Piece of My Heart

by The Profane Angel

Jordan sees a case that takes her back in time, mirroring her own life, and it pushes her to the edge. W/J ship. An exploration of the edges around a meltdown, introspective. I don't own Crossing Jordan, profit from it, etc.

Piece of My Heart - Jordan catches a case that takes her back in time, mirroring her own life, and it pushes her to the edge. Yes, it's long, but again, that's how I work. Written for all W/J shippers, musical references for a very good friend. An exploration of what it's like to go to the brink and not teeter over the side, the importance of unconditional friendship and love in a world that all too often doesn't make sense.

Jordan arrived at the morgue at the same time the ambulance did, and she glanced at it as she passed, another body, another day. She walked in, singing softly, Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart" - the radio's last offering as she arrived at work, and she liked Joplin enough to sit in the car and hear the song finish, now she carried it with her, to share with the dead. She went in the locker room, humming the bridge, and took clean scrubs from the storage shelves. Changing from jeans and a black tee shirt into pale blue scrubs, she then checked her reflection, touched her hair, and went to see what Garret had for her.

He was with Bug, giving the new body a visual exam. He looked up when she came in, glanced at Bug, and moved to intercept her. "Morning, Jordan. Bug caught this one, it was a slow night, so start catching up on your paperwork."

She waved the suggestion away like a fly. "I'll help Bug out, paperwork can wait."

Garret frowned. "No, it can't. I need it by the end of the day, Jordan."

She smiled. "Then you'll have it." She moved around him to look at the body, a quick "Morning, Bug," passing as a greeting. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair that curled to her shoulders, a bullet hole in the center of her forehead. "Exit wound?" she asked.

Bug was preparing the trace kit. "Yeah. Looks like a .38's handiwork. TOD somewhere between midnight and three a.m."

"Where'd they find her?" Jordan reached into a box for a paper mask.

Bug glanced past her at Garret, then cleared his throat and said, "In her house. Her kid came down for breakfast and found her in the kitchen."

Jordan paused in tying the mask around her neck. "Really," she said, tying off the mask at the back of her neck with a quick jerk.

"I've got this, Jordan," Bug said. "Garret's right about the paperwork."

She looked at him, meeting his steady gaze, then nodded. "OK, I can take a hint." She spun on her Nikes and walked out, her spine too straight, her shoulders too squared.

Bug looked at Garret. "She's on to us."

"No kidding, Bug. You didn't have to say her kid found her." He sighed. "Twenty bucks says I'll find her with Lily, nosing around. Time to head that one off at the pass." He left Bug to work on the body.

He indeed found Jordan in Lily's office. Lily was sitting at her desk, Jordan perched on the edge of the desk, eyeing the closed file folder in front of Lily with undisguised desire. Lily had her hands folded over its cover. "Garret," she said, too brightly, and Jordan turned enough to look at him, naked suspicion now on her face.

"Jordan, leave Lily to her work," he said, feeling the grumpiness he put in his voice. "I want that paperwork completed and on my desk by lunch. I answer to others, you know. And you're not leaving my ass dangling in the wind."

She got up. "OK, man, take it easy." She glanced at Lily as if to say 'I'll be back, you can count on it' and forced a smile as she left the office. "Garret, if she runs into Woody, this is all over, he doesn't know enough about her past to keep his mouth shut." She glanced at her watch. "If I were you, I'd call him, give him a heads up."

He sighed. "I know. Good idea." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She's caught the scent, we have to keep her away from this. Any ideas on how we can do that, pull off the impossible?"

She shrugged, seriously considering it, missing the resignation in his voice, one did not circumvent Jordan Cavanaugh, not without a struggle. "Lock and key?" she suggested. "Keep the case files locked away and issue a general gag order to everyone else?"

"Oh yeah, that would alleviate her suspicions all right." He sighed again, sometimes Jordan made him feel tired, no exhausted, he thought, she had a one track mind when it came to certain subjects and he didn't have the energy to deal with it. "I'll call Woody."

He stepped out of Lily's office only to see Jordan leading Woody into her office, and his "Oh shit" reached Lily's ears. She joined him in the corridor, seeing Jordan close her office door after Woody.

"Oh," she said, like a startled child. "I guess we're too late."

"Everyone was too late," he snarled. "I told Bug to get that damned body in here before Jordan got to work, to keep his mouth shut."

Nigel came up to Garret and Lily. "I hear we have a problem," he said.

Garret looked at him. "Oh, we have a problem all right. You just don't realize how big a problem it's going to be. Let me see if I can salvage any of this." He left his subordinates and walked down the hall to Jordan's office.

He walked in without knocking. Jordan, startled, looked up, and Woody halted mid-sentence. Recovering, Jordan leaned back in her chair and eyed Garret with a smoldering anger. "You don't need to hide cases from me, Garret."

"I don't?" He came in and sat on the couch with Woody. "Good. Then you know this is Bug's case, Woody's, not yours, and you'll leave it alone."

"I can take a professional interest in it." She reached for a pen and toyed with it, tapped it against her open left palm. "We know I'm much better at autopsy than Bug, he's much happier doing his own thing with creepy crawlies."

"You aren't coming near this one, Jordan, professionally or otherwise." He looked at a bewildered Woody. "Can I see you in my office, detective?"

"Yeah, sure." He smiled at Jordan, clearly confused but putting a good face on it. "I'll catch you later."

"Yeah, absolutely," she said, and she leaned forward, reaching for the folder of paperwork requiring her attention.

Garret escorted Woody into his office and closed the door. "Have a seat," he said, and Woody did, easing into one of the wooden chairs in front of Garret's desk. Garret sat and leaned forward, his arms resting on the desktop. "What did you tell Jordan?"

"The facts as we know them, stay at home mom found shot dead in her kitchen by her ten year old daughter, prime suspect her husband, a fire fighter in the North End. CSU is still processing the scene, we're interested in the trace more than anything at this point, it's pretty clear she was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head. It's routine, as these things go. Why, what's going on, why would you want to keep Jordan away from it?"

Garret drew a deep breath, then leaned back in his chair, extending his legs and folding his hands across his stomach. "You're familiar with basic outlines of Jordan's history?"

"I guess." He frowned, studying Garret. "Oh. I get it." He sat up straight. "Her mother was murdered when she was ten. You guys think she's going to get too involved in this one, identify too much with the kid."

"Among other things. You know Jordan can be a little, shall we say, unstable at times? She obsesses, especially when it comes to her mother. The crime was never solved, and she's never stopped trying to find the answer. She's had a couple of near breakdowns, has had more than a couple of meltdowns. She lacks impulse control, especially on this issue. She's not only going to identify with the kid, she's going to become the kid, reliving her past through the child's. We're in for a hard ride. As soon as we heard the particulars, we wanted to shield Jordan, but it didn't work out. Do me a favor, and don't discuss it any more with her, OK?"

"OK, though I'm not sure how I can avoid it. If there's one thing I've learned about Jordan, it's that tenacious doesn't begin to apply to her when she gets a bug up her butt about something."

Garret was so tired, and his day had just started. He nodded. "Just don't, Woody. I know how she can be, I've known her a long time, and I know what those wounded eyes can do, all you want to do is make it better, but you can't, no one can. All you can do is not make it worse. And letting her get in the middle of this is going to be a disaster. An unmitigated disaster." He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, memories of Jordan in meltdown flashed unbidden in his mind - drinking too much, picking up strange men in bars, impulse control out the window. Woody hadn't seen it, Garret doubted he'd ever come across the likes of it in his sheltered corner of the world growing up, or in his limited experience as a big city homicide detective. For a Wonder Bread boy like Woody, respectable women didn't do the things Jordan did when she went into meltdown. Garret hoped he wasn't too shocked, too disillusioned, it would only compound Jordan's pain.

Woody watched Garret's internal struggle. He finally cleared his throat and Garret looked up. "You can't save her, I can't, I know that. I've heard a few stories about her, when things weren't going well. I think I can handle it. I'm not going to make it worse if I can help it, which means I can keep my mouth shut about this particular case. So." He slapped his palms on the chair's arms. "Mind if I get to work?" He stood. "I'll see you later, Garret."

Garret watched him walk out, spine straight, head upright, tall and proud and eager. Oh, he thought, you are in for such a roller coaster ride, Woody, but I hope you mean what you say. He stood, time to check on Bug's progress. Jordan was still in her office when he walked by, and he couldn't help feeling relieved. She was bent over a stack of papers on her desk, and he said a silent prayer for her as he passed, as he made his way to trace, for her and for all of them who cared for Jordan. Watching her crack into a million pieces was as painful for them as it was for Jordan to endure, and he would pass the word, try to head it off in the best way you can.

