Tarnished Haven
Chapter One: False Advertising
Rating: PG-13 (happier territory this time... I think)
Word Count: 2,050
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.
Summary: Life has a way of ruining even the best laid plans. Here's to meeting again.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of... ok...eventually :) )

Author's Note: I promised a brighter sequel to Lost Pretense. Someone told me I couldn't top Lost Pretense, and I don't think I can, really. But in lieu of paying for everyone who read Lost Pretense to have therapy, which I definitely couldn't afford, I started this...

False Advertising

He'd seen bodies before. It didn't scare him. Death wasn't something that had really bothered him, not for a long time. He still couldn't stand seeing someone's innards, but that was different. This wasn't a massacre, wasn't a butchering. It was just a death.

A death with no apparent cause.

He knelt next to the body—Hank, the man's name had been Hank, and he was one of the oldest living citizens of this forsaken pit of land. Born here, would die here, Hank always said. But for a man in his eighties, he was still going strong. He could have had a heart attack. Maybe it was just his time. That was what they would say.

He wasn't really sure why that bothered him. He didn't even know Hank, not that well, and why should he care that the man was dead in the first place?

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, a small voice said in the back of his head.

He didn't disagree, suppressing a shiver as he stood, leaving Hank's body where he'd found it. It wouldn't do any good to report it. It would be much better if they thought he had no idea what was going on here. As long as they believed that, he was safe enough.

"Turn it off." It was a familiar order, barked loudly and impatiently from the hallway. If she heard even one mention of the Gibson case, of the new campaign against such crimes by Gibson's gloating opponents, or anything to do with the name Hoyt. She never came into the room, never watched the TV or picked up a newspaper, refused to listen to anyone talk about it.

"You helped solve one of the biggest, most heinous crimes in the country," Howard Stiles observed, setting his coat down on the back of a chair in the break room. "I would think that would make you happy."

"Happy?" Jordan asked, stopping in the hallway, just outside the door. "Sure, I'm happy we stopped it from going any further. I'm not happy we let it go on for so long. I'm not happy that it cost Woody everything he had, and I'm not happy he's gone. How's that for emotional honesty, Howie?"

Stiles smiled at her. "I'm impressed, Jordan. You seem to be dealing with your emotions in a different way than usual."

"You mean, I'm not running?" she teased, a faint smile on her lips. She pulled at a loose curl and shrugged. "If I ran, maybe someone couldn't find me when he decided he wanted to."

Howard raised his eyebrows. "Are we admitting to feeling something, Dr. Cavanaugh?"

She smiled. "I'm hungry, actually. You?"

"Sadly, no," he said. "I ate before I came, the better to serve my adoring public."

"Adoring, huh? You mean Kate?" Jordan laughed. "Well, it's not that time again, Howie. I'm not due a visit until next month. I know that for a fact. And I've got a lot of work to do on this case... So I really don't have time to chat."

"You can't avoid me forever, Jordan," he reminded her. She wondered if, not for the first time, he had been Rumpelstiltskin in another life, or some other evil elf.

"Oh, but rest assured, I will try," Jordan called over her shoulder, heading back into autopsy one. She pulled on a pair of gloves and looked at Nigel. "Who called Stiles on me?"

"Wasn't me love," Nigel protested. "Actually, you've been better about all this than we thought you would be."

"You're still here," Bug observed dryly.

Jordan rolled her eyes. "I'm done with the running thing, okay? Can we please concentrate on John Doe here? Do we have an id yet?"

"Afraid not, love. But we do have a something that will intrigue you," Nigel began, beckoning her over to look at what he had found in the blood sample. "How does our pitiful hobo overdose on the highest quality designer drug?"

"You're kidding, right?" Jordan asked, but she looked over the results anyway. Yep, there it was. The latest one to hit the streets, it was a mix of ecstasy and a hallucinogen, one hell of a nasty way to party, even worse way to die. "How could he have gotten this stuff? It's so dangerous it's become too expensive for rich people. That girl last week could have gotten it, maybe, but this guy?"

"And how did that suburban housewife do it last month?" Nigel added. "I agree, our rich girl from upstate New York, she could have gotten it. Maybe. But these two... I don't think so."

Jordan looked at the results. "That's more than anyone would take unless they meant to overdose. These people didn't all commit suicide. And most of them weren't addicts, were they?"

"Oh, our bum might have been, but it's been cheap booze for him for a long time," Nigel said, looking at the body with a strange pity. "Our girl from New York was on... Let's see here..."

"Prozac," Bug finished. "She was only on prescription drugs according to her parents."

"Unless her parents are lying, and Seely, naturally thinks they were," Jordan said, frowning. Bug snorted, his opinion of Seely clear. She smiled. Even after helping to deliver Lily's baby and taking charge of them both, Bug was still jealous. "Still, it doesn't make sense. Maybe our street bum wanted to end it, but Mrs. Connors? She was pregnant, looking forward to her third child."

She pulled her hand away from her own stomach. It wasn't like she was sharing any similar hope. She wasn't even dating. She'd tried, but they weren't Woody. And they were a little put off by the ring that she couldn't get off her finger. She hadn't really wanted to, but it wasn't budging. Since she didn't feel like surgery, it was staying put. "It could have been accidental."

