"Justice is incidental to law and order" – J. Edgar Hoover, FBI Director, 1935 - 1972.


Grace wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She was so cold. The door of the house opened and closed behind her. Norman stood on the porch, carefully studying her and steadying himself for what he was about to say. He approached her drooping frame. "When I said 'wait outside', I didn't exactly mean 'out in the rain'." Grace did not raise her head from the roof of the car.

"I wanted to," she said and it felt as if she was talking to the car. Norman momentarily considered placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. It wavered uncertainly between them. After a moment of indecision, he decided not to.

"Get in the car, Ms. Garner."

He did not mean for it to sound like the command it did. Grace clambered in and Norman walked the length of the car to get to his seat. His fastened his seat belt. "Where's yours?" he asked her.

She leaned against her door, blinking and staring into nothingness. "At the P.D. Took a taxi till here. Wasn't up for driving."

Norman got the car started. "What made you come here? After I told you not to?"

Grace gave him a look of absolute incredulity. "Sounds like you'd rather be dead than have me here."

"You'd have been dead too," he muttered. Grace heard it. She waited for it to pass.

"I came here for answers. I came here because Ethan is on the run. I thought you'd know something about it."

Norman felt that sinking feeling again. Just when he thought he was used to it. "I was out," he almost stuttered, "I got a phone call from the department informing me of his escape." All those years in the Bureau and he was still a bad liar. Luckily, Grace did not push her luck or his patience.

"Where are we going?" she asked instead.

Norman was driving now but he still gave her a brief sideward glance. "I am, you mean. You're not going anywhere." He sounded so calm and nonchalant about it. As if her opinion never mattered.

"I don't understand…" she began.

"I'm dropping you home."

"But why? What did I do?"

He did not seem to have heard her.

"You're gonna tell me the way," he said in a voice that was far from cordial, "or I'm dropping you off at the P.D."

Grace was beginning to get desperate. "I'm not going anywhere, you hear me! I'm coming with you!"

"P.D. it is," he said and continued to drive.

"You're wasting your time," she went on. "I won't be getting off there and you can't make me."

"Can't I?" he said and Grace saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. Threateningly. His lack of response angered her. The man was exasperating. She would have hit him if he hadn't been driving. Something told her he would have done the same if he hadn't been behind the wheel.

"You don't get to make my decisions for me! You just don't!" she protested.

Norman inhaled sharply and pulled over to the side of the road. "You can either let me drop you home or the P.D. Otherwise this is as far as I can take you. It's your choice."

Grace felt angry and humiliated when the tears rushed down in small rivulets. Norman looked away. "I am not going home… I won't back down. Not now." She wiped her face. Norman ran his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to yank them out of his scalp. "You don't understand, do you? The investigation's not some routine question-answer round anymore! It's gonna get uglier! More dangerous! And as a federal agent, it is my duty to safeguard- "

"Oh, spare this crap for the rookies!" Grace burst out in mock laughter. It did nothing to improve Norman's mood. "I didn't sign up to take you along as a liability!"

"Oh no no no!" Grace snapped her fingers at him. One party was just as unyielding as the other. He shot her a furious glare. "Let's rewind to back there in the house, Agent Jayden! If I recall correctly, I was the 'liability' that saved your ass back there!"

His frown deepened and his mouth twisted cruelly. He was going to hit her. She recklessly persisted. "You were the one getting his windpipe crushed! If it wasn't for me, you'd have been buried alive in an unmarked grave and nobody would've given a damn!"

Norman's expression changed. It was something she could not read. But Grace knew she had gone too far. Norman looked straight, with wide eyes and an impassioned mouth open. Then he looked right at her.

"Get out of the car."

"You can't - I…"

"Get out of my car."

Grace resolutely held on to her seat. "Don't do this…" she said in a pleading tone. It sounded pathetic to her ears. It must've sounded worse to Norman's. He forcefully unbuckled his seat belt. "If you don't wanna give me the directions, you can find your own way home."