XX

Jordan caught Garret's passing in her peripheral vision, but she didn't look up. She continued to pretend to be absorbed in her task as her mind roamed, her thoughts were with this little girl, knowing as she did the pain and fear she faced. She wanted to know the girl's name, to see her, put a face to it so it wouldn't always be her own that she called up. She remembered that dreadful day all too well, the police, her father in handcuffs, the social worker leading her away as she screamed for her mother. A ten year old can never understand the cruelty of the world, she thought, and who can explain it unless they've lived through it? Her grandmother never tried, she seemed to think ignoring it would make it go away, and no other adult sat down with Jordan and tried to make the incomprehensible understandable. Not even her father. When he was released from jail, cleared as a suspect, he acknowledged her mother's passing but never tried to see it as Jordan did, as some horrible, scary thing that could come back and get her. And so, as she grew, she found solace in other things, booze and men were good at numbing pain, and she wasn't picky, she just wanted the numbness, the absence of pain. She no longer feared death, in fact she courted it, she didn't give a rat's ass if she lived or died, the world was a treacherous place where people let you down, disappeared on you, left you alone and hurting.

She had hopes for Woody, though. He seemed like a real, genuine stand-up guy, but she couldn't be sure, she couldn't let him get close enough to find out, because she didn't know if she could bear it if he proved as false as so many others. She found him attractive, interesting, and amusing in his innocence, an innocence that was fading fast, washed as it was too many times in the hot water of a homicide beat in Boston. It was hard to hold on to your innocence in the face of human cruelty, displayed daily in the newspapers for most people, but a personal experience for others like Woody and herself. She lost her innocence at ten, and like virginity, when it was gone, it was gone and not coming back. She hoped Woody held tight to his for a little longer.

She pushed away from her desk. Introspection was not what she needed right now, nor was paperwork, she had no idea what she signed her name to, and she didn't care. She stood, stretching, then decided to get a drink and look for Lily, Lily couldn't hold out on her for long, and she knew she was the only one who could really help this little girl. She got change out of her desk drawer and walked to the break room, one hand on the small of her back, trying to massage the dull ache away. She got a Diet Coke, then went looking for Lily.

She was in her office. She looked up warily as Jordan came in. "I'm not supposed to talk about this case with you, Jordan," she said, as Jordan eased her long frame into a chair and sipped her drink.

"Lily." Jordan's eyes were too intense, she tried to keep a lid on the emotions swirling through her. "Be realistic. You know I'm probably the only one in the city who can help that little girl. I've been there."

"I know, and that's why no one wants you to go back. Dr. Macy was very clear, we can't talk about this case, not with you, not with each other, except where our professional responsibilities dictate otherwise. And I have no professional contact with the little girl."

"Surely you know her name. I mean, it's going to be in the papers, it's easy enough for me to find out."

"Then you'll have to find out on your own. I can't, I just can't." Lily was distressed. "I know your heart's in the right place, Jordan, but Dr. Macy -"

"I know, was very clear." She sighed. "Relax, Lily, I'm not going to put the screws to you."

"I don't want to lose your friendship over this," she said, almost wailing, and it irritated Jordan, pushed her buttons as effectively as Max could. Lily watched her, a hint of desperation in her eyes. Jordan shook her head and stood, and Lily said, "Tell me you understand."

"Of course I do. How could you think you'd lose my friendship over this?" She regarded Lily anew, saw her as a whining, pathetic child, afraid of the popular girls and willing to do almost anything to be accepted by them. Jordan shook her head again, trying to clear that image, she liked Lily and knew it didn't apply to her, Jordan hated those kinds of girl and never would have accepted Lily as a friend if this was her defining characteristic. She walked out of the office before she said something she didn't mean and opened unnecessary wounds in the earnest, eager to please girl.

She wandered into trace. Woody, Bug, and Garret were around the body, and they looked up as Jordan walked in. "Relax, guys," she said, casually, "I'm not going to elbow my way into the boys' club. I just wanted to invite Woody to lunch, when he's done here."

"Jordan," Garret said, and her eyes narrowed, enough that he took a step toward her. "Jordan. Easy now. This isn't a boys' club, and you know it. We're simply trying to shield you from painful memories. It isn't your case, no need for you to stress over it."

She nodded, she didn't want to anger him. After all, he'd stuck his neck out for her, given her a chance when no other ME in the country would take a second look at her, she owed him, she must not forget that. "I'm cool with it, Garret." She looked at Woody, raising her eyebrows. "What do you say, Woody? Lunch later?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll be done here pretty soon." He glanced at his watch, it was nearly eleven. "Where will I find you?"

Her smile was too tight and she knew it, she tried to relax. "My office, of course, I have paperwork to complete. And," she tried smiling again, "I'm almost finished. I'll have it on your desk before I leave, Garret."

"That would be great, Jordan," Garret said, watching, observing, his steady gaze penetrating every wall she tried to throw up. "Since it appears it's going to be a slow day, why don't you take the afternoon off?"

"Maybe," she said. "Better get back to those fascinating papers." She turned and walked calmly out of trace, but her knuckles were white on her soda can and she felt it give under the pressure of her fingers. She walked into her office and closed the door. The morning's last song was still with her, and she softly sang the chorus with Janis singing on a repeating loop in her mind, "C'mon, take another little piece of my heart." Oh yeah, she thought, sinking into her chair, sing it Janis, tell all those boys about the ways a woman's heart breaks, and how we invite them to do it over and over. She picked up her pen, glancing at the monthly supply usage form, signing her name at the bottom without reading it, if supply said she used seventeen zillion paper masks and fourteen bottles of sterile water and so forth, then she did, she wouldn't argue with a bean counter. Not in the city of beans. She cracked up at her bad joke, laughed herself silly over it before turning the usage report over and looking at a new page. A list of her autopsies. She scribbled her name and moved on, had to be finished before Woody came, flicking paper after paper over after signing it, moving with a manic energy through the dwindling stack.

Woody came in just as she signed the last one, and she smiled triumphantly at him, tossing her pen across her desk and then gathering up the pages, banging their edges on her desk until they coalesced into a fairly neat stack, she knew neatness counted with Garret, and it was imperative she stay on his good side, at least for this week, since she'd pissed him off last week.

"I'm ready," she said, putting her papers back in the folder. "I need two minutes to change and I'll be right with you." She grabbed the folder and left him standing in her office. She put her folder on Garret's desk, then ducked into the locker room. She changed into mufti, left the still clean scrubs in her locker, and spun the dial. She joined Woody in the corridor, calling to him from her office doorway, and they left the morgue for the bright sunshine of an early summer day. "I love days like this," she said, as they walked to a Mexican restaurant two blocks away, early enough to beat the huge crowds it drew at lunch. "Reminds you of life, renewal and all that after this miserable winter."

"I remember days like this back home. You don't know winter until you've lived through one of Wisconsin's better efforts." He noticed the bounce in her step and was glad she was in a good mood. He'd been afraid she'd turn all dark and angry at being refused access to this case. He held the door to the restaurant for her, and she smiled at him, dazzling him as she always did when she turned that high-wattage smile on him. They found a table by the windows, and Woody shook his napkin into his lap. "This is the kind of day that makes me wish I could play hookey and go to the beach or something."

"Why don't you?"

He looked at her and realized she was serious. "Too much to do," he said, picking up the menu. "You can, though. Garret's right, it's a slow day, thank God."

"Like the dead around there," she cracked, and giggled.

He cocked his head, smiling politely at her joke, Jordan giggling? And at her own joke? His smile turned to fondness. "Yeah, guess so," he said, and the waitress came up to their table.

It was a nice lunch, he thought, Jordan's good spirits were contagious, and as he walked with her back into the soft air and bright sunshine, wished again he could blow off work and go play on the beach with her. He walked back to the morgue with her, to the small parking lot behind the building for staff and police, to her car. She was, he realized, going to take the afternoon, and he was glad, she'd worked hard lately and could use the break.

"Uh, would you like to go out to dinner tonight?" he asked, rubbing his hand on the car's roof.

She smiled and opened the door, her keys dangling from her fingers. "Yeah, sure, that sounds like fun. What time?"

"Say seven? I should be free by then."

"Great, I'll be waiting." She got in the El Camino and stuck the key in the ignition. "See you then, thanks for lunch." She cranked the engine, and Woody closed the door, looking down on her with a sweet smile. She waved, then eased out of her parking space.

Restless and bored, she drove over to her father's bar. He should be there now, open for the early drinkers from the shipyard, the breweries, wherever. Max was never one to turn down a buck, as he always said, what else would he do with his time, why not spend it in the bar, opening early for men who'd worked hard and wanted to relax over a few beers with the guys? She found a parking space and locked her car, ambling down the sidewalk, tapping the fingers of her left hand against her thigh in time to the beat of Piece of My Heart. Awesome song, she thought. She wondered if Max had it on his jukebox.

It was quiet inside, a few men were seated at the bar, the TV was on, a baseball game, the sound turned low. Max leaned on the bar, his back to the door, watching the game and turning a bar towel in his hand. He turned when Jordan pulled a stool away from the bar, and smiled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Quiet as a graveyard around the morgue, Garret told me I could have the afternoon off." She grinned at her bad joke, and Max shrugged, he was used to her occasional off the wall humor.

