Acquainted with the Night

A/N: Sentinel belongs to UPN and Pet Fly, Daredevil to Marvel et al, Gargoyles to Buena Vista. No infringement intended for any of these. Daredevil characters based off the movie and the novel; I am not dragging in the whole Marvel Universe. (Don't get me started on their continuity problems....)

~*~*~*~*~
Sunset came to a Cascade apartment building in a scatter of pigeons, a crackle of breaking stone, a roar of strength pent-up and chained while day lasted-

And a down-wash of rain that soaked the waking gargoyle to her amber skin. "Aw, man...."

"S-s-sorry," the thirteen-year-old blond huddled in the far corner of the rooftop managed. Sorties of rain shot past his black umbrella, spreading dark patches over a gray backpack and streaking navy down worn jeans. "I - you wouldn't wake up, Viv, and I didn't know-"

"It's all right, Es. The Rainier U. Marching Band couldn't wake me up in the daytime. Not when I'm like this." Amber talons shimmered, shrank into thinner, human hands. Vivian Cannon set bare heels to the chill of wet roof, shivered as she got under her brother's umbrella. Brr... forgot how lousy the West Coast could get. "Better?"

Es stared. "How'd you do that?"

"I don't know. It just works." She shivered again, chafed her arms under her wool sweater. The seams in the back might be necessary in one form, but they were two cold gaps when she was human. "Did you tell Dad? Or Sarah?"

He shook his head, walking with her into the dry shelter of the building stairwell. "Mom thinks I'm at the library, and Dad...." Es shook off the umbrella, not meeting her gaze. "Well, you know Dad."

Yeah. She knew. Mr. If-it's-not-a-floor-plan, it-doesn't-exist. Guess I just wished I didn't, Viv thought, opening her own backpack. She pawed past observation notes and a wallet of ID, the few fragments of her life she'd managed to grab dashing out of New York, and dragged out a pair of broken-in sneakers. "Thanks."

"I brought you some lunch," Es offered, unzipping his pack. A waft of peanut butter and bacon hit her nose, coupled with a crisp bite of apple. "Viv - if you're really in trouble, can't you just come home? We could call the cops-"

"They own the cops!" Viv squeezed her eyes shut, fought back the tears. Tired... she was so tired. First that whole weirdness that'd hit Manhattan, then fighting to stay at Columbia when her fellow grad students were terrified of her... god, she was terrified of herself. And now....

"Maybe in New York they do." Es folded his arms. "But this is Cascade. You ever checked the Major Crimes solve rate? They're awesome!"

Trust Es to know. Twenty-one and he'd be into the Academy and gone, no matter what their father wanted. "Maybe," Viv said wearily. "I just - I need to think, Es. I need to think." She scraped together a smile. "Don't tell them I'm here, okay?"

Eyes gray as her own turned stubborn, ducked away. "Okay. But you should tell them, Viv. They could help!"

"I'll think about it." Huddled on herself, Viv listened to her brother clatter down the stairs. I'm okay. I got this far. I'm still alive.

There's got to be a way out of this.

I just need to think.

~*~*~*~*~
"Yeah. Yeah, I got you. We got it covered. Yeah. Boss'll be happy to hear you don't forget what you owe." Ignatius Calabrese closed his cell, grinned. "Easy money."

Dorcea Kant draped herself over her lover's arm, rubbing her leather top against the muscles under a denim jacket. "Who was that, Ig?"

"Guy out New York way owes Elliot a favor," the biker leader shrugged. "Says there's a contract might be coming this way. We pick it up, we got an in with the East Coast." He leered at her. "And a nice, big chunk of change."

"Big enough to buy... pretty things?" the brunette cooed. "Who do we have to kill?"

"Not you, sweetness." He trapped her fingers, nibbled them. "Moves you have with safes, shouldn't hurt your pretty hands with somebody stupid enough to be in the wrong place, the wrong time."

"Aw." Dorcea pouted. "I would, you know. For you." She gave him a wicked smile. One more week, and I'll know who Elliot is. Then your gang will be mine... and we'll see whose hands get hurt. "So who is it? It won't be easy, you know. Not here."

"One dumb broad, thinking with her feet?" Ig made a rude gesture. "Even Cascade cops have to know there's trouble before they can drop the hammer. Word is, East Coast Feds stepped in it but good; they're not gonna let the locals in on this one. Nah. This is a college kid. She's got no friends, no brains, and no chance. She's dead." Teeth gleamed, bright as the gold wrapping his neck. "She just don't know it yet."

~*~*~*~*~
"And with Mr. Lee's fish safely in the hands of Jessie's chef - I don't even want to know how you pulled that off-"

"Henri gets bored working with red meat," Matt Murdock shrugged. It was amazing what gossip you could pick up strolling through Hell's Kitchen day after day. Especially when you could hear a whisper a block away. "Jessie doesn't want to scare off her paying customers, so she wants him to try out the fish recipes on a small scale first."