He leaned closer to her. She tilted away. "I have enough problems of my own, so help me God if I don't want to lug around a high-pitched redhead's corpse after some roadside hooligan's done with her."

Norman unfastened her seat belt. "If clues are all you want, I'll tell you everything. Hell, you can keep them in your safe. But…" He angled closer to the door. Grace winced when his arm nearly grazed her breast. His hand closed around the door's handle. "…I can't take my chances with you around."

Grace could now feel every word he said. His warm breath punctuated every vocable against her icy skin. The door sprang open and the cold wind and rain sent a mild quiver down her spine. Norman was still leaning precariously forward as his pale blue eyes seared hers with its intensity.

"You'd be more of a hindrance than any kind of help." Grace could hardly breathe now. She could see her reflection in his eyes. See what he saw. A pathetic sniveling woman without an ounce of pride in her.

"Please," she tried again in a barely audible, tremulous voice. "Now get out," he said softly. Grace watched him sit back in his seat. She looked at the open door. It reminded her of the open door in Norman's suite. It seemed as if life was giving her another chance to walk away. Another chance to pretend that none of this ever happened.

Grace shut the door. She did not want that chance. And returned his deep gaze now. "Turn left," she said. If it's a direction he wanted, she'd be more than happy to give him one.


"Wanna hear the headlines, Scott?"

Scott gunned the ignition. "No."

"Mars escaped."

He raised his eyebrows. "Wow."

"I know, right? It's everyone's asses on the line. I suggest that we get back to the station after we find something and brief Lieutenant Blake about it. It should look like something worthwhile's being done in the investigation."

"My sympathies, kid. What with the FBI involved, this doesn't make the situation any better." He reversed the car into the street and began driving.

"There's just Norman from the FBI. He seems to be up to his own thing. It doesn't matter. He isn't one of those arrogant S.O.B.s we used to get sent earlier."

Kathy saw the smile on his face. "Norman, huh? First name basis and everything?"

"Not you too, Scott…"

"I'm not judging. Just giving it a month."

"He's not that kind of a guy. Maybe gay, I don't know. Had his tense moments with Blake."

"If you mean sexually, then I'll have you know that Blake's as straight as they come. Why, he and Sarah…" And at that Scott bit his tongue. Kathy nearly bounced in her seat.

"Sarah? That's the girl from his wallet?"

"Did you get the phone-tapping device?" He could see her smile from the corner of his eye. Oh, she'd get the story out of him sooner or later.

"I did."

They sat in silence for a while. Then: "Tell me about Sarah." Scott kept his eyes peeled for signboards. "Tell me about Norman." Kathy clicked her tongue. "Lay-ter, Mr. Shelby. I've a feeling we're getting close to the guy's place."

"We are."

It took a little longer than they expected, but Scott managed to find the neighborhood and park a few houses away from Virgil Minelli's. "Get crackin', Conley."

"Yes, sir." Kathy pulled out the device and located a TNI box a few meters down and well out of sight. Scott gave her a thumbs up and entered Minelli's gate. He rang the bell. Minelli opened the door. He scored high on the scraggly and shady front. You look awful, Scott wanted to say to him. Instead, he flashed his police badge.

The one he kept with himself, while the police department assumed they had the real thing. "Lieutenant Scott Shelby, Met police." Minelli's smile made him look worse. Some people just had 'sinister' written all over them. "How may I help you, Lieutenant?"

"We've got reason to believe that you rented your car out to a murder suspect late afternoon, yesterday."

"Well, I've got no reason to believe that, Lieutenant. I don't rent cars to killers." As a mild gesture of good will, he stepped aside to let Scott enter the house.

"So you wouldn't mind me going through your records, would you?"

"Sure. Which car are you looking for?"

'CHZ 1208."

"Let's have a look."

Kathy stood in the rain, feeling like a rookie all over again. She had just dismantled Minelli's Telephone Network Interface box and examined the RJ-11 wires inside. Each wire represented a phone line in the house. Kathy pulled one of them out and plugged in the device. Let's roll, baby doll.