"Want a drink?"

"Uh, yeah, I think I will. A beer sounds good."

"I meant soda, Jordan." He glanced at his watch. "It's a little early in the day, don't you think?"

She regarded him with amusement. "Do I detect a double standard there, Max?" She waved her hand toward the other end of the bar and the men sitting there. "It's OK for these hard working men, but not your hard working daughter?" She smiled without warmth.

Max looked at her for a second, then bent over the beer cooler. He opened a bottle of Miller Lite and put it, with a glass, on the bar in front of her. She concentrated on pouring the beer into the glass with all the intensity of a chemistry student pouring one dangerous chemical into a test tube with another murky chemical. Her goal was a small head, and when she'd achieved that, smiled triumphantly at her father.

"I still got it," she said, and sipped the beer.

"You OK, Jordan?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm in a good mood, I get the day off, Woody asked me to dinner, I'm having a beer with my dad. Life is good."

He nodded, but his eyes narrowed in contemplation. "So how's it going with Woody?"

"Fine. Nice guy. We're good friends, that's all." She sipped more beer, then topped off the glass with the rest of the bottle. She raised the glass in a silent toast to Max, then drained about half of it, quickly covering her mouth with her left hand as a belch erupted. "Oh. My. Excuse me," she said, and grinned. Max rolled his eyes and turned to check on his customers. She watched him, thinking this was not a good place for her to hang out if she wanted to down a few beers, Max simply radiated disapproval, and she was too old for that shit. She finished the rest of her beer in a more ladylike manner, then slid off the stool.

"I'm gonna hit the road, get my apartment cleaned up. Thanks for the beer, I'll see you later." She smiled, slid her purse strap over her shoulder, and walked back into brilliant sunshine. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the bar's dimmer atmosphere, and then she walked to her car, wanting another beer, and realizing she'd be better off drinking at home, cops couldn't pull her over for walking under the influence in her own house. She grinned at that thought, of Woody sliding into cop mode when she came to the door, cops could be so irritating sometimes. She got in her car and started home, stopping at a store for a twelve pack of beer.

She put a CD in the player, opened one of the beers, and began cleaning. The apartment was in good shape, she wasn't too slovenly in her daily habits, and she was finished within an hour, including a trip to start a load of laundry. She'd chosen Joplin to entertain her as she cleaned, deciding if the woman was going to hang out in her brain and sing to her all day, she might as well insist on a little variety. She felt the pain, the loneliness, that so consumed Janis as it worked its way out through her voice, and when Piece of My Heart came on, she danced to it, lip-synching, pretending for a moment to be the woman with incredible vocal range and the pain to back up her right to sing the blues. Sweating when the song ended, she opened another beer, adjusted the volume down, and sank on her couch, suddenly exhausted.

With her defenses down, her thoughts turned to her mother, to that terrible day when she came home to the police, to a body she could barely see on the floor and beyond that, her father in handcuffs. What had her mother done to deserve that fate? And what had she done, that her mother was taken away from her? Deciding, at the wise old age of ten, that she must have done something terrible meriting such severe punishment, she decided that she would embrace badness, what else could be taken from her? She spent her teen years riding the edge, pushing the envelope, the shrinks had lots of different clichés for it, but it all amounted to the same thing, Jordan stopped caring if she lived or died, and that attitude hadn't changed in the intervening years. She did not want the same fate to befall this little girl, who'd found her mother dead on the floor this morning, but she didn't know how she'd be able to help her. Everyone seemed determined to keep her away from this case.

And that pissed her off.

She focused on the morgue staff, her family in so many ways, and like her blood family, determined to keep her away from a dead mommy lying on a cold floor. How presumptuous, she thought, what did any of them know about that kind of pain, that kind of loss? They dealt with death on a daily basis, and turned it into black humor, never saw the body they cut open as a person, with a life and a family, a little girl who loved her and was so lost without her. Screw them all, she thought, they wanted to protect fragile little Jordan from a case remarkably similar to her own history, what gave them that right? Where were they when her mother was stolen? Where were they as far as this little girl was concerned? Cutting her mother open, that's where, mutilating her body, a body the little girl would not be allowed to see again, a woman who left her daughter to cope with it all alone.

The tension curled, coiled, torqued to the limit inside Jordan. She got another beer, wishing she had somewhere she could go, people she could talk to, hang with, a bar she could truly call her own. She looked at her keys, and then put them away, that was one boundary she would not cross, no matter what, she would not risk it. Loneliness was better than driving drunk. She knew loneliness. She knew drunk. She knew them together, the Bobbsey Twins of Jordan's youth, the Thelma and Louise of her adulthood. She supposed that made anger and rage her Butch and Sundance - why, she thought, were loneliness and pain somehow female emotions and anger and rage male? Drunk swung both ways.

That was funny. Swung both ways. Oh yeah, Jordan knew about that, too, it was all part of walking on the edge, pushing the envelope. Human contact was human contact, she didn't give a rat's ass about distinctions, she just wanted the void filled for a little while and didn't care who it was.

She was tired, a little drunk, she decided she should nap before Woody came over, Woody with his gorgeous eyes and his sweet innocence, who believed in Doing the Right Thing no matter the cost. He'd learn one day that The Right Thing was an illusion when you got down to it, what was right in Western civilization was Not Right in Eastern, that knocking yourself out to be able to look at yourself in the mirror wasn't worth it. Do no harm, she thought, that was the only rule that mattered. It was the only rule Jordan consistently tried to live by, the one she respected. She undressed and got in her bed, hugging the second pillow, hoping a couple hours of sleep would restore her good humor.

XXX

She'd showered and changed, rinsed her mouth thoroughly with bitterness in a mouthwash bottle, felt somewhat settled but with a headache that wouldn't go away. She glanced at the clock, Woody would be here soon, and she hoped her headache disappeared. She popped a couple of aspirin, put her feet up, and played her guitar as she waited, it always soothed. Her mother liked music, Jordan remembered her singing, but Max wouldn't discuss her mother often, and when he did, he didn't like to dwell on details like that.

She heard the knock and put her guitar aside. She opened the door and his warm smile knocked her back a step, he was a good guy and he didn't deserve someone like her, who would push him, test him, keep him far enough away that he couldn't hurt her, she knew, she expected, all human relationships to end in pain and loss and so she kept people away as best she could. And he deserved someone who could embrace him wholeheartedly, love him with the same innocence he possessed like a virtue. "Come in," she said, and her head pounded.

"Hey, you OK?" he said, coming in and studying her as she closed the door and turned to him.

"I have a really bad headache," she said. "Come on in, sit down. Want something to drink?"

"Uh, sure." He sat on the edge of the couch and looked at her guitar. "I heard you playing, I didn't want to stop you."

She brought him a beer, had a Diet Coke for herself. "Just passing the time," she said. She closed her eyes as a vicious pounding in the left front quadrant threatened to send her to her knees. She felt his hand on her knee, and part of her wanted to fling it off, it was too intimate at this point, and part of her wanted to put it somewhere else on her body. As if to eliminate that option, another drilling session in her brain started, and she winced.

"Jordan, you're not OK." The concern in his voice touched her, and she opened her eyes. His brilliant blue eyes were focused on her, radiating kindness, concern, protectiveness.

"Just a vicious headache," she said. "I took a couple of aspirin." She moved her guitar and eased down on the couch, bending her knees so her feet wouldn't touch Woody's legs.

"Turn the opposite way," he said. "Put your head in my lap. My father used to get headaches, he taught me how to rub his head."

She shrugged and sat up, pivoting on her bottom and easing down into his lap, where she inhaled his cologne, and then his fingers began massaging her scalp. She closed her eyes, oh my god he knew what he was doing, she thought, never wanting him to stop. He had magic fingers, working his fingertips in circles, starting with her temples and moving back and around. She groaned, and his fingers kept moving. She wondered if she could hire him away from BPD to be on call, always available to massage her head or her neck or whatever ached. She had no idea how long he worked on her head before he managed to get to her neck, she was lying in his lap one moment, in a drowsy peaceful state, and the next she was lying on her stomach on the couch while he worked the rock hard muscles in her neck. She couldn't fight it, her eyes closed again and she fell ever so gently into blackness and slept.

When she woke, her head was on a pillow and she was covered by a blanket, a lamp burned in the kitchen behind her, and she saw the note on the coffee table. Blinking several times, she pushed herself up enough to reach for it, and pulled the paper close.

Jo, it read, I didn't want to wake you, I think you need to sleep. We'll do dinner another night. Hope your headache is gone, Woody.

She dropped it to the floor and tried to read her watch. Her eyes adjusted, she saw it was three in the morning. Holy crap, she thought. She got up, tossing the blanket back, and went for a cold drink, then thought, now what, I'm wide awake and I feel great, and there's no one to play with. She sat on the couch and pulled the blanket over her legs, drinking slowly, and decided she should use the time productively. She'd go into work, see what the night shift turned up, get started on things.

