don't beat yourself up" voice. "But you're doing the right thing. Having you associated with this bill helps people see that it's not an abstraction, that crime affects all of us. This is what Rachel would have wanted."

I think Rachel would have wanted to live.

Ten minutes later, she was leaving the office with an invitation to the following day's press conference, an invitation that included a limo and VIP status to whisk her past the security detail. The hardest part was over. Now that she'd convinced him she posed no threat, she would have a clear shot.

On her way down to street level she leaned against the back of the empty elevator and closed her eyes.

Please understand, Johnny. You're meant to save lives, not take them. You're too good for this. Let me do it for you. And for Rachel.

"I'm letting you choose to give me the information rather than face a federal subpoena."

Walt didn't look at Pendragon's smug expression so that he wouldn't feel the urge to wipe it off with his fist. He didn't like smooth operators. They tended to glide on routines and procedures without ever looking at actual situations.

"I'll let Lieutenant Derwingson know you're coming. She can give you everything you need."

"I'm glad we could keep this friendly," Pendragon replied, insufferably.

"Who called the feds in on this anyway?" He could think of only one person with the means and motivation, but it never hurt to ask.

"Smith is a murder suspect accused of stalking a U.S. Congressman," Pendragon responded condescendingly. "He's considered armed and dangerous. He's also the biological father of your son. I'm sorry, but the exchange of information here is not reciprocal."

And with that, the fed walked purposefully toward the evidence room, a Tommy Lee Jones wannabe. Walt shook his head. Armed and dangerous!

He had just finished telling Derwingson to take care of Pendragon when his office door swung open again. Roscoe entered with an armful of paper and dumped it on Walt's desk.

"What's this?" Walt asked the mound of envelopes and packages.

"Reverend Purdy's mail," Roscoe deadpanned. He put his hands on his hips and waited for Walt's reaction.

"All this?"

"And faxes. And phone calls. We even got a few death threats. For you, not him. Now we've got people standing outside with signs, demanding his release."

"Great. My day gets better."

"What's all this?"

"Your mail. The other ten bags are outside."

"For me...?"

Walt watched speculatively as the Reverend sifted through the letters with his now constant air of fallen grace. Purdy seemed to be enjoying his incarceration and that bugged him. Something about Purdy always bugged him. But he seemed sincere enough.

"So whenever you're ready to tell me why Sonny Elliman killed Mike Kennedy, I'm ready to listen," he said. But Purdy didn't look as though he'd take Walt up on that offer any time soon.

Great.

"See you later, Reverend." He relocked Purdy's cell behind him and left the man in quiet contemplation of his sins.

"Hold on to this for me, will you?"

Walt handed Sarah his badge. He wouldn't exactly be needing it.

"I want to come with you."

"I know. But somebody has to stay here. Look, I'll get in less trouble for interfering in a federal investigation than you would. Don't worry. Johnny can take care of himself. And I can handle the feds. Everything'll be fine."

They both knew he was lying. But it was the sweet sort of lie they both needed to hear every once in a while. Because even when things didn't look like they could possibly turn out right, you had to keep going. You had to try.

"Just...take care of yourself, okay? I want you both back safe."

He nodded. God, she was beautiful. He didn't want to leave her. He wanted her strength with him. But he couldn't have that. Catching Elliman wasn't her job and they both knew it.

He kissed her, grabbed the bag she'd brought him and walked out his office and through the station. The eyes of his staff tracked him as he went, and as he stepped outside he heard the shouted prayers of Purdy's supporters. It seemed like the whole world was caught up in the strange events of the past few days. But it would all shake out in D.C., Stillson's new base of operations. That was where Johnny was headed and where Pendragon had followed him only a few minutes ago. Whatever future Johnny was trying to prevent, Walt would be there, hopefully in time to prove Elliman's involvement in Rachel Caldwell's murder and get Johnny's neck off the chopping block.

"She's not here," Johnny said, taking his hand from the door. The vision had been clear and blessedly painless. Rebecca's apartment was empty.

"Maybe there'll be something inside you can touch," Bruce suggested, echoing Johnny's own thoughts. He nodded and used his spare key to open the door.