Lieutenant Carter Blake was angry. Its manifestation was never a pleasant sight or sound. Eyewitness accounts on what he did in those moods were too incredible to be true. But all and sundry acknowledged that his anger kept the streets clean. And that's what kept him alive. And employed.

However, despite being a veteran cop working on the field for 25 years, he had to cope with an escaped 'killer' and a thieving hooker in one day. Patrol cars had been dispatched for the former. Blake would take personal pleasure in dealing with the latter. For free.

He had pulled a file on her at the station. She had been arrested three years ago for soliciting sex to business executives in a hotel bar. There were a few other women too, but Blake obviously did not bother about them.

Within no time he was on the road, driving, gritting his teeth and swearing to use physical force, if necessary, to get the clues. He showed little regard for the traffic signals and check points on the way.

He parked outside the gate. There was no one to object. No one probably would, to a police car. Blake stormed into the building. There was a man reading a newspaper behind a glass panel. Seemingly a harmless receptionist to the untrained eye, but otherwise a shrewd informer to every resident about police presence.

Blake was convinced that there wasn't an honest man living in that sleazy pile of brick. He strode towards the man. "Lauren Winter," he said through the glass. "Sorry pal. No one here by that name."

He never saw Blake's hand making a grab for his collar through the opening in the glass. The receptionist had been sitting in his chair one moment, then forcibly rammed against the pane the next. "Lauren Winter," Blake repeated.

"I - I…"

The Lieutenant tightened his grip on the man's collar and pushed him away, only to pull him towards the glass with renewed vigor. There were cracks in the window pane now.

"Lauren Winter."

"Thi - third floor, last door in the corridor to the left."

Blake let go of him and the man fell to the ground on the other end of the table. There was a rickety old elevator, but Blake took the stairs. The reasons were more psychological than safety-related. He had mild claustrophobia, a fact he concealed reasonably well.

Ironically, the interrogation room was not his most favorite place in the department, though the task he undertook inside it was with great relish. The closer the walls felt around him, the harder he would plow the lowlife handcuffed to the table.

It took him a minute to reach the third floor. He frowned because it wasn't his personal best. A scream moved his gaze away from his watch. It came from the last door at the end of the corridor. I swear to God, if she's humping someone right now…

He knocked at the door. And then he wondered why. The screaming had intensified inside and Blake knew it wasn't an orgasm-induced one. He had meant to kick the door open. Instead, it flew right out of its hinges. The crashing sound distracted a tattooed bald man who was in the process of ripping her shirt off. Blake pounced on him before he could even roll off her.

Troy had not anticipated the blitzkrieg and had passed out before the Lieutenant was done punching, smashing, kicking and stamping all over him. "Just taking out the trash," he said casually to Lauren as he dragged his undeserving opponent out of the door frame. She watched with fearful eyes as he trooped in, dusting both hands.

"Broken his arm. He won't be able to do much with the other."

Blake came to the foot of the bed. "Where are the origami figures?" Lauren slumped helplessly against the pillows. "I'll… I'll get them." She gingerly shifted to the edge of the bed. Blake knew exactly what she would do next. So when Lauren Winter tried to break into a run, the move had already been anticipated by the experienced street cop.

His powerful arms wrapped around her waist as he dragged her back to the bed. Lauren clawed at him like a wildcat, trying desperately to sink her teeth into his arm. He threw her down on the mattress and ensured that she remained so by climbing on top. "Where are the origami figures?"

Lauren attempted a weak head-butt which Blake easily dodged. "Where'd you keep them?" he grunted.

"You wouldn't find them even if you ransacked the house."

Blake mistrustfully eyed her disorderly clothing. "You're… carrying them on you?" She clenched her jaw. "Mmhmm." He dipped his head lower to hers. "I could strip-search you right now if I wanted to." She raised her head closer to his.

"Why don't you?" she spat. "Why don't you, huh? You're no better than that bastard who thinks he owns me!" Blake pinned her arms above her head, holding both her wrists with one hand. The other he shoved into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief.