The night shift was a skeleton crew of techs who would sign for bodies, put them in trace or the crypt or wherever, clean equipment, answer phones, stuff that needed doing whatever the hour. She drove through deserted streets to the morgue and parked near the door. Though the day before was warm, it was quite cool now, typical for New England, she thought, pressing the keypad and waiting for the beep that would unlock the door.

She walked through deserted corridors, to the break room, where she found the two techs on duty asleep on couches. She smiled and left them to it. She went to her office, then stopped. She went to Lily's office and tried the door, the knob turned in her hand. She went in and turned on the desk lamp, then opened Lily's file cabinet. She found the file, Woody had told her the victim's last name, and she sat at Lily's desk, opening it. It was skeletal, just a name and a next of kin notification concerning release of the body. She closed it and put it back, then turned off the lamp and went into the lab, powering up one of the slumbering computers. She entered the name and waited for the data cascade. There it all was: she shivered, it was eerily similar to her own personal history. She wondered if the husband was guilty, or if, like Max, he was the suspect simply because he was the husband. Death from a single gunshot wound to the brain. Trace yielded skin under her fingernails, a few threads, and the DNA test was started but results weren't back yet. A print was lifted from her chin, a thumbprint, partial, no match in the databases, a phantom print like the one at her mother's scene. She thought the print definitively ruled out the husband, but words like definitive would wait for DNA. She flipped to another page, where particulars were entered about the family for comparison - husband was currently in jail, daughter had been placed with her grandmother.

She remembered that one, being deposited by social services with her grandmother, while Max rotted in jail, awaiting exoneration. She remembered how she hated the old woman, who seemed to tolerate Jordan out of some abstract duty to her daughter, which would lead to a pissing contest with Max when her grandparents tried to get permanent custody of Jordan. Failing, Jordan didn't see them again, didn't want to see them, how dare they try to take her from her father, until a couple of years ago, when she sat down with her grandmother in an effort to make peace. Max wanted it, so Jordan did it, and found in the effort a tenuous rapport with the old woman, but one thing remained constant: she would not speak of Jordan's mother in anything other than generalities.

She closed the data file and left the room, walking back to her office, lying on her couch. She stared at the ceiling, hands behind her head, thinking about her mother. She realized her memories were blurry now, she had a hard time calling up a solid image of her mother, what formed were photographs, and she felt saddened by it, by the erosion of memories. Would anyone think to warn little Amelia Hartwell that her memories of her mother would fade over time? Of course not. Amelia's questions would go unanswered, out of the misguided belief that the adults were sparing the child more pain. The road to hell and all that, Jordan thought, and then she knew what she had to do, she had to see the girl, talk to her, listen, let her experience all those years ago finally count for something. She got up and went back to the computer, returning to the data, and she wrote down the grandmother's address, then closed the file.

It was, of course, way too early for such a mission. Instead, she went to the crypt, where she opened Margot Hartwell's temporary resting place. She pulled back the sheet and looked down on the woman's face, cold and waxy now, the hole in her forehead glaringly obvious. Who hated you this much, she asked, and then Margot's face became Emily Cavanaugh's. Jordan gripped the cold steel door with one hand, the tray handle with the other, staring down as Emily's face came into cold focus. Then she smiled at Jordan, her eyes acquiring life and pleasure at the sight of her daughter. They told you I was crazy, she whispered, but only after you found out for yourself, they would have hidden that little embarrassing detail forever. And they watch you, Jordan, in case you inherited it, don't you feel them watching you? All except your darling Woody, and that's because he doesn't understand, he thinks your dark moods are nothing more than PMS, he can't see the darkness because he's never seen anything like it, he manages to stay above the uglier side of life by refusing to really see it.

"Jordan!"

She jumped two feet, her head whipping around. Garret stood in the doorway, in jeans and a rumpled shirt, anger barely overwritten by concern. Behind him stood the two techs, curious and edgy, what were they supposed to do with one of the medical examiners standing over a body in the crypt at four in the morning? Call the boss, of course, Jordan thought, bitterly, and she tried to smile at Garret.

"Morning, Garret. Thought I'd come in and get some work done."

He stepped forward, then turned to the two men behind him. "Go find something to do," he snapped, then, as the crypt door swung closed, walked over and pushed Margot's body back into its holding slot and closed the door, edging Jordan out of the way. Then he took her by the arm and led her out, down the hall and into his office, where he directed her to sit on the couch, with him. "This is not your case. There's no work to be done. So what were you doing?"

She shrugged. "Thinking, really."

He sighed. "Which no one wants you to do. You looked mesmerized, you had no idea I was there. What was going on?"

She wanted to move away from him, had to force herself to remember how much he cared about her. How much she cared for him. If she could tell anyone the truth, it was Garret, though she knew he'd take whatever steps he thought necessary to protect her and the morgue. She drew a deep breath, suddenly wanting a cigarette, wanting to crawl in his lap and be held, the seriously wounded child battled with the wounded, scarred woman, and she searched Garret's face. "I wasn't doing anything wrong," she began.

"No? Messing with the body of a murder victim? We haven't finished yet, you could easily have contaminated that body. So I ask again, what was going on?"

"I was looking at her, thinking, and then," she sucked air again, "she sort of became my mother."

"What do you mean, sort of?" He couldn't keep the sharpness out, and she looked at him with wide eyes, afraid, he sounded too much like all those other adults who didn't like Jordan Cavanaugh asking questions, defying their authority. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently, and held her with him, his eyes overflowing with compassion now. "You're in trouble again, aren't you," he whispered.

"Another little piece of my heart," she mumbled.

"What?" His grip tightened. "Talk to me, Jordan. Where are you, in your head?"

She shook her head. "It was my mother, and she was talking to me, telling me how everyone thought she was crazy and they were watching me for the same signs. And you are, aren't you? Watching me. Wondering if I'm going nuts just like she did."

"No," he said, and he slid closer to her, putting his arm around her. He smelled of male sleepiness, the musky odor that men seemed to exude at night, a mixture of sweat and sheet-raising gas and some indefinable male essence. "No one thinks you're crazy, Jordan, just troubled. And we all want to help you, but no one can help if they don't know what's wrong."

"I can't be fixed, Garret," she said. "I was broken almost thirty years ago, maybe I could have been fixed then, but we'll never know. And little Amelia Hartwell is going to go through the same thing. No one will talk to her of her mother, explain what happened, even if they can never tell her why, no one will listen to her fears and her pain and loneliness." She stared into space, beyond Garret, her body rigid under his arm.

"Jordan, you can't talk to that child. You cannot." He turned her by the chin, trying to force her to focus on him. "Are you hearing me? She isn't you, this isn't twenty-six or seven years ago, there are people who know how to deal with this now. She won't be left to deal with it alone."

Her eyes were unfocused, though she heard him. She shook her head, then pushed her hair away from her face. "They can't help her unless they've been through it. Do they know about the things that go bump in the night, the dreams and nightmares, the constant chasing for mother love to replace what you lost? The grasping any kind of love, because there's a big hole and you want it filled, and you don't care how? No, they won't tell her about that."

"And neither can you. You cannot interfere in this situation, do you understand?"

She nodded, she heard him, but he wasn't sure she understood. He saw her eyes try to focus on him as her hands contracted into fists.

"Should I call Woody?" he asked, suddenly helpless in the face of her naked pain. He'd seen her close to losing it before, but he'd never seen her so naked, so completely open to assessment, to further wounding, to God knew what, and he wanted desperately to help her. "I'm going to call Stiles," he said.

"Don't you dare," she said, suddenly focusing, tense and ready to spring. The wildness in her eyes, the panic, frightened him more, he realized she thought he wanted her committed, and Stiles had that power.

"I want to help you, not hurt you," he said. "This is why nobody wanted you near this case, Jordan. Stiles can help you, he's not going to hurt you."

She tapped her thigh, an odd gesture, he thought, and he squeezed her shoulder. She looked at him, a wounded animal backed into a corner, and for a moment, he was afraid of what she'd do if she thought he was betraying her into the hands of a locked ward and people probing into her mind. "I don't want to talk to Stiles, Garret." Her voice was deadly calm, belying her eyes. She stood, so swiftly that he was nearly pushed backward by the force of her movement, and looked down at him. "I'm fine now, I just had a bad moment. I'm going to my office, I still have some work I can do before everyone gets here and we get busy with the bodies that came in overnight."

He nodded, standing, not believing her. She was in serious trouble, he had to find a way to help her that she wouldn't view as betrayal. She walked out of his office and turned toward hers. He followed, standing just outside his door, watching her go in her office and turn on the desk lamp. She sat, and he sighed, maybe she really was going to try to work. He went to his desk and grabbed his official directory out of the top drawer. He found Stiles' number. Jordan needed help he wasn't qualified to give, and she needed it now. He found, and then punched, the number and leaned back. Stiles answered on the third ring, and Garret, feeling torn between being a rat and saving Jordan, told him what transpired.

