Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan doesn't belong to me. I thought this story belonged to me, but I'm starting to think it's got a mind of its own.

A/N: This story has been bouncing around in my head for years and years, ever since they introduced James Cavanaugh's character into the show. What if he wasn't just a fugitive from the law? What if he wasn't really as crazy as he seemed? What if there was far more to James Cavanaugh than met the eye? The story picks up right before the end of 'Pandora's Trunk, Part II', and takes the place of 'O Brother, Where Art Thou'.

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James

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The door slams open and Detective Hoyt bursts through it, Max Cavanaugh on his heels.

"Whoa," Hoyt gasps, obviously shocked at the scene. His gaze first falls on my father's dead body, and then he spots Jordan sprawled across the couch with her head in my lap. He moves purposefully toward us but stops short when he catches sight of the guns in my belt. His hand flies to his holster and I sigh in thinly veiled disgust.

"You can stand down, Detective," I inform him, my tone weary. "If I were going to shoot you, I'd have done it already."

"Let her go, James," Max demands, fear for Jordan's safety clear in his expression. "You don't want to hurt Jordan."

"That may be the first smart thing I've ever heard you say," I say, trying to keep a lid on my temper. I know I'm not exactly his favorite person, but this is ridiculous.

"James –" Max begins again, and I interrupt him.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I snap, setting my fingers lightly against Jordan's pulse again. It's still strong, and her eyelids flutter when my hand touches her neck. "I didn't hurt her. She went to see Malden and he drugged her."

"If he drugged her," Hoyt says slowly, taking another step closer to us, "then she needs to go to the hospital."

"Which is why I called an ambulance," I reply as Jordan begins to stir. "To tell you the truth, I thought they'd get here before you." Returning my attention to my sister, I move my hand up to stroke her cheek, watching her fight her way back to consciousness.

"Hey, Sis," I say softly as she blinks up at me, finally awake. "How're you feeling?"

"Head hurts," she mutters, reaching up to rub her forehead. "I'm thirsty."

"Side effects of the methylhexital," I identify for all three of them, giving Max a nod. "You should get her a glass of water."

"And a tylenol," Jordan adds, groaning.

"Not a good idea," I tell her gently. "No analgesics until the methylhexital is all out of your system. It's bad for your liver."

"Not having them is bad for my head," Jordan grumbles, but the only response she gets from me is a tired smile as my hand brushes her hair away from her face. The fact that she's complaining means she's doing noticeably better than she was ten minutes ago, which is reassuring, but all the complaining in the world isn't going to get her any tylenol.

Sirens from downstairs signal the arrival of the ambulance. Hoyt looks instinctively toward the window, clearly wondering whether the sirens are ambulance or police, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. There's a subtle but distinct difference among ambulance, fire, and police sirens, varying by district and county but still unmistakable to the trained ear. The fact that Hoyt is either too dumb or too ignorant to know one from another is a strike against him in my book.

Of course, the fact that he's spent the past two years chasing after my sister like a dog after a car is a much bigger strike.

The EMTs have the courtesy to knock on the kicked-in door, hanging uselessly from its upper hinges courtesy of Hoyt, before charging into the room. The dead body on the floor gives them a moment's pause, but when I call them over they abandon my father's corpse to come and take care of my sister.

Tersely, I give them the gist of what's happened, and they give Jordan a cursory once-over before loading her onto a gurney. I expect her token protest, but I'm surprised when she grabs my hand and refuses to let go.

"Come with me, James," she pleads, and I'm sure stronger men than me have been suckered in by that tone. Unfortunately, I've created a bit of a situation here, and I'm going to have to clean it up somehow before I can go back to playing nursemaid to Jordan.

"You'll be fine, Sis," I promise her. "Max here is going to go with you, all right? I've got some explaining to do. I'll catch up with you later."

Max Cavanaugh clearly doesn't like that idea, but Hoyt waves him off, still watching me.

"I can handle him," Hoyt promises, and I'm not sure whose snort of disbelief is louder, mine or Max's. Jordan makes an irritated face at both of them, and I wonder if she's forgotten that the last time I saw Max Cavanaugh I tied him to a chair and pistol-whipped him. He's got reason to distrust me.

"I'll be good," I promise, entirely for Jordan's peace of mind. I wouldn't object to Hoyt developing reservations about taking me on alone, and I'm actively in favor of Max Cavanaugh having a healthy fear of me. It'll make both our lives easier.

Jordan accepts that, and with a last mistrustful look back at me, Max follows her and the EMTs out of the room.

Hoyt and I are left staring at each other. The stark terror on his face and belated scramble for his service weapon when I reach for the two guns tucked into my belt are almost enough to draw a laugh from me, but when my eyes fall on Malden's gun in my hand, the laugh dies on my lips.

I set the guns down together on Jordan's overstuffed couch, my second-favorite Smith and Wesson .38 Special next to Malden's police-issue 9mm. They look out of place there, two sleek instruments of death lying between a bright purple throw pillow and the crumpled cover of a TV guide that has clearly seen better days.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Detective," I tell Hoyt. I don't have to look to know that he's breathing a sigh of relief, and I wonder if he really would have had the guts to shoot me.

"You're going to have to come with me, please," he says, and it would be more convincing if he didn't say it in a tone that was more maitre'd than law enforcement. Nonetheless, the game is over now. It's time for me to face up to the consequences.

I turn to face him again, closing my eyes briefly as the pounding in my head intensifies. The adrenaline of the past half-hour is wearing off, as is my last dose of the stimulants I've been taking for the past several days, and the reality of the situation is starting to set in. Hoyt is going to arrest me and take me down to the local police precinct, and then I'm going to have to explain why I shot and killed their chief of police, who also happens to be my biological father.

As I hold out my wrists to Hoyt to be handcuffed, not bothering to offer even a pretense of resisting arrest, it occurs to me that, like Jordan's TV guide, I've seen better days.