"That's a matter of opinion," he said as he stuffed it into her mouth. Lauren Winter had called his bluff, he grudgingly admitted to himself. There was no way he was going to remove her clothes. In all his years of service and even longer in his existence, he had never raised his hand on a woman. Mild force, if necessary, but never anything physically or mentally damaging.

It probably had something to do with the time he was six and had watched his father cane his mother's ass. And his too, when he stuck up for her. Blake flipped Lauren onto her stomach, ignoring her muffled cries. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and clasped her hands together.

"Remember…it didn't have to be this way," he said to her. Blake got off the bed, pulled her by the ankles to the edge. Then, he lifted her up and turned her around. And quite easily swung her up on his shoulder. Just like a shepherd carrying a truant lamb. She seemed to be cursing him while flailing her legs in the air. Blake smacked her buttocks. Hard.

"Be still."

Lauren complied with a whine. Stone-faced, the Lieutenant walked out of the door, or what was left of it. Every occupant in the building pressed itself against the wall as he marched down the corridor and stairs. The receptionist hid under the table, peering from the edge as he passed by.

Blake dumped her into the backseat of the police car. He sat in the driver's seat, which Lauren kicked from behind. The throaty cries emanating from her gagged mouth sounded like "Son of a bitch."

Blake smiled as he got the car started.

That I am.


Ethan sat with his back to the wall, surveying the mess he had just created. Room no. 201 looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Madison would not be too happy to learn that Ethan had uprooted the place in a wild search for his cell phone.

The mysterious woman had obviously hidden it well. Then there was the question of finding the origami figures. It all felt worse than a punishment. He did not know what to do or where to look anymore. The press must have gone ballistic over his escape. His thoughts went back to Grace. On what she must think of the whole incident. Looking back, he should have reached out to her when she needed him.

He wondered if she believed all the reports. Believed that he was a neurotic father who had trapped his son under a grate. And escaped to ensure he stayed there. She probably hated him.

There was a scratching sound on the door outside. Ethan slowly got up. He pressed himself against the wall next to the door. It opened and Madison stole in. She was a little startled to see him standing right behind her. He shut the door and they breathed easy.

Madison pulled out one of her sneakers and emptied it for the key. She unlocked her closet. "Here you go." She handed over the origami figures and his cell phone. After a moment's hesitation, she mentioned the memory card. "There's something for you in there."

"I know."

He slid down the wall to the floor. Madison knelt beside him. "I'd found these origami figures in your room." Ethan snapped up. "What were you doing in my room?" Madison put a finger to her lips. He piped down slightly.

"I saw you last night in the motel. I recognized you from the evening reports. I wanted to know why you were here, so I followed you to the café."

"And everywhere else too, it seems."

Madison bent closer to him. "I don't think you're the killer, Ethan. You would've kept a low profile if you were and not gone on a rampage like last night." She tapped the phone with her finger. "I saw the video in the memory card with a word puzzle." She paused for effect. "Someone's playing a game with you, Ethan. A very sick game. You're just a pawn in it, not the mastermind."

Ethan unfurled the second origami figure. "All I know is that I need to head for a trial. I have to save my son."

"And all I ask is for you to trust me."

She wrote her address with a ball pen on a piece of paper and gave it to him. "What's this?" Ethan asked.

"My home address. This motel isn't safe for you anymore. But you can lie low at my apartment."

Ethan stood up, not quite sure of how to thank her. "Why are you doing this for me?"

Madison nodded at the origami figures he was holding.

"Because it's the right thing to do."

She opened the door and peeped out. "Hurry down the fire escape before Cody gets back. I'd left my coffee session mid-way to check on you."

Ethan swung himself down the ladder. "Be careful," Madison whispered. The rungs were quite slippery. Somehow, he managed to hit the ground. He did not look up now, keeping his head low and to the deserted alleys. He spotted a bicycle at the entrance of the motel.