"Keep her there, I'm on my way."

"I don't want her hospitalized, Stiles. She's terrified of it, would view it as a betrayal, I can't do that to her."

"I won't recommend it unless I think it's absolutely necessary. Now, go sit with her until I get there, half an hour tops." The line went dead.

Garret sighed, then got up. At least, he thought, Jordan was worth this, the stress and the fear, the potential view she might take of his part in bringing Stiles in was open, but he hoped she'd see that he cared. He wanted to help. He opened his office door and focused on the light coming from Jordan's, her door still closed. He approached, hand raised to knock, then realized she wasn't sitting at her desk. He opened the door and looked. She was gone. He ran to the back entrance and out into the parking lot. Her car was gone. Then he recognized that odd patting gesture. Jordan, unlike a lot of women, frequently carried her keys in her pocket, she was checking for them. She was ready to bolt then, but threw Garret off just enough that she was able to return to her office and her purse, and slip out while he ratted her out to Stiles.

He stared at the night sky, dawn was a little over an hour away. Where are you, he asked, why can't you trust me after all these years to put your welfare first? The stars refused to answer, and he turned, going back inside, to call Woody and to await Stiles. The shit had hit the fan, he thought, at least for Jordan, overwhelmed by memories and images of something no one was equipped to handle, let alone a child, and now she was in the wind.

XXXX

All Jordan thought about was escape. She stopped at an ATM near the morgue and maxed out her card, then got in her car, gassed it up at the next open station, aware these two movements would be tracked, but she was going under the radar from this point on. With no destination in mind, she drove north, crossing the New Hampshire border about an hour later, and entered the seaside town of Portsmouth ten minutes later. She didn't know a soul there, but she doubted it would make a good hiding place. She'd never been hunted, and her mind whirled, trying to sort it all, and where to go was high on her list. She drove through the town, then cut west, into Vermont, she'd had a drinking buddy in college from Vermont. It seemed as good an option as any. She stopped and bought a map at a busy truck stop, gassed up again, and slipped on the light jacket she'd gotten from her office. She'd left her cell phone in her desk, she knew they could track it, but that's what pay phones were for.

Garret looked at Dr. Stiles, then at Woody, then took in Bug and Nigel. "Any idea where she'd go?"

"She's not home," Woody said, shoving his hands in his back pockets and rocking on his feet. "I can't get bank surveillance cameras until nine, but we can assume she stopped for money and gas in Boston, and that we won't see another sign of her from here on out."

"I don't understand why we have to look for her at all," Nigel said, "I mean, this is Jordan we're talking about. So she occasionally goes off the deep end, it doesn't mean we hunt her down like a criminal."

"She needs help," Stiles said. "She's hallucinating, paranoid -"

"I never said either of those," Garret snapped. "I said she saw the victim's face morph into her mother's. That's not uncommon in our line of work. And I wouldn't say she's paranoid. She's frightened. She's never been able to resolve the issues surrounding her mother's death, her mother's illness, even Max. That's a lot of baggage to carry. I'd be worried if she wasn't frightened."

"She's in control enough to have fooled you, to leave her cell phone here, to execute a hastily conceived plan to get away." Nigel towered over Dr. Stiles, and looked down at him. "She's in control enough to realize you want to lock her up for her own good." He sneered as he said those last words. "I don't blame her, I'd take a hike, too, if I thought you were going throw my ass in psycho ward."

"She's not going in a psycho ward," Woody said. "I won't allow it. So just forget that."

"You have no legal standing to challenge my decision about that," Stiles said. "I think right now she's a danger to herself. You said she was concerned about that little girl? Has anyone checked to see if she grabbed the kid, in a warped effort to help her?"

"There's nothing warped about Jordan, Doctor," Bug said.

"She didn't go near that kid," Woody said. "You scared her, Garret, and now she's out there, feeling hunted, haunted, God knows what. And you haven't a clue where to look for her." He looked long and hard at each man. "I'm out of here, I have work to do. Call me the second you hear something."

After he left, Nigel said "I know how he feels. What were you thinking, Garret, calling Stiles into this? We're a family, it's a family matter. You don't bring outsiders in on family affairs."

"I was trying to help her," Garret said. "Are you all missing that point? She needs help."

"Yes, but from us, not his kind of help," Bug said. "We need to start looking, and I don't know where to begin. Woody said they put out a BOLO?" When Garret nodded, Bug swallowed. "I hope they don't see her, if she's this fragile, imagine how she'd react to the police swarming around."

Garret nodded. "I screwed up. Royally." He looked at Stiles. "I don't think we need you anymore, Howard. We'll call you when we know something."

Stiles nodded. "Just remember, she's a state employee, so I have standing in this. Don't keep me out of the loop."

"Don't intend to," Garret said, walking him to the door. "We'll find her, assess her condition, and call you."

"Be sure you do," he said, giving Garret a sympathetic last look. When he was gone, Garret sighed, then sank into his chair, his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. "This is so on me," he said. "She thinks I've betrayed her."

"Now. Once this is over, she'll understand you were trying to help, not hurt," Nigel said, feeling for Garret. "I'm calling Max, getting a list of her college friends, then working back to any friends she had at her other jobs. We don't know what direction she took, but hopefully she'll run out of cash soon and have to use a card."

XXXXX

Jordan found the old farmhouse by meticulously following directions that didn't seem to make sense. The roads in this little village were still dirt, and she turned left at a four way stop, then turned right, into the driveway, and pulled under the trees. She got out, stiff, and stared at the old farmhouse, holding her lower back. It was mid-afternoon. Tired, frightened, and jumpy, she took the time to notice the beautiful flowers spilling out of window boxes, the fresh white paint, the well kept yard, then she trudged up to the screened door and knocked, looking in at an old fashioned kitchen. She heard footsteps, then saw Annie come through a narrow doorway.

"Jordan!" She opened the screened door and Jordan stepped in, ducking under the low lintel. Annie opened her arms and Jordan stepped into them, she was so tired, and Annie's arms so welcoming and safe. They hugged for a minute, then Annie sat her at a long plank table in the kitchen. "You need to eat," she said.

Jordan wasn't sure, but she couldn't voice objections. She watched Annie put together a quick meal of block cheese, French bread, and a sliced apple, thinking, you've grown into yourself, Annie. Still short, still attractive, she moved with an easy confidence, she knew she mattered to the world now, and Jordan envied that confidence. They'd been good friends in college, spent a great deal of time drinking beer and hanging out with like spirits, and gone in separate directions after graduation, though they stayed in touch over the years. Annie was a successful novelist now, Jordan had read both of her books, and admired them. This house, well over two hundred years old, had been in Annie's family for generations; with her success, she bought it from her parents and was lovingly restoring it to be as close to the original as possible. Jordan stroked the plank table, smooth with age and use, nibbling on sharp cheddar, unable to articulate even the most basic thank you. She met Annie's eyes, saw warmth and compassion, acceptance, and then Annie got up, getting two bottles of water from the refrigerator.

Once Jordan had eaten, Annie led her from the kitchen, through another room with two doors leading off it, and into the living room, with its large stone fireplace and original exposed beams. She looked at the floor, old tongue and groove hardwood, and guessed that if it wasn't original, it was damn close. Annie sat her on the leather couch facing the fireplace. The room had lots of narrow windows, with Annie's desk at the far end. Sunlight streamed through the west facing windows, warming her, and Jordan grew drowsy. Annie wordlessly climbed the stairs, creaking floorboards marked her progress as she walked the length of the house and returned, with a pillow and a quilt.

"Lie down. You're safe here." Annie put the pillow down and Jordan slowly stretched out. Annie covered her with the quilt, turning it back to just below Jordan's shoulders. "You can sleep, I promise you're safe."

Jordan smiled, weakly, then closed her eyes. The pillow smelled of lavender, the quilt of sunlight and mountain breezes, which surrounded the house and valley in abundance, and she let go. Annie had always kept her safe, and would now.

While Jordan slept, Annie took some homemade bread out of the wood-burning stove, two generations from being original to the house. She loved the stove, loved the oven and way food tasted cooked by burning logs, and set the loaf on a rack on the plank table. Then she went out on the porch, looking across the road at the big field and swimming hole, the green mountains beyond them, and thought Jordan and journeys. Whatever had frightened her away from Boston would not intrude here, not in her valley, where her family had been planted centuries ago, the personal protection she offered her friend would extend to the valley, the village, beyond. No stranger would be directed to the seventy acre farmhouse, no policeman guided to Annie's door. This closed society was self-sustaining and tightly knit, they needed each other to get through the long winters, the accidents of summer and harvest, and they were quietly there for each other. She was glad Jordan thought to call her.