They walked into Rebecca's absence. Johnny could feel it like a weight in the air, oppressive and thick. The brick walls, the stainless steel kitchenette, the deep leather furniture...it all seemed so different without her. He remembered, and memories became visions, clearer than he could have normally recalled.

They were sharing the armchair, piling on top of one another and giggling at the ancient sci-fi movie AMC was playing. He was making love to her on the floor halfway between the couch and the bedroom. She was frying eggs for him wearing nothing but a tiny slip of silk. He was carrying her from the couch to the bedroom, making a joke about his bad leg and pretending to almost drop her. She was laughing and her eyes were radiant...

A dull ache started behind his eyes and flared across his temples.

"John? You okay?"

He focused on Bruce's voice as he walked forward. Was he walking forward in the vision or in reality? "I'm fine," he said. He just had to push past it. He had to hang on until he found something he could use. But truth be told, it rattled him, having a vision spontaneously like that. If he didn't know what triggered it, how could he make it stop?

The images came in rapid succession, Rebecca entering, Rebecca leaving, the course of the sun traced across the room like a time-lapse camera shot. He saw James Stillson and Sonny Elliman taking apart the phone on the counter, inserting tiny electronic devices. Walt swept through the door, gun raised, then disappeared. Vision bled into vision until he could barely make sense of it all. There were contradictions everywhere he looked, paradoxes that didn't make sense. It was as if everything were happening at once.

He leaned heavily on his cane and shut his eyes, but of course it didn't help. Nothing could stop him from seeing. He was barely aware of Bruce's hand on his arm, his name being called, barely aware of anything but the storm in his head.

"You won't find anything here."

He snapped his head up (whether in actuality or in the vision, he couldn't tell) and saw himself staring back contemptuously with blind eyes. The other Johnny walked forward through the suddenly frozen visions of the apartment until he was standing directly in front of his kneeling counterpart. Johnny didn't remember kneeling, but here he was on the floor like a penitent before a king.

"Do you know why Rebecca has to die?" the standing figure continued. "Because she has more balls than you do. It's your fault. If you weren't so goddamn spineless..."

In spite of himself, Johnny felt self-loathing creeping over his heart. He tried to shake it off, but the other's presence was too powerful, too overwhelming. All the good he'd done couldn't possibly matter in the face of his failure. Millions of people had died – Bruce and Walt and Sarah had died – because of his weakness. He hated himself so thoroughly, so completely and utterly, that suicide, though attractive, was not enough. He had to literally unmake himself. It was a black need so strong it consumed his every thought.

"John!"

Bruce!

He couldn't speak, but he fumbled for Bruce's hand on his arm, groping for something real outside the vision. As he solidified the contact between them, he was swept back into the memory/vision he'd seen in the car. Leaning back into the softness of the couch. The light streaming from the windows to tumble through the glasses on the table.

"Trust your instincts, man," Bruce says as he puts his glass down.

They're standing by the side of a lake. Johnny is holding a fishing pole. J.J. flickers in and out of sight next to him, responding to words he isn't saying. But he said them. He knows he did. He just can't remember...

"It always pays to listen to me," Bruce says. Johnny laughs even though he's not quite sure why it's funny. But when he turns to look at his friend, Bruce's face is swollen like he's been in a fistfight. Blood pours from his mouth, dripping onto the handle of the knife that has been driven into his chest.

"John!"

He mentally crawled towards Bruce's voice and caught a glimpse of panic gradually crowding out concern on the man's face. Then he was looking at his own burned, blinded self again.

"You can't stop what's going to happen," the apparition said. "I won't let you."

Johnny ignored the future version of himself and concentrated on Bruce. He couldn't see him, but he could feel him. If he could just use that contact, like he'd used Rebecca's touch to see the night of his accident...

He's back in the vision of Rebecca's apartment. This time he sees only her and himself – his other self. She's slipping bullets into a small silver revolver. The other Johnny is glaring at him from the side of the room. As he tries to walk forward to get a closer look at Rebecca – she's now glancing at some kind of flyer – he can feel the heavy, loathing glare of his future self pushing against him like a physical force. It's like walking through mud, and for a second he doesn't think he'll make it in time.

But urgency pushes him forward. Relentlessly he plows through the invisible resistance. The strain is almost unbearable. Like bending a joint backward until tendons snap and bones shatter. He's not sure what he's doing to his head, but it's probably something it's not meant to do. He feels blackness slipping over him and grips his lifeline to Bruce tighter. He cannot lose consciousness. Not this time.