The owner was probably talking to the receptionist inside. He grasped the handle bars, constantly looking over his shoulder till he was out of sight. Then, he broke into a run and leapt onto the bicycle.

He peddled past the grey buildings, through the traffic and in dark lanes to avoid the checkpoints.

A motorcycle would have been too noisy. A car, far too conspicuous. The present mode of transportation worked out just fine. It kept him hidden. In plain sight.


Scott pored over the reams of paper Minelli held out to him. All records of where the car had been driven. And by whom. Of course, there was nothing to guarantee the use of real names. "Anything else?" Minelli asked, with a self-righteousness that demanded a bullet to his head.

"No, that's it." He shuffled the papers in a neat order and headed out the door. "Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Minelli. All we have to do is compare this data with all the leads in hand and we'll have the killer."

The man looked a tad more serious now. "Glad I could help."

"However, Mr. Minelli, if we find that you knowingly shielded the identity of the man we're looking for, you're looking at a 'lifer'."

Minelli did not show any trace of fear or guilt so far.

The man's good, Scott found himself acknowledging.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant," the man said.

Scott flashed him a smile he reserved for people he considered fools. "Thanks again," he said and left. He kept the papers in the glove compartment of his car and went down the road.

Kathy was bent into an ear-phone. Scott huddled closer to her, placing his own ear to the device. "He better make the call," she muttered, "this better be worth it."

"He will. It will."

And Virgil Minelli did, to Kathy's relief and Scott's reassurance.

"Paco, there's been some trouble."

"What happened? I'm busy here."

"When you wanted to rent out a car to one of your cronies, you'd promised he'd be discreet about it."

"Yeah, I did."

"Well, what do you know? A cop shows up at my doorstep. He seemed on to something. I don't know what shit your man's been up to, but if he puts my business under the scanner, I ain't giving you anymore of it."

"Hey, hey, don't do that, man! I'll work it out. I'll call him to my office in the evening. It'll be fine."

"It better be. Or your Blue Lagoon shitheads aren't getting anymore rides from me!"

Scott disconnected the device. "Paco's unofficial office. The trade's worst kept secret. The Blue Lagoon."

Kathy smiled. "Looks like we have something to report to Lieutenant Blake, after all."


The locality seemed dark and dreary. More so than the rest of the city. The grey buildings seemed like silent witnesses to a deathly secret. The trees bent low, as if to see who went past. Norman did not quite associate a woman like Grace Garner to live in these surroundings. "This is it," she said and Norman promptly applied the brakes. Here? She lives here?

"The building across?" he asked, unconvinced of the standard befitting her. Grace shook her head and pointed out of her window. "The graveyard there." She turned to him. "Come with me. I promise I won't take too much of your time."

Norman reluctantly stepped out. The only motivation he found in following her was to retrieve his jacket. He was always uncomfortable in cemeteries. It was a gloomy reminder of death and mourning. And his own mortality, which had been in a fragile state lately.

Grace stopped in front of a tombstone. Norman stopped with her. "Why are we here?" he asked in a voice too inadvertently loud in such a setting. Almost disrespectful too.

"Ms. Garner?" he now said in a low voice. She beckoned him to come closer. He did until they were barely inches apart. "Look there," she said in a more hushed voice than his had been. Norman read the tombstone.

Jason Mars. April 20, 1999 – June 1, 2009. A loving son and a wonderful brother.

"Do you know how soon he was taken away from me?" Norman shook his head. "Instantly." She weakly snapped her fingers. "Like that."

"Do you know why?" Grace looked deep into his eyes. "Do you know why, Agent Jayden?"

"No," he said, for lack of anything better.

She smiled bitterly. "Nor do I," she shrugged, "apparently it's the will of God." The tears came faster now. Grace could not wipe them all away. Norman suppressed the distinct urge to do so.

"Nothing," she continued, "changes the fact that I watched my son die. Ethan wasn't there when I buried him. He'll never know what it's like to do things alone. To reconcile to a loss you cannot possibly get past. To be strong for the child you still had. To grieve privately, but give him hope. Ethan did not do any of that."