They were a long way from university, she reflected, walking around the yard, the barn her ultimate destination. She'd loved school, loved being free and easy and yet challenged academically to rise higher than she'd ever tried. She loved the friends she'd made then, staying in touch with every one of them. Yet none of them had touched her the way Jordan did, she knew then, as she knew now, that something was broken in her friend, she reminded Annie of the injured birds she sometimes saw, and as she rescued the birds and housed them in the barn to heal in safety, she would rescue and house Jordan.

She opened the access door and reached into the barn for the bird seed on the shelves against the wall. She carried it around the perimeter, filling feeders and scattering it to the wind. Walking back, she saw the western sky filling with dark clouds, and after stowing the seed and securing the door, she went to Jordan's car to check for open windows. Thunderstorms rolling into the valley were beautiful, and this one showed promise, the wind picked up and carried with it the rumble of distant thunder. She went back in the house and got a beer, taking it into the living room. Jordan was twitching, her eyes moving, and Annie sent a good dreams thought to her friend, hoping it would quiet her.

Annie believed in her powers, as she dryly referred to them, her abilities that reached beyond normal senses into the arena of the paranormal. It was her heritage, after all, her ancestors had come to this distant valley from Boston and Salem, fleeing those who would destroy them for gifts they never asked for nor wanted, but embraced once they manifested. The stories, the gifts, were written down and passed on to every generation, Annie was the latest, and the last if she did not reproduce soon, of a line of Longs stretching back into the mists of Glastonbury, and she was proud of that heritage. Jordan whimpered as thunder rumbled, closer, and Annie sent a stronger thought, then went to the window and called the storm, to bring its soothing rain to beat against the roof and gables. She watched the clouds boil on the horizon, behind her mountains, rise and rise some more as nature prepared its show for the valley. She turned around and looked at Jordan, sensing her waking, her confused thoughts, and she walked to the couch, grabbing an ottoman and dragging it a few feet to sit by Jordan's head. She stroked her friend's forehead, brushed her hair away, and smiled.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, I think." Jordan stretched under the quilt, freeing her arms, and she locked her hands behind her head. "It's going to storm?"

Annie smiled again. "We get a few good thunderstorms every summer, but most break up over the mountains and we get the rain." The living room grew dark as the storm grew closer, the thunder was much louder now. "So. Would you like to tell me what's going on? You don't have to."

Jordan struggled to sit up, the quilt was surprisingly heavy. "No, I'll tell you." She folded the quilt back, then shivered as the storm brought falling temperatures and pulled it back, up to her shoulders. She pushed hair behind her ears, then clasped her hands on top of the quilt, and quietly told her story. Annie listened intently, undisturbed as the storm broke over the valley and rain poured down. When Jordan finished, she looked at her friend. "Do you think I belong in a psych ward?"

Annie took one of her hands and held it between hers. She listened to her senses, to the fear that pumped with every heartbeat, the vulnerability that cloaked Jordan like a second skin and just as alive. Then she smiled. "No. You need a little help to heal, but it's doable." She put Jordan's hand back with the other and got up for her beer, perched on a corner of the mantle. "Some quiet, some good food, some talk, and you'll be OK. Are you sure you don't want to let your friends know where you are, or that you're at least safe? They're worried about you."

"You know that, huh?" Jordan managed a smile, she was well acquainted with her friend's abilities. She eased back down, slipping her arms under the quilt, it felt freezing in here. Annie tucked her in, then sat on the ottoman again. "I'm afraid they'd come for me, drag me away to a hospital."

"No one's going to drag you anywhere, I promise." Wind blew through the open window, carrying rain, and she put the beer on the floor, going to close the windows. When she came back, she shivered. "Temp can drop like a rock with these storms," she said, rubbing her arms, then picking up her beer. "I'll be glad to call one of your friends from my cell, it's registered in New York, but I'm sure they could trace the signal here. That said, you haven't committed a crime, so no one's going to take you anywhere you don't want to go."

"Or you'll whack somebody upside the head with a spell," Jordan said, dryly, snuggling deeper under the quilt.

"Something like that," Annie said with equal dryness. "I'm going for a sweater. Want one?"

Jordan laughed, she was six inches taller than Annie. "I don't think it would fit that well."

Annie rolled her eyes. "I have some of Kevin's clothes - a few pairs of jeans, some shirts, a couple of sweatshirts."

"When's he coming back?"

Annie shrugged. "Christmas maybe? How long does it take to find yourself in Casablanca?" She grinned. "And I tried so hard to tell him the sixties were long gone, that Marakesh and such was no more the mecca of the wandering boy." She finished her beer. "Want one?' She shook the empty in invitation. Jordan nodded. "OK, I'll be back in a few."

Jordan listened to her on the stairs, walking around on the second floor, coming back, and a sweatshirt from MIT flew from the staircase to Jordan's lap as Annie kept on going, into the kitchen. She came back with two beers, wearing a white pullover sweater and jeans. Jordan sat up and eased the sweatshirt over her head, then opened the beer. "Maybe you should call Garret," she said. "He's the least likely to hunt me down."

Annie sipped, nodding. "Is he your love?"

"Garret? God no, he's like an older brother." She took a long swallow of cold beer, then held the can against her lip. "Woody is, but I think, since he's a cop, that he'd try to track me down."

Annie's cell phone went off, and she got up, snatching it off the desk and checking caller ID. "Interesting," she said, and opened it, walking out of the room. Jordan heard the murmur of her voice, calm as always, and it grew distant, as Annie walked the length of the house. Jordan heard the screen door clap, then smelled, faintly, burning, and realized Annie was smoking outside. She sipped her beer, looking out the windows, the force of the storm had passed and a gentle rain fell, soaking the land but not, she hoped, Annie. Then the screened door clapped again, she heard the squeak of the wooden inner door's hinges and the heavy thud of a humidity swollen door being forced into its frame. Then she heard Annie returning.

"Annie, this is your house, don't smoke outside on my account."

"Ah, yes, the good doctor used to suck them down with the best of us." Annie smiled. "Your Woody is very resourceful."

"That was Woody?" Shock and fear filled her voice and she pulled the quilt higher, as if hiding. "How in the hell?"

"Max Cavanaugh. Seems he wanted to find his daughter, too, make sure she was OK. I guess you've been acting a little odd the past couple of days." Annie got off the ottoman and went to her desk, where she sat in a beautiful leather chair and lit a cigarette. "Anyway, I told Woody I knew you were safe, but that I did not welcome visitors and would repel them with every legal means at my disposal. He asked if that included you, and I said it's a universally applied prohibition. Invited guests only. Which he of course doesn't believe, so I told him that yes, Max was right, you'd come to me to hide for a few days, and unless he heard from me otherwise, he wasn't welcome here."

"I hope he accepts that."

"He does. He just wanted to know you were safe more than anything, as did Max, which is why Max cooperated with him to find you. I guess Max gave him a list of our old friends and he's been at it awhile." She drew on the cigarette. "Would you like him to come?"

"Not right now."

Annie leaned forward and crushed the cigarette in a cut glass ashtray. "I think that's wise. The things that sent you to the edge are still present, and we need to deal with them as best we can." She got up, opened the window a couple of inches, smelled the rain and felt the cold. Tonight would chilly enough for a fire, she thought. "I think you need a hot bath, some warm clothes, and while you're doing that, I'll reheat my killer potato soup. Sound good?"

Jordan nodded. "Sounds great, but I don't have clothes."

"Kevin," she said, pulling the quilt back and extending her hand. "He left sweats, too. No one can be in Vermont without bringing sweats, no matter the season. So, come and I'll show you your room and the bath. I have some wonderful salts, a good soak will do you good, followed by some good soup and conversation."

"Does anything flip your boat?" Jordan followed her up the stairs.

"Not really." She looked over her shoulder and grinned. "I trust the universe to keep order in my life." At the top of the stairs, she turned left, and Jordan walked into a front corner bedroom, furnished with twin beds, a reading chair, an antique chest of drawers and free standing mirror. The foot of the closest bed had clean, folded sweats stacked on top of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. "Kevin's your height, almost as skinny as you are, these should fit, and if they don't, who cares." She touched Jordan's elbow. "The bathroom is this way."

It was in the middle of narrow hallway, overlooking the front yard. A huge clawfoot tub and equally old sink and toilet were its furnishings, along with bright red towels hanging on the wall rack. Annie got a bottle of purple bath salts and gave it to Jordan.

"A heaping palmful right under the tap," she said.

"Make them yourself?"

"Yes." Annie smiled. "I think you'll like them."

While Jordan soaked, Annie put a prepared soup pot on the stove and added a log for fuel. Then, after watching the fire for a second, added another split log. She closed the door and took off her mitt, then sat at the plank table, under the open window, to have a smoke along with a Coke. The rain still fell, she guessed it would continue into the evening, she hoped it would help lull Jordan to sleep. She got up then, to get her cell phone, sensing it would ring soon, and brought it back to the kitchen. She put it on the plank table, then checked and stirred the soup, then sat down again, staring out the window, thinking of the best way to help her friend before she got so close to the edge that one day she wouldn't come back. She considered potions, infusions, candle ritual, and discarded them, the physician in Jordan would reject them anyway, inhibiting their effectiveness. What her friend needed most was a soul-baring conversation.