"Are you kidding me?"

"People have overdosed on sweaters before, remember?" she asked. "What if this drug is being distributed in a unexpected way?"

"Should we put an APB out on sweaters again, then?" Nigel asked, looking down at his keyboard. She knew it was because she had—almost—brought up Woody. That had been taboo around her for almost a year.

She thought for a minute. "What about the stomach contents?"

"You think it's in their food?" Bug asked, coming around the counter. "What could possibly have that much of this stuff in it without them noticing it? That all of them ate?"

"Not just them," Nigel muttered. "I just did a search. There are fatal overdoses from this drug all over the country. Not just the state, the country."

Jordan frowned. That didn't make sense. This drug was rare and dangerous. How could it be so widespread all of a sudden? "Bug, what was in the stomach contents?"

"Not much for our John Doe here, but milk, tuna fish sandwich..." Bug looked down at his papers.

"Did you say milk?" Nigel asked, spinning around in his seat. "As in the liquid that comes from a large bovine?"

"Yes, milk," Bug muttered impatiently. "Why?"

"Because the first reported case was on a dairy farm in a small town called Haven." Nigel shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't do a body good, now does it?"

"So Hank finally went down," one of the others said. "The old mule. I thought he'd go kickin' and screamin' but it seems like he went fast, in his sleep almost."

He waited, not saying anything. Hank didn't die in his sleep, and he doubted that was a heart attack. It was too much like the overdose they'd found two months ago. He knew addicts, and Clyde had been one, but something about Clyde's death bothered him as well.

"Old man was bound to keel over one day," Reuben agreed. "Don't know why it didn't happen sooner."

"Milk," the farmhands toasted, clinking the beer mugs and bottles together. "Old Hank swore he'd never die as long as he got his daily dose."

They broke out into loud laughter, sharing their favorite "Old Hank" stories. He paid for his beer and left, walking out into the street. The cool air of night was refreshing after the stale beer and cigarettes. He still wanted the drink, but it was too crowded in the bar.

He walked down the road a bit, enjoying the fall weather. The leaves had changed, and fall was coming in briskly. This was his favorite time of year. He wasn't sure why, and he'd decided not to analyze too much anymore. He'd done plenty of that lately. Soul searching. Analyzing. He'd considered seeing a shrink, but he didn't feel like reliving all the trauma in an effort to "heal."

Most days, he was done with all that. That life was behind him, the pain and everything else, even the good. It was over, and he didn't real mind too much. It was easier now, easier not to have to pretend, easier now that he understood why he did the things he did. It was a relief to have it all over, to have this fresh start. It was going well.

Except...

Except there were things he missed. People. He wasn't going back for them, but he hadn't forgotten them, either. He remembered stupid things, like Sherpa boots and moonshine—there was some of that around, Old Hank had been a bootlegger in his day—and he couldn't shake his instincts. He felt their pull now, telling him to look into Hank's death, into Clyde's.

He had sworn that he wouldn't get involved. That wasn't him, not anymore. He was a regular Joe, with a regular job. He had a room in a boarding house, and he was free to go as he saw fit, just one of many passing through. This place wasn't home. He didn't have one, didn't want one. He wasn't involved.

He was an outsider here, and whatever was going on, they would not make him a part of it. He wanted no part in it, didn't even want to know what it was. He had been here long enough to know that it was time to move on.

"Hey, Drifter," he heard on of the local boys call out to him. Great. Drunk and stupid, they'd left the bar and somehow managed to find him. He hadn't been going anywhere in particular, and not very fast, but he had been hoping to avoid them.

"Slim," he greeted the man, wondering why every small town had a "Slim." This one, at least, was not one of the ironically named Slims. He was as tall and thin as his name implied.

"So, we're gonna go out to Hank's and toast him a few," Slim began. "You wanna come with?"

He shook his head. Knowing these idiots, they'd burn the place down. Reuben adjusted his ball cap. "Hey, I got a better idea. Let's go tip some cows."

The others broke out laughing again, full belly laughs because of the drink rather than actual humor. He closed his eyes with a wince. It was definitely time to move on.

"In a minute, boys," Johnny agreed, the quiet one, the leader. He wasn't as drunk as the others, and something about him set off every warning bell he possessed. "First, we gotta know something, Drifter. You out by Hank's place last night?"

He eyed the other man warily. "I didn't see anything last night."

"Not what I asked, is it?" Johnny said. He stepped closer, leaning in menacingly. "But at least you've got the sense to be blind, right, boys? You understand me, Drifter. It don't pay to have eyes here. Or ears."

"I'm just passing through," he said, standing his ground. "That's all."

Johnny grunted. "We'll see about that. Seems to me, you're right cozy with someone you shouldn't be cozy with. Now, if I was you, I'd do that leaving thing quick."

He looked at Johnny, at Slim and the other laughing idiots. If he asked if it was a threat, Johnny would say it was a promise. "I go where I want."

"Ain't that the truth," Johnny muttered. "But you see, there's this thing about trespassing... Those who do it end up getting shot."