It seems an eternity before he reaches her, but finally he glimpses the paper she is shoving into her purse. Suddenly he knows where and when she will strike at Stillson.

The apartment whirls away. He sees Rebecca again with that blank look on her face, dim light shrouding her bare shoulders.

"Man," Bruce says, shaking his head as he downs another mouthful of whisky.

Bruce was starting to panic.

At first he'd thought John was just getting another headache. Then he realized he was caught in another roller coaster vision, only this time it didn't look like he'd touched anything. When John stumbled to his knees, Bruce threw out a hand to steady him and the man clutched his arm so tightly he expected to hear bone cracking. But he didn't dare try to disentangle himself. Based on what Johnny had said in the car, that grip might be the only thing keeping him from a coma.

So he supported his friend as best he could while he gasped through whatever craziness was going on in his head. But now Johnny was having some sort of seizure and for a few desperate, impossible seconds, he was sure that he was going to lose him right there. But the spasms stopped almost as soon as they began, and Johnny's eyes focused for the first time since he had entered the apartment. Finally, he responded to Bruce's voice.

"Got it," he gasped, wiping distractedly at his nose. He looked confused when he saw the blood on his shaking fingers.

"Take it easy, man," Bruce said, hoping his own unsteadiness didn't show in his voice. He grabbed a dishtowel and handed it to Johnny, who wiped hurriedly at his bloodied face. Bruce again steadied him as he rose to his feet.

"We have to go. There's not much time, but we can still make it."

Bruce was more inclined to insist that they make it to the hospital, but he'd known John Smith too long to believe that there was any way to get him there save by force. Given his current condition, he thought, that actually wouldn't be too difficult, but he had more respect for Johnny's wishes than that. If Johnny wanted to save Rebecca before he saved himself, Bruce would help him do that.

I dance with the girl I came with.

They staggered quickly out the door, Johnny leaning heavily on both his cane and Bruce's arm. He was just about to steer them back down the hall toward the elevator when John brushed against the wall and immediately lurched towards the other end of the corridor.

"Stairs," he panted, obviously in the throes of another vision. "Stairs..."

Bruce followed automatically, though he had no idea why Johnny would want to attempt four flights of steps when he could barely walk. Then, as they were crashing through the heavy steel door of the stairwell, he heard the elevator emit a sedate ding.

"Cops," Johnny whispered, and Bruce didn't have to be told twice. He swept the door closed behind them and led the way down the cold concrete steps.

Greg Stillson was sixteen again.

The cold pit in his stomach when he saw his father's Mercury parked in front of the motel. Frantically pulling open drawers and finding them empty. The mother of his child gone, chased off by his stupid, petty, Bible-selling father.

All you need is money and the right address.

Running at his father, trying to wipe the smirking gloat off his face. Being slammed against the thin, dirty wall behind him by the taller, heavier man. The habitual slap across the face.

You were meant for something better than this.

Feeling tiny and huge at the same time. Worthless in some ways, but undeniably powerful in others. He wasn't made for love, but for other things. Great things. Powerful things. Beautiful and terrible.

Sobbing in front of his disgusted father. Not caring what the old man thought. Being swallowed up by the blackness of a destiny he couldn't stop.

She was a loose end, son. We can't have any loose ends.

The Congressman shook off the shroud of memory as he turned from his office window. He had a press conference to make.

He reached street level in time to see his father waiting by the limo, cell phone to his ear. Before coming within earshot of James Stillson, he exchanged a few words with the senior staff member who had spoken to him earlier.

"What's that all about?" James asked as they piled into the car.

"Just tying up some loose ends," his son replied.

When Walt heard Pendragon's men shouting over frequencies they thought were secure, he turned up the radio. They were converging on Rebecca's apartment. Someone on Stillson's team had seen Johnny enter the building. For a few tense minutes, he was sure that it was all over before it had really begun, but it soon became apparent that Johnny had vanished again.

He breathed a sigh of relief and returned his attention to the front door of Stillson's building. His original plan had been to track Elliman until he could dig up some evidence on the guy. Now he began to doubt the idea's merit. Maybe he should have acted more directly to keep the federal agents off Johnny's back. But there wasn't any way to sway Pendragon until he had some evidence.