As she lit her second cigarette, her phone rang. Caller ID confirmed it was Woody. "Yes, Woody," she said.

"Can I at least talk to Jordan?"

"She's taking a bath at the moment. I asked her if she wanted you to come up, and she said no, she needs a little time and I agree with her." She sucked on the smoke, her single vice. "I'll take very good care of her. Have you told anyone where she is?"

"Just Max, and I warned him that you would not tolerate visitors. He's annoyed but he respects you. I thought I'd call the guys from work she's closest to, let them know I know where she is, and that she's safe."

"Make sure they understand that I will have anyone who sets foot on my property arrested for trespassing," she said, still pleasantly. "Her privacy, her shelter here, is important to me, and I won't let some self-important male invade it. I promise to call you when she's ready to see you."

"All right. I just hope Nigel doesn't figure out a way to track her, I have a feeling running in to you uninvited would be like stumbling into a beehive."

Annie laughed. "I'm not unpleasant, Woody, just firm. I will take care of her, and I will let you know when she's ready to see anyone. Give Max my best and tell him I'm watching over his little girl, she's OK, she really is. She just got too close to the flame, that's all, she's a little singed."

"Do you mind if I call tomorrow?"

He sounded so eager, so anxious, that she smiled. "Of course you can. Just don't have high expectations, that's all. I don't know when she'll be ready to talk to you."

"Thanks, Annie. I'll call tomorrow afternoon."

She closed the phone, then checked her soup, it was heating quickly, and she stirred it. Moving it a slightly cooler stove plate, she resumed her seat, hearing the tub start draining as she took a last drag from her cigarette. She put the kettle on the hottest spot, and prepared a pot for tea. By the time Jordan wandered into the kitchen, in Kevin's Patriots sweatpants and matching sweatshirt, a thick pair his warmest socks on her feet, Annie had tea ready. She gave the soup a last stir, then joined Jordan at the table and poured.

"Woody called again. He's anxious to talk to you."

Jordan shook her head. "Can't deal with that right now. He's so innocent, I can't imagine what he thinks of me right now."

Annie's eyebrows rose. "He must be special, because I must ask, when do you care what other people think?"

She shrugged a shoulder, fiddling with her tea cup, then she looked up and met Annie's steady gaze. "He is special." She looked around. "He'd love it up here, he's very outdoorsy."

"What else is he?"

"Kind. Loyal. Sweet, incredibly sweet. And innocent, which amazes me, given his job and the things he's seen."

"It's a nice quality." Annie turned her cell phone and her cigarette pack, arranging them to touch end to end, then she smiled a tad self-consciously. "Something my Gamma told me once. About lining up objects to bring harmony and order to your environment. Loose objects on a table, I mean."

Jordan smiled. "I like your little rituals, Annie, they're very comforting. I think order really comes from inside. And right now my insides are in a high state of disorder." A tear came to her right eye, and she dabbed it away with her finger. "Like my heart is in pieces."

"Jordan, your heart has been broken since the day I met you. We both know why, it was a terrible thing, but overall, I think you've done the best you can, and have nothing to be ashamed of. You saw something that brought it all home, I'm not surprised you broke down a little. Talk to me, girlfriend."

And Jordan talked. Once she started, she couldn't stop. Annie lit candles, stirred the soup, got fresh butter out of refrigerator to soften, remembered to stir the soup and move it to the coolest spot, and made more tea, all the while listening carefully while the rain played the minor to Jordan's major, the broken melody for a broken heart, she thought. Jordan talked while they ate, wonderful creamy potato soup and fresh bread and butter, Diet Coke as wine this summer evening under a soaking rain. When Jordan finally ran out of words, Annie had cleaned the kitchen and made herbal tea, which they took into the living room, sharing the couch and the quilt, feet to feet, their heads propped on pillows against the arms of the couch. The clock struck one.

"What do you think?" Jordan asked, suddenly exhausted and ready to sleep.

"I think it's time for bed, to sleep on this, and see what the morning brings. I think you've needed to get all that out for a very long time. It's a heavy burden to carry around." She got up, folded the quilt and put it aside, put the tea things on her desk, and took Jordan's hand, helping her to her feet. "You're safe here. Sleep well and know that no one, nothing, can reach you here." They walked upstairs and separated at the top. Jordan got in the bed under the windows and snuggled under the down comforter, asleep almost before her head settled on the pillow.

XXXXXX

The next day they began with a walk down the dirt road, past the scattered farmhouses and the fields, greeted sloppily by a yellow Labrador Annie greeted as Bogart. He walked with them for awhile, then peeled off to chase something in the woods.

"Hope it's not a skunk," Annie said. "We'll turn around here, no need to exhaust you before the day begins."

She made coffee in an old drip thing like nothing Jordan had seen before. They drank it at the table, the windows open and the sun filling the front yard. Annie lit her first cigarette of the day and sighed. "I like mornings to start this way," she said. Then she focused on Jordan. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Better. I know I have things to work on, I know I may never know the truth about my mother, but I'm away from the edge, as you call it. I'm not feeling like giving up and ending it." She looked at Annie. "That was the hardest thing to admit."

Annie smiled. "Yet everyone who loves you knows, has known, that for years, that you simply don't care if you live or not, it's part of what makes you Jordan." She rubbed her eye. "But the thoughts you had yesterday, of actively ending it, that's another matter."

"I know. Everything was overwhelming, hurt too much. I think I need to find someone to help me work through it, though that's no great insight."

Annie patted her hand. "Insights poured from you last night, if you don't remember them this morning, you will later. Blood doesn't determine destiny, Jordan."

"It did for you."

"But not for my sister. Not only did she turn out absolutely normal, she was embarrassed by the family history. Witches scared her, and she lived with two. So blood doesn't determine destiny. I chose, I embraced what I was given, my legacy as well as my abilities, which I would have done had I been so gifted as a Smith or a Jones, instead of another link in an ancient chain of High Priestesses of the Old Religion." She grinned. "My sister has a daughter, I think she's terrified Joanna will be gifted. It's almost a certainty if I don't have children, the line must continue."

"It's what scares me most, that whatever screwed with my mother lurks in me."

"It's not in your grandmother, is it? So it doesn't mean it will be in you." She poured more coffee. "Have you tried trusting Woody with all of it? It's much easier to carry when there's someone there to share it."

"I'm afraid he'll run like hell."

"He's more likely to do that if you don't talk about it. If you take another walk on the wild side and he doesn't understand where it all comes from."

She nodded. "It's time for me to call him, isn't it?"

Annie smiled. "It's your decision, but I think you should." She gave the cell phone to Jordan. "I'm going out to put nuts and things out for the wild beasts." Her smile was easy. "Squirrels, feral cats mostly. Feeding them keeps the ferals from hunting the birds I feed." She drained her coffee and got up. "Call him if it feels right. I'll be back in about half an hour."

Jordan watched her walk outside, cross the wide yard to the barn, and enter the access door. Then she looked at the cell phone. Taking a deep breath, she opened it and pressed the numbers burned into her memory. She hoped this wasn't hard.

XXXXXXX

Jordan paced. Annie watched her, amused, as she sorted yarns in her basket. "Oh Jordan," she finally said, "relax. He wouldn't be coming if he didn't care about you."

Jordan stopped. "I know."

"Take him for a walk, or up to your bedroom, wherever, but I'll be in the kitchen. Living this way takes a lot of time, but it's worth it. The caveat is I'm not always free to leave the house."

"It's fine, Annie. Oh God." Woody's car turned into the driveway. She went out to meet him in the yard, letting him take her in his arms and hold her. He kissed the top of her head, and she stepped back, looking at him; he took her hands and met her gaze head on.

"I don't know where to start," she said.

"You don't have to explain anything," he said.

"I do, unfortunately. I'm damaged, that's probably no great surprise, but I need to talk about why, about what drives me, why I go off the deep end sometimes. Why Stiles thought he'd have to hospitalize me, which I couldn't bear, Woody, I truly couldn't." She freed one of her hands. "Let's go for a walk. Annie's cooking all afternoon, she's a wonderful cook, but try not to look shocked when there's no meat on the table."

So they walked, and Jordan talked, by the time they returned to the house, she thought all the words she was given for a lifetime had been expended over the past few days. Drained and empty, she was ready to listen, as Woody has listened. He sat with her in the wooden swing under a big leafy tree near the barn, and he told her he didn't care about her past, that because her mother had a mental illness didn't sentence her to the same fate, and if it did, he could, he would handle it, but he thought she was worrying over something that wouldn't happen. He knew she was intense, moody, obsessed sometimes, and he could live with it. He had his own flaws, could she live with them? He believed that together they could handle whatever life threw at them, if she was willing to try. When she nodded, he leaned over and kissed her. Her need for human contact, reassurance, love surged through her. He felt it, and drew her into his arms, wanting her so much.