"Great. Whatever. So we can finally see our way to clearing Mr. Lee's fees for services rendered in real cash. All I'm saying is-" Foggy's arm was a blur of echoes against early morning traffic, silver on black, a swish of a foam ball once more missing the office net. "You need a break, Matt."

Matt fingered the medallion at his neck; a Greek good-luck charm, skin-warm dots of Braille down its back. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh." Skepticism rang through his partner's tone, overwhelming even the rapid beat of his heart. "You've been through every hospital and federal agency in the five boroughs. The captain of that SWAT team put on caller ID just so he'd know it was you. The head of Missing Persons called me and asked if I knew anybody you could talk to. And not in a good way." Nelson paused, drew in a sharp breath. "She's not here, Matt."

Elektra. It still hurt; as if her sai had gone through his own heart. "She has to be somewhere."

Foggy thumped his head on a handbook of New York property law. "Matt-"

Matt lost the rest of it in a rush of footsteps, echoing on the street outside. Quick, impatient; a shorter man, weaving his way through the crowd with the take-no-prisoners stride of a longtime resident of Hell's Kitchen. A rustle of damp trench coat. A pounding heart; a good heartbeat, solid, despite the cloud of stale cigarette smoke and faint mint bite of nicotine gum.

Oh no.

Ben Urich pushed through their office door. Stood there a moment, matching gazes with a blind man.

"Mr. Urich," Foggy said brightly. "What can our firm do for the Post today?"

"Not the Post. Not exactly." The reporter sighed. "I need your help."

~*~*~*~*~
Two hours ago.

"So while there might not be alligators in the sewers, there definitely were will'owisps in the storm drains," Ben Urich murmured under his breath, heading for his desk at the Post on automatic pilot. He might do most of his writing in his apartment, but the editors liked to see his face every other day or so. If only to be sure the guy who'd broken the story on the Kingpin was still breathing. "Like we always say, if you can't take the H.E.A.T., stay out of New York." Ben shook his head. "Still needs something." Oh well. The words would come once he sat down at his keyboard. They always did-

"Take it all," a firm, federal voice instructed. "The tape, the machine, anything attached."

"Hey. Hey!" Urich dodged a looming police officer, poked his head into his closet of an office in time to see two Feds about to make off with his answering machine. "What's going on here?"

"Benjamin Urich? Special Agents Flynn Cox and Ella Foster." The male FBI agent flashed his badge, moved to block the shorter reporter from his partner. "We're in the process of locating a Federal witness. Sorry for the inconvenience-"

You got nothing on Manolis, mister. Practice slipping through police lines let Urich slide past, punch the tape out of his machine before the lady Fed could snatch it. "That's evidence in an ongoing investigation-" the brunette started.

"And last I checked, this is my office." Ben gave her a civil nod. "So if you'll excuse me...."

But Cox was a lump of cheap-suited muscle in the doorway. And he wasn't alone.

"Urich." His chief editor, Devona Fairchild, carefully made-up face as sour as a bowl-full of crabapples. "They've got a warrant."

"I got a right to protect my sources," Ben argued.

"Take it up with the judge." Cox moved in, a mean glint in blue eyes.

"Flynn." Foster pressed her lips together. "Mr. Urich, this woman's not implicated in any crime. But if we don't find her, nobody will be able to protect her."

"I know New York Missing Persons," Ben said warily, tape tucked into his right coat pocket. He'd met them often enough the past week, usually just before or after Matt Murdock had blazed through. "You're not them."

"No." Cox looked all too happy about that. Held out an imperious hand.

"I'll get the guys downstairs to make you a copy," Ben shrugged.

Now Foster was starting to look unhappy. "Her life is in danger, Mr. Urich. We're taking the tape."

"Okay," the reporter said easily. Nimble fingers shuffled the debris in his pocket. "After the guys get me a copy."

"Of the real tape," Foster said wryly. "Not whatever you just switched."

Damn. Not subtle enough. "Shall we?"

~*~*~*~*~
"...So I came here," the reporter finished.

"Ah, why?" Foggy ventured. "Not that we wouldn't appreciate you as a client, Mr. Urich, but I don't see much of a case here."

"Yeah. Not much of a case." Echoes traced a flutter of movement, a click as Urich co-opted the office tape player.

Beep. "-Can't you pick up!" A young woman's voice; rushed, shaking, with an odd timbre to it Matt couldn't quite place. "Oh who am I kidding, nobody's up at one in the morning, oh god.... They killed him. So much blood. I saw it, Mr. Urich, I saw it all...."