Norman was still looking at the gravestone. At the starkness with which 'Jason Mars' was carved into the lifeless concrete. There were eight other graves across the city. A lot like this one. Boys around the same age, taken away from their parents. For no reason. Just because a mentally ill bastard wanted to play God.

"I would die… if anything happened to Shaun." She shook at her own words. Norman had nothing to say to her and he hated himself for it. People died, period. The age and time were not in anybody's hands. Or so he had steeled himself to believe after he joined the Bureau.

He had always tried to limit himself to the facts of every case. Not delve into the humane aspect. It was a beginner's mistake. And it weakened judgment. Like right now. When he saw her – a sorrowful woman, standing over the grave of someone she had loved. Just like his own mother had, years ago. With that defeated stance, the folded hands, and the eyes of bereavement.

He went closer to her. Till her shoulder pressed against his chest. "Grace… " She went still. More than she was. It sounded so different… her name from his mouth.

"Grace… look at me."

She did. He brought a hand to her face. Just the fingertips which lightly caressed the edge of a teary eye. "Don't put yourself through this. Not again." A gleaming tear slipped out. His thumb blocked its path.

"I don't want to." She took his hand in both of hers. "Which is why I need to go looking for him. I'll be damned if I am going to sit on my couch and hear about Shaun in the evening news. Because then... I don't deserve to find him alive."

Norman gripped her shoulder with his free hand. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that again." She stiffened at his touch. He let her go. Despite that, Grace did not step away. "I need to do this."

He nodded his head and looked away. She held him by his shoulders. "Norman, please…"

"It's too dangerous, Grace, far too dangerous. I can't be responsible for your life and- "

"Then let's be responsible for each other's! That's what partners do, isn't it? I – I have my uses and you won't have to hear a word from me. It's just a matter of three days! And I, of all people, wouldn't impede the investigation. This means more to me than some bureaucratic probe."

Her hands met at his chest. "Please give this another chance…"

Norman sighed. He slipped his hands into hers and pulled them apart. "You don't get out of the car. And if you hear a sound, you hide in the backseat."

Grace smiled through her tears. "Thank you…" She looked like she would've trapped him in a tight embrace. "Thank you, thank you…" She eventually didn't and Norman wasn't sure if he was disappointed. He probably wasn't.

"Tell me, Grace," he asked on their way back to the car, "where does one go for some silence to do a little research about tattoo parlors?"

"Well… my place isn't far from here. I've got a computer in my bedroom so - "

"Oh, we won't be needing the computer."

She looked a little surprised. "The yellow pages would be rather time-consuming."

Norman gave her an understanding smile. "Won't be needing that either."

He had to tell her about the ARI. The agent did not have any intention of frightening her if she walked in on him whirling his arms, wearing a pair of glasses.

"What you will be needing, Norman, is an ice pack."

He smiled again.

"As long as you're not charging, doc… "


Author's note: I'm either experiencing a dry spell in writing with this chapter, or my lucky streak is over. I'll leave that for you to decide. But if you still felt satisfied by the end of this one, I'll be very happy.

Pointless trivia: The Jayden-Grace confrontation and graveyard scene were written 6 months ago. I improvised a lot of portions, rewrote other bits. It's a relief to finally upload it all online.

I love you all, my magnificent reviewers. Thank you – Betty Royale for teaching me about the page breaks, mythstoorfoot for the typo alerts, Greased Lightning, Press X to Allie, Jim Slade, Honky Tonk Man ('humdinger' is an awesome word), for the meaningful reviews. And to Urban Cowboy, for a priceless suggestion.

Here's to Witchy Bee for telling me that I ought to organize the dialogue more neatly. Thank you, girl!

And most importantly, to Chyrstis… for being there. Every damn time. :)

All of you kept me going. For a WHOLE year. For eleven chapters.

Life seemed to come a full circle when I wrote down the first scene for this chapter on 10th May. The same date I'd begun chapter one, last year.