"Let's go in the house," she said, picking up his hand and kissing his palm.

He looked a little awkward. "Is there a back door or something?"

She looked at him, then started laughing. "Well, there's always the barn, but I'd much rather be in that comfortable bed. Just stick your hands in your pockets."

Annie was at the sink, her back to them, as they passed through the kitchen and then up the creaky staircase. The room was cool, the windows open and the breeze blowing through. Jordan turned the comforter back, then awkwardness set in.

Woody came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "If you aren't ready for this, for any reason, it's fine," he said.

She turned around and put her arms around his neck. "Take the lead?"

He smiled, then kissed her, his hands working the buttons of her borrowed shirt. When it was off, he pulled his over his head, then eased her down on the bed, unhooking her bra while he kissed her. Getting pants off was a little more awkward, but soon they were naked on the cool sheets of the narrow bed.

"Guess this bed kind of speeds things up," she whispered, as they struggled not to roll the other out and onto the floor. He smiled, took that as his cue, and eased between her legs, which she wrapped around his. When he pushed inside, she bit back a whimper, not wanting him to think he'd hurt her. He moved slowly, drawing out the pleasure, wanting to please her but getting no guidance. He followed his instincts and soon she writhed beneath him, her nails digging into his back, her hips moving to meet him. When it ended, they were both drenched in sweat and sated, unwilling to move, to break their union, but nature did it for them. Woody rolled on his side, his hand on her flat abdomen, looking down at her with something akin to adoration.

Don't, she thought, I'm so afraid I'll break your heart, like mine has been so many times. Still, she reached up and stroked his face, smiling, wanting to tell him it was good but afraid to speak just yet, lest the spell be broken.

When they came downstairs, Annie was still in kitchen, tending her oven and two loaves of bread. Something simmered on the stove, and Woody was fascinated by it, wondering how one cooked on cast iron without knobs to regulate heat. She explained its workings to him as Jordan poked in the refrigerator, emerging with two beers and a Diet Coke. Woody and Annie accepted their beers with thanks, and Jordan walked to the screened door, popping the top of her Coke can as she watched late afternoon life outside. Birds flew home, squirrels still foraged, crickets began serenading the neighborhood.

"It's so peaceful, so beautiful, here," she said, turning back to her companions. "I think I could live here forever."

Annie smiled and wiped her hand on her jeans. "Everyone thinks that, but a truly primitive life takes a lot of effort. And winter is no picnic. If we didn't have each other to depend on in time of need, no one would make it through a winter here. I'm the only one who doesn't have a horse, so I get checked on a lot." She smiled again. "We look out for each other, provide for each other, support and care for one another. Like a marriage, I guess."

"I wouldn't know," Jordan said.

"Me, either, really," Woody said, leaning against the sink and sipping his beer. "My mother died when I was young, so I don't have much of an example. And then." He stopped, forced a smile, and sipped from his beer.

"You lost your father," Annie finished. "It must have been hard for you, with a younger brother to look after."

He was astonished, and looked at Jordan, who shrugged and said "She does that all time. Don't try to figure it out, you'll go nuts."

"What smells so good?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Beans, actually," she said. "And that pot has rice. Whole wheat bread in the oven, so a growing boy like you will get his protein."

Woody laughed, but his eyes went back to Jordan. She looked at him, smiled, and then she looked away, afraid of betraying too much too soon.

XXXXXXX

They left for Boston the next morning. Jordan hugged Annie for a long time, then brushed her cheek with her fingers, smiling. "Thank you so much," she said.

"Anytime, Jordan." She took Jordan's hand and squeezed it. "I want you to know you're welcome here anytime, Woody too."

She nodded and got in her car, waiting for Woody to lead the way. By the time they got to Boston and her apartment, she was exhausted, her reserves simply weren't there. Woody parked behind her on the street, then followed her up. Once inside, she turned to him, dropping her purse from her shoulder to the floor. "I'm wiped out," she said, leaning her head against his chest.

"Want me to go get something to eat?"

She looked at him, he had to be as tired as she was. "No, I'll be OK."

"Want me to stay with you?"

"For a little while." She walked to the couch and flopped bonelessly on it, grabbing a throw pillow and holding it to her stomach with both arms. He sat next to her, trying to gauge her state. She was slumped, and she looked up at him and smiled reassuringly. "I'm shattered, but it's physical. A good night's sleep in my own bed will work wonders."

"Are you planning on going to the morgue tomorrow?"

"I think so. I have to face them sometime, I'd rather get it over with."

"Don't be surprised if Garret sends you home. Out of concern for your recovery, not because he's going to fire you or force you into something. He just wants to be sure you're OK before you start working again."

"I know." She pushed herself upright and took his hand. "This isn't the first time I've wigged out around Garret. I really thought he was going to have Stiles commit me, and that's what pushed me into warp drive. I know it's my welfare that concerns him, but just the idea of being locked up." She shivered, and he put his arm around her. She leaned against him, feeling safe, and thought about asking him to stay, then knew she had to be alone in this apartment sometime, better to do it now than prolong the anxiety.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said. He kissed her, then stood, and she took his hand, pulling herself to her feet.

"Thank you, Woody." She put her hand on his cheek.

"Anytime," he said. "I'm always here for you."

She nodded and walked him to the door. Once she was alone, she peeled off her clothes and went to shower. Clean, hair washed, she dressed in her duck PJ's and looked in the refrigerator. She grabbed a Diet Coke instead of a beer, then went to her bed, taking a book with her. She got comfortable, lying on her side, and started reading. It wasn't long until she slept, the book still in hand and the lamp burning.

She walked into the morgue at nine. She knew Woody would have alerted Garret and that he would have issued warnings and instructions to the crew, so she expected to be treated with kid gloves, they'd get over that soon enough. It was Garret she had to satisfy, that she was on the mend, capable of working, would make private arrangements for someone to talk to. Stiles annoyed her too much to allow her to open fully to his probing, his help such as it was. She got off the elevator and immediately saw Lily walking out of the lab. She stopped when she saw Jordan, a big smile spreading across her face.

"Later, Lily," she promised, "I have to see Garret first." She kept moving, afraid if she stopped before seeing Garret she'd chicken out. She felt as if she was facing judgment, silly as she knew that was. His office door was open, he was at his desk, on the phone, his back to the door. She rapped on the glass and he spun around.

"I'll call you back," he said, and hung up, then rose. "Jordan," he said, softly, coming around his desk as she stepped into the inner sanctum. He looked at her, then drew her into his arms, kissing the side of her head. "You scared the shit out of me, but I'm sorry I returned the favor. I would have fought Stiles tooth and nail, you know that."

"I do now. I didn't then. I'm sorry, Garret. The time away was healing, I'm ready to make some changes, finally deal with some things. And I'd like to come back to work. I'm physically fine and emotionally, I'm as stable as I'm ever going to be."

"So you're still Jordan, just more, uh, settled?"

"Guess so. I'm going to make an appointment with a shrink, I don't want to deal with Howard. But it's important that I get back to this-" she gestured with her hand. "Back to normal life. To my family."

"You're really OK?"

She nodded. "I'm never going to be some demure, nice little girl, but I'm OK. My friend and Woody picked up the pieces of my heart, you might say, I was able to talk about a lot of things I've kept bottled up inside for too long. So. Can I come back to work?"

He nodded. "As long as you promise to talk to me at the first sign of trouble."

"I do."

"OK. Come in tomorrow, take today and rest, get things done, whatever it is you need to do, and we'll see you in the morning."

"Great." She smiled. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Go on, some of us have work to do." He smiled. "Make sure you say hi to Nigel, he's been fretting for a few days."

"I will. See ya." She walked out of the office and stopped by trace. Nigel and Bug were chatting, obviously alerted by Lily, and they lit up when she walked in. She hugged them, assured them she was fine, would be in the next morning, and then she stopped in to repeat the same thing to Lily. That done, she waited for the elevator, ready to face life again, to do what she had to do to be whole again. The elevator doors opened, and she almost ran into Dr. Stiles. Suppressing a groan, she said "How ya doing, Howard?" and tried to pass by him.

He grabbed her arm. "When did you get back? I should have been notified. We're going to have to talk."

She sighed and took his hand off her arm. "No, we aren't. I'll be seeing a civilian. Let's just say you're not getting another piece of me for awhile, I don't trust you right now, and it's imperative I work with someone I trust." She stepped into the elevator and looked at him as the doors slid together. He frowned, she smiled. As the doors sealed and she began her descent, she drew a deep breath and then she smiled, thinking of Woody, of the night to come. She needed to shop, she wanted to make it as close to perfect as she could, but she knew they both thought that narrow bed in an old farmhouse was as perfect as it comes. She left the building, giving in to the urge to sing, and like the little girl she had once been, she actually skipped to her car. Jordan was back.

END