Dry sobs; the shuddering breath of someone who'd been shutting everything out, pushing herself to just keep going, keep moving, keep breathing. "I was up on the ledge, on fifteenth floor. You know, Jericho's nest? Just some observations on the chicks. And I heard - I heard something weird-"

Deep breath. "I heard this guy say, Palermo, your problem is, you just won't play." A shaky sigh. "I know. Up there, the wind, that far - I know! It's just - it's the wind, you know? Ever since that night...." A dry swallow. "So I looked. I just looked. And there were these four guys, standing by a window across the street. Two of them were holding onto this one guy, the whole arm-lock bit - he really didn't want to be there, you know?

"So the guy kind of straightens up and says, Graves, come on, we can talk about this-

"Oh, you already talked, didn't you, Palermo? Says Graves. Or should I say, Mr. Hill. Kind of sarcastic, you know? Cute deal you cut with the Feds. Too bad our friend in Justice knew right where to find you."

Foggy swore under his breath.

"And- and then... one of them took out a knife, and he started - it was so red, so fast-" The woman gulped. "I j-just ran. I got back inside, I hit the stairs - and I just ran. Didn't even think to call the cops until I almost hit the subway. I'm so sorry....

"And they shot at me! I was right outside my apartment, I just called the cops, I didn't call anyone else, I didn't tell anyone else. They couldn't have seen me but somebody tried to kill me."

Her voice was drained now, almost swamped by the whistle of a train in the distance. "I don't know what to do. Maybe you do. I'm just - going." Click.

Definitely something odd about the voice, Matt thought. "Play it again."

"Matt!" Foggy hissed. "We shouldn't even be listening to this!"

Matt tilted his head at his partner. "Foggy-"

"Do you have any idea what this means?" Disbelief rang through Foggy's voice. "It could be a leak! In Witness Protection!"

"Feds seem to think so." Urich leaned against a bookcase. "They're everywhere. Like a bunch of wet hornets."

"Matt, I know we need bigger cases, but this is not the way to go." Foggy shook, like a St. Bernard shedding water. "I'm sorry, Mr. Urich, but-"

"Foggy." Matt looked toward the reporter's voice.

Without a word, Urich punched play.

"-Can't you pick up-"

Matt closed his eyes, listening behind the words. Shut out the daylight sounds filtering into the law office, focussed on the raw, night-worn voice, the beat of air about the phone receiver, a whisper of a formal announcement before the whistle cut through.

Soft susurration. Like rough silk over cloth, or fine leather on leather. A thump of flesh on glass; as if the woman had bumped her knee against the wall of the phone booth. Yet in the wrong place for a knee.

As the sound echoing off her frame was wrong, painting the shadowy image of bones heavier than human, shapely muscle cloaked in a rustle of skin.

Faded words under the whistle, formal with just a hint of the South. "-Last trips to Hartsfield and Peachtree Street-"

Click.

"She was in a train station," Matt said softly. "Peachtree Street. Atlanta?" He tilted a sightless glance Urich's way. "And she's a gargoyle."

The reporter blew out a slow breath. "Damn."

"She's a - you-" Foggy shook his head, jabbed an accusing finger at Urich. "So what do you expect us to do about this?"

Good question, Matt thought warily. The reporter knew better than to think a pair of small-time lawyers could be any help here. Which means he didn't come here looking for a lawyer.

Urich. Kingpin. Elektra. Father Everett. Of all the people who knew who Daredevil was, why did he suddenly feel Urich was going to be the most trouble?

"Here?" Radar traced Urich's shrug. "Nothing. She's split. Detective Manolis' got a line into the investigation, so there's one honest cop on the case. 'Bout all I can do." Balding skin shifted under felt; Matt pictured the reporter giving him a wry, wary glance. "Devona told me to get out of town. Want to come?"

~*~*~*~*~
"So who is she?" Matt's voice was low, almost inaudible over the roar of jet engines. "And why do you think you can find her when the FBI can't?"

"Vivian Cannon," Ben Urich stated; this source, he could rattle off by heart. "24. Grad student, Bio, Columbia. One of the people who got hit the night Demona sent Manhattan berserk; seemed to be coping with the whole gargoyle bit. Mostly by ignoring it. Specializes in raptors - the birds, not the dinosaurs." The reporter peered through amber lenses at his photo of a young, black-haired woman, her gray eyes alight with sardonic patience. "Pretty."

Dark glasses hid Matt Murdock's gaze, but the wry twist in the redheaded lawyer's voice was unmistakable. "I wouldn't know."

Smart aleck, Ben thought. Well, Nelson warned me. Guess I just didn't realize how much he was still bleeding. Damn it, Elektra... I hope you're not missing on purpose. "Father Tony Cannon, architect. Few shady deals in his past, nothing prosecutable. Wouldn't have even been suspected if his first wife hadn't been hit in a drive-by."