Finally his patience was rewarded. Stillson and his groupies began emerging from the building, heading for the limo parked out front. Walt watched as Elliman exchanged a few furtive words with Stillson's father and headed for a sedan parked down the street. The limo went in one direction and the sedan went in another.

Walt silently wished Johnny luck and followed Elliman.

Johnny leaned back in the passenger seat. The headache was receding to the familiar dull throbbing and he had stopped bleeding. He tried not to think about what had just happened. His head had felt like it would crack in two, and even though he'd escaped the vision of his own future, something like a vision had continued for minutes afterward as he and Bruce made their way out of the building and into the car.

He'd had real-time visions before. Once he'd walked around in a firefight that was going on thousands of miles away. But what he'd experienced in Rebecca's apartment building had been more like...an awareness. After he brushed up against the wall he'd been able to see everything at once: the layout of the building, the placement of the federal agents surrounding it, the weak spots in the perimeter they hadn't finished establishing. But it was unclear, like a landscape viewed through foggy, rain streaked windows.

He tried with only moderate success to ignore the possibility that his always versatile brain (why couldn't he have been born with more inflexible neurons?) was rerouting its way around some new damage. He couldn't think of that now. He had to reach Rebecca. He could worry about his head later.

"I'm fine," he said in response to Bruce's frequent glances. "Turn right here."

"Where're we headed?" Bruce asked as he swung the wheel to the right.

"Stillson's press conference. Rebecca's going to shoot him while he's talking on the steps of the courthouse."

Greg Stillson met Rebecca at the bottom of the steps, greeting her courteously despite the cell phone glued to his ear. She couldn't help overhearing, despite her efforts not to eavesdrop, and would have wondered whether she was meant to hear this conversation if she hadn't been so distracted by her surprise over its subject matter.

"Well, the fact that he's here in D.C. disturbs me. I'm concerned about the safety of my staff. He's already killed a campaign worker, the man's not in his right mind. Brain damage, you know...well, I certainly appreciate that, thank you."

Rebecca didn't have to pretend to be unsettled when she realized who he had to be talking about. Greg put away his cell phone and looked her in the eye like a good liar.

"I think you have a right to know that the police have tracked Johnny Smith here. Don't worry, security's as tight as it can be. He won't get away with attacking Rachel's memory as well. We're going to go ahead with the press conference."

Rebecca wrapped her arms around herself like a frightened waif and smiled gratefully at him.

"Thank you," she said, her mind whirling. How close was Johnny? What had he figured out? Probably everything. He knew what she was planning to do, and he'd try to stop her. How much time did she have? God, she didn't want to fight him over this.

She allowed herself to be solicitously guided up the steps to the temporary speaking platform that had been erected for the occasion. Reporters and camera crews were milling about below, more trickling in through the security cordon around the pavement. She obediently shook hands with the men and women on the platform as Greg introduced them to her. Politicians, police officers, judges. Where was Johnny? How close? Could she afford to wait for a clean opportunity, or should she shoot him as soon as possible, before Johnny showed up? She almost thought she could feel him racing towards her, bent on reaching her before she pulled the trigger. He wanted to save her, the fool.

"Thank you all for coming," Greg said as he stepped up to the podium. Shutters clicked and video cameras zoomed in as Stillson began an all-American speech about justice and freedom without fear for law-abiding citizens like Rachel Caldwell.

Rebecca reached into her purse.

She almost jumped when her fingers brushed vibrating plastic instead of cold steel. She had turned her phone on silent instead of switching it off. She discreetly pulled it out and looked at the display. With a sense of inevitability, she pressed the call button and raised the phone to her ear.

"Please don't do this," Johnny's voice said. She closed her eyes.

"I have to do this," she whispered. "It has to be done."

"Rebecca, they'll kill you. Please don't make me watch them kill you."

The implication of his words was clear and she opened her eyes to scan the crowd. She couldn't decide whether she was glad or disappointed to find him out beyond the security checkpoint, leaning against the corner of an adjacent building.

"We'll find another way. There's still time."

She was starting to cry.

"Okay," she said hoarsely, and hung up.

Go away, Johnny. You don't belong here.