"First wife."

"Trista. Vivian's mother," Urich nodded. Good. He's paying attention. Not that it made Murdock's knuckles any less pale. Who'd have thought. The Man Without Fear's a white-knuckle flier. "Word is she was just a bystander, but Cascade PD looked real hard at Cannon. Nothing came of it, year later he marries Sarah Long, year after that Vivian gets a new brother."

"Esmond."

"Pain in the neck teenager, but not a bad kid, from what she told me." Ben shrugged. "Peachtree Street and one A.M. makes that Atlanta's last high-speed train of the night. Hartsfield Atlanta International Airport." Amazing what you could find with a few facts and a quick check of the Internet. "And she's walking around gargoyle. Damn."

"You didn't know she was a gargoyle?" Matt's fingers flexed on the armrest.

"No. I did. Look." The reporter shoved back his cap, knuckled worried brows. "I mean...."

"I've been blind since I was twelve." A glimmer of humor, there and gone like light in water. "I can 'look'."

Okay, Urich. He's not going to take your head off. Move on. "Time of that call puts her up and moving in the oh-dark-hundred, day before yesterday. Now, Viv was one of my sources on the whole gargoyle bit, before Demona blew the piece from urban myth to in-your-face reality. But she was a daytime source; you know, somebody on the rooftops, looking for claw marks and bits of rock." He sighed. "And she stayed daytime. Wouldn't even be out after dark. Didn't want to be tempted to change."

"Tempted." Trust an Irish Catholic to load that word with dark suspicion.

"Talked to a couple of people in the 23rd Precinct - off the record," Ben acknowledged. "They say it's hard to fight, 'specially if you hear somebody in trouble. Or get shot at. Captain Chavez is still trying to shake down her people's procedures to deal with it. Police brutality just got real complicated."

The lawyer snorted.

"Go ahead and laugh. Wait 'til you meet one of those guys on a rooftop."

Auburn brows rose. "Now, why would I do that?"

"Funny, Murdock. Very funny. So we had an Atlanta train," Urich went on. "One thing witnesses agree on is that if the wind's right, a gargoyle's got no problems matching speed with a train."

"You think she changed, caught a train out of New York, and headed to Atlanta," Matt said thoughtfully. "Why?"

"Instinct," the reporter said succinctly. "She got shot at. She's scared. She doesn't handle being a gargoyle well on a good day - but if she shifts back to human, she's just as vulnerable as the rest of us. And the first thing a gargoyle heads for is home territory."

Eyebrows were all but touching the shock of red hair. "You think she caught a plane to Cascade?" Matt frowned. "So why didn't you go to the police with this?"

"You read her statement," Ben said bluntly. "You see any way Graves could've put a hit on her if somebody in NYPD hadn't leaked it?"

"You brought us a whole folder," Matt objected. "Foggy didn't have time to type it into Braille-"

"You read it," Urich repeated. "I don't know how, but you did. You couldn't have gotten Esmond's name anywhere else." He tilted his head, studying the lawyer. "I checked your medical records. Corneal burns. Some mish-mash of toxins; hospital hasn't seen it before or since. You are utterly, absolutely, one hundred percent blind." So how do you do that?

Matt stared ahead. "Justice might have leaked it. Or the FBI, or who knows what. WitSec would have rung a lot of bells." A frown drew down red brows; the lawyer craned his head toward the window, listening.

Ben listened, didn't hear anything. Like that's any surprise. You spent a week nursing info out of everybody Murdock talks to. They know he's special; just none of them puts it together how special. "What?"

Matt hesitated. "Nothing."

"It's not nothing. Not if it's got you strangling the chair." Urich glanced at chattering fellow passengers, let his voice drop. "What do you hear?"

Matt let a soft breath sigh out, as if he didn't expect to be believed. "The rivets are creaking. All down the wings."

Ah. That explained the white knuckles. I was right. Isn't that a poke in the eye. "Airframe flexes under stress," the Post reporter informed him. "Never flown before?"

"I don't know why I'm flying now."

Definite challenge. Ben tried to handle it with kid gloves. "'Cause Viv needs help. And given how much heat my last piece on the Kingpin kicked up, Devona wants me out of town for a while anyway. Might as well make it a working vacation."

"You could have found someone in Cascade to help you look for her."

Heck with gentle. "And you could've taken a bullet in Hell's Kitchen, any day this week," the reporter bit out, voice low. "Fisk doesn't have to tell anybody who you are, or what you did. All he has to do is say he wants you dead. You want to make it easy for him?"

"It wouldn't be easy." No trace of the lawyer now.

"I know that." Urich rubbed tired eyes. "Look. I've been around. Talking to people." Ever since he'd found out the Daredevil he'd been chasing for years was the last person anyone would expect. A blind lawyer. Wish I'd seen the look on Fisk's face.

Or maybe not. Wasn't like the Kingpin needed more reasons to knock off one Ben Urich, investigative reporter.

"Have you," Matt said levelly.

"Hey. An Irish assassin does a swan dive onto my car, what do you expect?"

Humor lurked in Matt's voice. "Sounds like you got too close to your story."

"Funny. Matt...." Ben sighed. "Father Everett didn't talk. That much blood on the scene, he didn't have to. You came that close to looking the Grim Reaper in the eye, Matt. You. Need. Rest." And Daredevil's not going to get it. Not in Hell's Kitchen.

"I'm fine."

Ben looked at him askance. "Don't give me that. I've seen people bleed out." Too many times, covering his beat. "You ought to be in a hospital."

Matt shifted in his seat. "I don't... stay hurt as long as most people."

Urich blinked. Just when I thought I'd heard it all. "You serious?"

"Yeah." The lawyer rubbed his jaw. "I don't know why."

"Huh." That explained a lot. Plenty of concussed hoodlums had sworn they'd hit the Devil with more punishment than any man could take. Yet he was still out there, night after night, year after year. How many years? Ben wondered. How long have you been hunting the guys who killed your father?

The same people who'd killed Elektra Natchios. Or tried to. From the ear Ben had put to the ground, NYPD SWAT had found her, restarted her heart, kept her alive long enough to get to the hospital. Doctors swore she'd made it through surgery.

And then she'd vanished. Right out of the ICU.

Matt had been tearing the city apart ever since.

"So maybe your muscles are back in one piece," Urich said skeptically. Frankly, he doubted it; the way Murdock had handled his luggage during boarding, he was still favoring his shoulder. "Your heart's a whole 'nother ball of wax."

"Don't go there, Urich." Warning. Definite warning.

"Matt. As a friend-"

"We're not friends."

"Fine. As an interested observer." The reporter drummed his fingers on the armrest. "There's something else out here in Cascade. Somebody I'm going to talk to, while we look for Viv. Somebody you ought to listen to, even if it's just hanging around the corner while I interview the guy." He waited.

Silence stretched between them.

Right. This is the guy who's built more court cases than I've had parking tickets. "You're supposed to ask 'who', Matt."

"I'm sure you're going to tell me anyway," the lawyer sighed.

"Blair Sandburg. Anthropology." Urich paused, delivered the coup de grace. "Guy who might have been studying enhanced senses."

Matt went still. "Urich."

"You don't have to come."

"Urich, don't."

"You don't have to even be in hearing distance. Whatever that is, for you."

"Urich-"

"Jose Quesada," Ben said deliberately.

"Came to a bad end," Murdock said, just as even. "Or so I heard."

"Yeah. Funny, that." Ben stretched back in his seat as their plane finally slid past the Rockies. "See, I know Daredevil. He's been in and out of more dust-ups than the Apple has bars. Ten at a time, twenty at a time - and nobody got killed. Hurt bad, sometimes, but not killed." He looked his seatmate in the eye. "One guy with a gun in a subway station, and Daredevil's got to hit him so he can't walk away. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Matt's jaw was set. "I guess it would."

"So I went back there, and I listened," the reporter said softly. He'd taken it slow, going from step to step down the stairwell, closing his eyes every few feet to try and sort sound from sound. Finally stood by that fatal pillar... and found himself lost in a wash of train-squeal and faded voices, the clamor bounding and rebounding until it might have come from anywhere. "Never realized how many echoes there are down there."

A shadow of a shrug. "I try not to take the subway."

"Doesn't surprise me." Though before, the reporter would have thought that was just the prudent reaction of anybody with a handicap to being closed in with strangers of possible ill intent. "I don't know how you do what you do. Do you?"

"I handle it."

"Oh yeah. You handle it so well." Urich shook his head, feeling the subtle bank as their plane turned toward the Pacific. Wondering how it felt to Matt; not good, if that convulsive clamp of fingers on seat was any indication. "Your padre's worried about you, your partner's worried about you - far as I can tell, the only guy who's not worried about you is you. And that worries me."

Dark glasses hid the sight of Matt's glare, but not the chill feel of it. "I'm not going near a lab."

"Who's talking labs?" Urich shrugged. "I'm going to ask Sandburg how Rainier U. screwed up so bad, he almost got thrown out of academia 'cause somebody got hold of his creative writing and tried to publish it. Without his permission."

"And you think he'll tell you what you want to know." Matt's tone held boundless skepticism.

"Murdock, I know Ph.D.s." Urich grinned. "Problem will be getting him to stop talking... Matt?"

The lawyer swallowed, face pale. "I have to get out of here."

Not good. "We're at twenty thousand feet," Ben pointed out. Probably more than that, but over fifteen thousand, who cared? It'd kill you just as dead.