Johnny thought he would collapse right there on the sidewalk. He'd done it. There would be no gunshots, no swift reactions from Stillson's bodyguards. No blood dripping down the steps of the courthouse.

Why was it so hard to drive out the images of futures that would never be?

But it was over. Now he could deal with...other things. A dozen yards away, a member of the security detail looked at Johnny and whispered something into his earpiece. It was time to go.

He threaded his way through the crowd's stragglers, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg was killing him. It always hurt when he was tired, and today he was bone tired. He hoped he had enough energy left to sprint to the rendezvous he'd set up with Bruce, if it came to that.

Grim-faced men in suits were converging on him. He walked faster, bumping into a camera crew hurrying in the other direction. Reflexively, he threw out a hand to steady himself, his fingers brushing against a lens cap.

Rebecca in handcuffs. The cameraman trying to keep a steady shot as he is pinballed along with the rest of the crowd. People everywhere, hemming him in, touching him, moving him. This has happened to him before and he hates it, still has bad dreams about it. The claustrophobia, the suffocation of relentless vision after vision as he is buried in an avalanche of other people's needs, other people's lives. And now Rebecca is in the middle of this, her hands bound. Because she has just killed the man who would have ended the world.

Johnny stumbled forward in the wake of the vision, knowing he had to keep moving but unable to think. He couldn't get past the image of Rebecca in police custody. It wasn't over. What had he done wrong?

Don't think about it, just move The security guys realized he had spotted them and were abandoning any attempt to conceal themselves. Soon he would be penned in from all directions. He limped in the direction of his escape route, touching everything he could get his hands on. He just needed one hit, one clue. Something to tell him which way to run. The mottled brick of an alley gave it to him. He slipped again through the tiny cracks in the security team's perimeter and limped rapidly to the curb where Bruce was waiting.

When Sonny Elliman casually eased his sedan into a metered parking spot across from Rebecca Caldwell's apartment building, Walt drove past looking the other way and circled the block so he could park some distance behind. His position afforded excellent concealment, but a poor line of sight. He could not see what Elliman was doing, although he was obviously still in his car.

Walt looked across the street and saw men in suits sprinting through the light pedestrian traffic and jumping into nondescript sedans. They were responding to the call that had just come over the radio. Johnny Smith had been sighted at the Lincoln Courthouse. As much as he didn't want the feds to catch up to Johnny, he had to be glad for the diversion – as soon as they left, Elliman left his car and walked briskly into the building. Walt gave him a bit of a head start before following.

Standing in front of Rebecca's door a few minutes later, he briefly considered entering with his gun drawn but decided against it. He was outside his jurisdiction and Elliman would not be frightened by a gun he knew Walt could not use. So he simply opened the door and walked in.

Elliman looked up sharply as Walt came in and quickly shifted his expression from surprise to disdain. His movements were deliberately casual as he finished putting Rebecca's phone back together.

"I suppose you're going to tell me that you have Rebecca Caldwell's permission to enter her apartment when she's not home," Walt said as he strolled to the middle of the room.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Elliman replied, snapping his briefcase shut and removing it from the countertop. "You, on the other hand, do not."

"So she asked you to bug her home?"

"She was concerned for her safety."

"You mean you were covering your ass. Afraid she'd talk like Rachel did?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Elliman said coldly.

"It's only a matter of time. We've got a witness who places you at the scene of Mike Kennedy's murder."

"Too bad your witness's testimony is inadmissible in court. You wouldn't have to do any real police work ever again."

"We've got a court order to exhume the body and reexamine the physical evidence. You're going down for this, Elliman. And for your involvement in Rachel Caldwell's murder.

"Why don't you quit fishing and go back to banging that lovely wife of yours, sheriff," Elliman snapped, stepping past him towards the door. Then he paused and turned back for maximum effect. "Or is that the psychic's job?"

Walt didn't really remember consciously deciding to strike Elliman. His spinal cord seemed to have made an executive decision without consulting his brain. The next thing he knew, Sonny was on the floor cradling a broken nose in his bloodied fingers and swearing he would press charges.

"Yeah, like you pressed charges the other fifty times you've been bitchslapped."

Walt scoffed and left.

Remember your promise, John. No matter what happens. Remember who you are.