"Too loud." Another swallow. "Scents, too many people... air's shifting, hurts-"

"Easy." Urich held up a barring arm. Good thing Matt had the window seat. They were getting enough odd looks from their fellow passengers without the man bolting for the emergency door. "We'll be on the ground soon. Honest." Air shifting? What the heck's he - oh, hell. Pressure change? The cabin's thin air was just a subtle weight in his ears, not fun, but nothing to worry about.

But for someone who could hear well enough to fight blind....

Damn. He's not kidding. It's got to hurt.

"Can we help you, sir?"

Great. Just great. Ben gave the flight attendant a polite shrug. "Not unless you can put this thing on the ground any faster." He patted the lawyer's suit sleeve. "Bad flyer."

"Out," Matt whispered, sweating.

"Do you need help, sir?" The lady gave him a professional smile. "Anything?"

"No." Matt's fingers curled around the armrest, bit into plastic. "Please. Go. Away."

"Of course." The attendant bent near Urich's ear. "Does he need medical attention? Our staff is trained to deal with this...."

Not this, you're not, Ben thought. He'd seen panic before. Murdock was hanging on by his fingernails right now. Last thing they needed was a guy with a needle to drive him over the edge. Go after a trained martial artist with a sedative. Oh yeah, great idea. "It's okay, I'll look out for him. Thanks."

She smiled, and sauntered away, and Urich didn't believe a minute of it. "Better lock it down quick, Matt," he murmured. "Or Ms. Helpful over there's coming back with a needle full of happy-juice."

Matt stiffened. "Bad idea. Hospital - can't-"

Right. That was the other weird bit in Matt's medical files. The pediatric ward had found out the hard way that their twelve-year-old patient didn't always respond to drugs the way he should. No reason to think that had changed. And the day just keeps getting better. "Can you think about something else? Anything else?"

"Trying." Slowly, Matt pried his left hand off plastic. Reached for his throat, pulling out a thin strand of silver.

Braille? Ben thought, watching Matt's finger trace the back of the charm. Who'd - get some sense, Urich. It's Greek. You know damn well who. The reporter glanced forward, where the attendant was still murmuring with a few of her friends. Can't hear it, but it sure doesn't look good. Okay, think. Matt's ears hurt, so... he's trying to think about something that's not what he hears. Anything you can do about that?

Maybe. "Help if I lean on you?"

"What...?"

Urich shrugged, reached up to wrap a hand over the taller man's shoulder. Good thing nobody knows us here. "Am I gonna have to carry you off this plane? 'Cause I'm telling you now, I know you're heavier than you look."

"Dense bones. Runs in the family." A little color filtered back into Matt's face. "That... helps."

Don't let go, Ben heard in that silent look. No problem, Murdock. "So. You got any plans for when we hit Cascade?"

An auburn brow inched up. "Get off the plane."

"Funny, Matt. Real funny." Not that his plan was much better. He had maps, a hunch, and a good working knowledge of what the mob would be doing to find Vivian. And a gruesome surety of what would happen if they didn't find her first.

Viv, kid, where are you?

~*~*~*~*~
Special Agent Frank Mulroney stalked up to the blue-and-white pickup's passenger window, dark gaze hooded and wary. His gray suit was neat, his shoes a polished gleam of black leather in Cascade's thin sunlight. Only a slight loosening of his tie hinted how long the day had already been. "No offense, Detectives, but it doesn't take three of us to chase a long shot."

"It's not that long a shot." From the passenger seat Blair Sandburg peered at the Cannons' house, sweeping two stories of quiet elegance visually, roof to basement. "People under stress tend to head for the familiar. It's an instinctive response; you see it in everything from people to octopuses. Home territory equals places and people you know equals already-learned coping skills, which means less stress. I've been pulling together sources on it for Si- Captain Banks. He thinks it might make a good seminar, especially for Patrol; how to find your suspects when they're reacting, not thinking...."

Detective Jim Ellison watched Mulroney's eyes glaze as his unconventional partner gave the place a very conventional cop once-over, and hid a grin. That's right, Chief. Always check before you go in. "Still. It is a long way from New York to Cascade."

"Especially with people shooting at you." Curls slid over the anthropologist's plaid shirt as he scanned his notes, a soothing rustle to a sentinel's ears. "Why don't you just ask the Cannons if you can tap their phone?"

Mulroney smiled. It didn't touch his eyes. "One, we'd like this kept quiet. Two, Tony Cannon may not be dirty, but we all know he designs buildings for people who are. He'd never sit still for a phone tap. Daughter or no daughter."

Uh-huh. Sure, Jim thought darkly. And I'm taking up skydiving. Couple that with the information Mulroney's Organized Crime Task Force wasn't passing on from New York... not good. Not good at all.

"Great guy." Blair turned toward his partner as the agent headed up the Cannons' front walk. Let his lips form a near-voiceless whisper. "You think he's trying to throw us off?"

"No," Jim said reluctantly, kneading the steering wheel. "Mulroney's nervous, but then, he's talking to us. Any dirty agent would be."

"Alleged dirty agent," Blair pointed out.

"Blair, the man knows his informants are out there committing crimes."

"Somebody on the task force has to know the bikers are killing, yeah. It might not be him." Blair waved empty hands. "Either way, we still have to prove it." He unbuckled his seatbelt, touched his backpack in a casual check of notes and other gear. "So we just walk up and ask?"

"Safest way. You never know who's picking up on a cell phone." Jim closed the truck door behind him, swept the area casually with his senses as they walked up to the house. He wouldn't listen inside, not until they were invited in, but outside was legal.

Okay... nose tickled, bird fluff. Neighbor next door kept some kind of exotic parrot. Someone had just repainted one side of a house down the block a day ago; there was a distinct, less weathered difference in the shade of paint. Rumble of TVs, kids at home on the weekend, blaring radios, Mulroney clearing his throat as he pressed the doorbell....

The screech of a peregrine falcon, circling in search of prey.

The sentinel frowned, scanning the sky for the bird that had to be there. Cascade had a few pairs, nesting on skyscrapers in lieu of cliffs, but this wasn't their home ground. Maybe a wandering adult, trying to claim a new territory?

And why did that thought make him suddenly uneasy?

"Mrs. Cannon?" Give Mulroney some credit, the man had official charm down pat. "Special Agent Frank Mulroney." He handed his badge to the woman in a blue walking-dress, let her examine it as he nodded toward his scruffier companions. "Detectives Sandburg and Ellison. We're looking into some leads in a homicide. May we come in?"

He did that on purpose, Jim thought, hearing the slight hesitation before Mulroney pronounced his partner's name. Why?

Possibly a verbal feint to draw their attention away from the agency's flaws. Or it could just be the usual aggravation of the FBI dealing with local cops. He couldn't tell. Ought to be some way.

Maybe. If he felt like sitting through the half-dozen tests Blair thought up every time he wanted to refine his control. Why did Blair have to test everything?

"Of course." Classy diamond earrings glinted as Mrs. Cannon nodded. The elegant door shut behind them as she headed for the kitchen, sun falling through stained glass in a mosaic of reds and blues. "I have a pot on... or do you prefer tea? Excuse me, I'd love to help, but I don't know what I might possibly know. Nothing ever happens here."

Sure. Jim hid a bitter smile, looking around luxury his father would have approved. He could think of at least five homicides, twenty robberies, and one attempted poisoning that had happened within twenty blocks of here. And that was just this year. People never have a clue.

"It didn't happen here," Mulroney said bluntly. "Mrs. Cannon, we'd like to speak with your daughter. Have you heard from her?"

"My - you mean Vivian?" Neat blonde brows drew together, politely puzzled. "No, of course not. Not since last Friday; she calls every week, New York's not the safest of cities... what's going on?"

Fast heartbeat, Jim noticed. Lying, or just nervous?

"I'm afraid there's a limit to what we can divulge...."

"We think Vivian may have seen someone killed," Blair broke in gently. "Now she's missing. Please, help us find her."

Mrs. Cannon sucked in a soft breath, gripped the marble counter. "You think... oh, no. Is she all right? What happened?"

Fear, Jim scented. Why? "Has she called?"

"I - no." A hint of iron surfaced in her genteel voice. "I told you that."

"Has she made contact in any way?"

"No." A spark in carefully made-up eyes. "If she's in trouble, Detective, this is the first I've heard of it."

No change in heartbeat. Still nervous, Jim judged. Lying? Not lying? Half-lying? He couldn't tell.

"And she would have called me," Mrs. Cannon went on, indignant, stalking the kitchen in a clatter of heels. "If she were in that kind of trouble - what are you doing to find her? She's young, she'd never hurt anyone-"

Blair's phone rang. "Ah, excuse me," the anthropologist apologized.

"I'll take it," Jim murmured, slipping the phone out of his partner's hand. He sent a subtle glance over his shoulder. Calm her down. Please.

Just outside the kitchen, he opened the phone, listening to the soothing murmur of the Sandburg Charm at work. "Sandburg's answering service."

"Ellison!" Simon. And from that growl, the captain of Major Crimes was not in a good mood. "Put your partner on. Now."

Jim dropped his voice. "He's talking to a potential source."

"This is more important. Now, Jim."

More important than a missing witness? Jim stuck his head back around the corner, waved his partner over. Tried to quell the surge of irritation as he caught Mulroney's smug smile. Yeah, talk to her. Go ahead and enjoy it. We'll still find Miss Cannon first.