Johnny opened his eyes. He was looking at the concrete struts of an overpass. Pigeons flapped back and forth between their makeshift perches and the ground, bobbing awkwardly on the pavement as they searched for crumbs. Above him, the concentrated hum of expressway traffic was sending subtle shudders down the stone columns and into the earth. Rush hour was over. Shadows were lengthening. How long had he been asleep?

He and Bruce had both been exhausted from driving all night and running around all day. Johnny's head was killing him, as usual, so they decided to pull into a Park and Ride to sleep for an hour or two. Johnny had settled against the window, closed his eyes and dreamed. Maybe they were dreams. Maybe they were visions. He was having a hard time telling the difference lately. Memories, hallucinations, visions. What made each of them what they were and not something else? And what was wrong with his head that he was mixing them up?

He carefully maneuvered his stiff limbs until he was in a relatively upright position and looked around to find the driver's seat empty. Through the window he saw Bruce a few feet away, talking to someone on his cell phone. Their eyes met just as Bruce flipped it closed. The car rocked very slightly as Bruce got back in and started the engine.

"Where're we going?" Johnny asked.

"To meet Walt."

Johnny looked at the blood on Walt's knuckles.

"Come on, if I have to walk around with this crap on my hand the least you can do is touch it," Walt griped.

Johnny grimaced his agreement. It wouldn't be the nastiest thing he'd touched. He was actually more concerned about how his head would handle the vision but there was no help for that. Finding evidence of Stillson's involvement in Rachel's murder was a high priority. He inwardly braced himself and laid his fingers over the still sticky fluid.

It is a scene he has seen before in visions and nightmares. Johnny does not think of it as a grave. "Grave" implies a modicum of respect for the deceased. It's really just the spot of ground where her murderers dumped her body. Elliman is tossing shovelfuls of dirt over the mass of flesh and bone that used to be Rachel Caldwell. Behind him, James Stillson takes a swig from his flask as he watches him work.

The departing vision seemed to leave an aching emptiness in its wake, like salt water sliding back from a tide pool. Johnny staggered a little, pressing a hand against his pounding temples. God, how many times did he have to see her like that? It made him feel filthy. And why not? Hadn't he been the one who utterly failed to protect her?

"You okay?" Bruce asked.

"I saw Elliman burying Rachel. And Stillson's father was there. Watching."

"Cleaning up his son's mess," Walt surmised.

"Was there anything else?"

"No. Nothing."

"So we're back where we started," Walt sighed as he attempted to wipe his knuckles clean. "What else is there to touch?"

"We have to stop Rebecca first," Johnny replied.

Walt looked up at him and frowned.

"Why? What's Rebecca doing?"

Pendragon was not in a good mood when he answered his cell phone.

"I don't have time for this, Bannerman."

"Hey, you told me to give you everything we had on Johnny Smith and that's what I'm doing. We have reason to believe that he's not after Stillson at all. He told a witness that he was trying to stop someone else from attacking Stillson."

"So the assassin's really a bodyguard?"

"At the very least there's a third party involved. Thought you'd want to know."

"I'll take that under advisement." There was a pause. "Did anyone mention the identity of this third party?"

"No," Walt responded without hesitation. Pendragon seemed to consider this.

"Why would he be trying to protect the guy he's been stalking for the past year?"

"Maybe he's not the bad guy you think he is."

"Yeah, right. Thanks for your cooperation, Sheriff," Pendragon responded curtly and hung up.

Walt put away his phone and sighed. The fed had not sounded happy or particularly convinced. He certainly hadn't developed any warm, fuzzy feelings for local law enforcement. But he at least sounded like he was thinking about things. The man was beginning to have doubts, which was the best Walt could hope for. It might be just enough to prevent this entire thing from blowing up in everyone's face.

He pulled into a spot within sight of Rebecca's apartment and settled down to wait. Pendragon's men would be all over the place, now that Johnny had slipped away from them again. Rebecca had just become almost as untouchable as Stillson, at least where Johnny was concerned. Walt doubted Rebecca would be alone long enough for John to talk to her (even if she refused a bodyguard they would almost certainly tail her) but at least he could keep track of her movements. Assuming he didn't get noticed and arrested himself. He slouched in his seat and tried to think unobtrusive thoughts.

To Be Continued...