"Simon?" Blair asked, taking the phone. "What's wrong?"

"Maybe nothing," Jim overheard. From the grumble, he could picture the tall, dark head of Major Crimes pushing his glasses up. "Look. Has Jim... seen anything lately?"

"What, a vision?" Blair glanced up at the sentinel. "No. Not that I know of."

"Better tell him if you have, Jim," Simon growled. "Or I swear, I'll have you busted back down to Patrol so fast it'll make your head spin."

Jim shrugged. "What's going on?"

"He says no, Simon." Blair scanned the room, heart rate hiking up a notch. "Calm down, before you scare this phone, too. You think there's something wrong?"

"Sandburg, I told you. Sometimes phones just quit. Doesn't have anything to do with me..." Simon sighed. "Look. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But since that whole mess with Alex, I've had word spread around. Asked people to keep an eye out for... weird things."

Jim exchanged a glance with his partner. Leaned near the receiver. "What kind of weird things?"

~*~*~*~*~
And there he is. Dorcea pegged Ig's latest mule with her eyes as she walked through the airport lobby, casing for cops. Dirk couldn't give her away; he'd never seen her. She could take as long and safe a look as she liked before she picked up the two-kilo load of heroin he was supposed to leave at the drop site.

And today she wanted to take a very long look. Just in case Ig's target wasn't as dumb as he thought.

Dear Ig didn't know it, but her East Coast contacts were far better than his. And the word they'd passed on said Vivian Cannon had been smart and lucky enough to dodge one set of bullets already.

Anybody that bright wasn't going to just run. She'd be spreading word as fast and far as possible, raising enough of a ruckus that targeting her would miss the point; the cops would already know all she knew.

And she'd call for help.

Too bad for her, if she did, Dorcea thought coldly. Her perch here would let her see any cop or Fed coming down the line; once she had them marked, they'd lead her to Vivian. And snagging a New York target would give Dorcea the leverage she needed to finally take control.

She'd get it in the end, anyway. But why waste time?

Here comes the New York flight. The usual crowd of grandmothers, harried businessmen, wailing kids....

And one odd pair; a tall, blind redhead stalking through the crowd, trailing a bald guy in a trench coat in his wake. A good looking guy behind the dark glasses, if you liked the clean-cut type. Which she didn't. Almost cute, if you ignored the tight lines around his mouth. Looks like someone's got the world's worst hangover, Dorcea thought dryly. Guess even a blind man ties one on before a flight.

Dirk saw him too; the mule was sauntering past the lockers, giving the world a cocky grin at walking through checkpoints one more time. He sidled over toward the red-banded cane, stuck a casual foot in the way-

The redhead stepped over it.

What?

Not satisfied, Dirk wove his way into the cane's range, mouthing something Dorcea couldn't hear. Probably foul, given what she knew of mules.

For just a second, Dorcea saw nostrils flare. Not angry, exactly. As if Redhead were... sniffing?

And in one smooth flow, Redhead swept up his cane, locked it across Dirk's throat, spun open a locker in a flash of fingers on combination lock, and shoved the unconscious mule in.

Dorcea blinked. What the....

The bald guy was doing his own frantic double-take, glancing back and forth between the locker and the redhead as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. Shot a swift glance around the oblivious crowd-

Dorcea looked away, pretending to be engrossed in a nearby travel poster. Watched from the corner of her eye, as the redhead brushed off his sleeves and casually tapped away.

She'd never seen anybody move that fast. Never.

A dull ring reached her ears; fists thudding against steel as Dirk wormed his way back to the realm of the conscious. "Hey!" A whiny yell, punctuated by thumps. "Hey! Somebody get me the hell out of here!"

Scratch two kilos, Dorcea thought coldly, watching airport security appear to investigate the sudden noise. No way would the mule avoid a search now. Too bad. But he knows better than to talk... and there's always more where he came from.

No, what worried her was the man who'd jammed Dirk into the locker in the first place.

Not Feds, she thought. And not cops. No way is Redhead a cop.

Which meant... he was something else. Something strange.

And in Cascade, strange usually tied back to one Detective James Ellison.

Word is to watch out for Major Crimes. Ellison especially. Dorcea had come close to seeing that first-hand; only her sources had kept her clear when Banks and his people lowered the boom on a chop-shop two weeks ago. He's too fast, too good. Sees things he shouldn't. Hears things he couldn't.

Like the click of a lock not even a sighted man should have been able to open cold?

Ellison or not, Redhead was a variable. And she didn't like variables.

Pasting on her most professional smile, Dorcea approached the ticket counters. Flashed her badge. "Special Agent Kant," she informed the startled woman behind the computer. "I need to know who just got off that plane."