A/N – Okay, so there's not enough e's in the whole world to let out the squeal I had over the awesome Don/Robin adorable Spencer-Hepburn thing they have going on. (Though I'm still a little in shock over the season finale.) They have somehow managed to surpass Charmita and possibly even the good ship Flienhardt/Reeves (may it live on!) with their cuteness in one episode.

And the fact that Don's a closet film buff who's favorite movie is one of my own… Preston Sturgis would be proud.

I sure know I am.


"I hope you know what you're doing."


"Yeah, me too."

-Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher) to Han Solo (Harrison Ford). The Empire Strikes Back, 1980.


Thursday, July 15, 1999

Quantico, Virginia

Supervisory Special Agents Offices

oOo

"I'm telling you, man… Seeing Ted Williams out on Fenway and the… What's the word I'm looking for Ty?"

Mark Gallagher slow-pitched the rubber-band file to the lower drawer of the Nixon-era desk and slammed it shut as he leaned back in his chair. The insincerity of his tone was only out-gunned by the kid-in-the-cookie-jar grin and the jazz-hand wave he gave to his sudden epiphany.

"Pride, Walters. I think it's the word pride I'm looking for." His worn Adidas slapped the linoleum tile as he dropped his crossed foot to the floor. "When Martinez took down Larkin, Walker and Sosa in the first it brought Pride back to Boston. Pride to the American League."

Don Eppes nearly did a classic Danny Thomas spit-take, only to be circumvented by inhaling at the last second setting off a round of earnest choke-coughs that left his face red and his throat burning.

"Oh man," he groaned as he let his head hang, pulling in oxygen as quick as he dared. "Gallagher, you are so full of crap. Boston hasn't had pride in the last ninety years, why try now?"

Mark stood up and swatted Don's back lightly with a file in hand before he paused briefly at the door, "Hey, it's better than cheering for the Cubbies or the Blue Crew."

"Yeah, yeah," Don said, thinking back fondly to summers spent at Dodger's Stadium watching Valenzuela and later Hershiser and team winning the Series in five despite injuries, despite it being the second string holding everything together.

Somehow that seemed so much more important now than it did at the time.

Gallagher waved off, carting a full briefcase with him, leaving both Don and Ty to finish their work.

"Don't take it too hard, Eppes. Red Sox fans don't have much to live for. Have 'ta take what we can get."

Don tilted his head to the left while raising one brow and warily taking another draught of water, "Yeah, so what's your excuse?"

"Harsh, man," Walters said. "Very, very harsh."

It was late afternoon flirting on early evening as the two men continued working their way through several stacks of tests and papers from their respective NATs. It had become a comfortable routine, Thursdays tended toward the lighter side of classes with the later afternoons free to catch up on grading and any paperwork necessary with the occasional New Agent Trainee stopping by for extra help. Afterwards, he'd usually go for drinks with the other instructors at one of the local bars or maybe go for a pick-up game at the park or maybe the gym.

It was a comfortable routine.

Don could feel himself slowly going crazy.

He picked up the next paper and his red pen, cast a stray eye out the window to the perfect July day that continued to taunt him. He had talked to Cooper the day before. The man was living it up in northern California, not far from Eureka, having just closed his latest assignment.

The conversation did nothing to help his wanderlust.

Over the course of the last several months, he had helped out with several local cases, had been called in on a few fugitive run-downs when his expertise had been needed. That made his Quantico transition easier, gave him something to occupy spare time, as well as keep his head in the game.

Lately though, Don had noticed a steady shift in the special assignments he'd been handed. They were noticeably non-FR related, increasingly so as the instructors pool of candidates decreased. That was fine with him.

Special Agent Eppes was ready for a change.

oOo

"What do you know about Juárez, Mexico?"

Don looked up startled by the respectable-sized cardboard box that landed inconveniently on the files he had spent the last two hours painfully sorting. Pat Collins, a fellow agent and all-around pain-in-the-ass, pulled the lid of the box and let it fall to the floor, knocking over the binders that Don had finished assembling for his probable successor.

He let out a breath, the interruption was welcome and Pat looked intense, almost zealous as he unpacked the contents, peaking Don's curiosity and staving off a reprimand for the inconsiderate mess. Most of the documents were copies, the paper still stiff and white and the fax line on the bottom reading from much earlier that morning.

"Well, it's not a spring break hot spot."

Collins looked up ruefully, his brows pulled together as he thoughtfully rubbed the back of his neck, "For good reason." Pat was a tall man, easily towered over Don by a good five inches. When he bothered not to slouch, good posture earned him another two. "Since ninety-three a couple of hundred women have gone missing and turned up dead, mostly coming to and from work."

Don let out a low whistle. He had heard a few stats and updates in the news over the years. Had even read a few articles when he was down in Texas a while back. But Juárez was south of the Boarder, the Rio Grande, just south by a mile out of US federal jurisdiction.

"Why am I getting the feeling that this isn't going to leave me with warm, happy feelings inside?"

A series of photos fanned out in front of him, three different bodies in raw relief, two women bathed in blood and a third that had been left beyond recognition. Paper clipped to each Guernica was a much smaller photo of each victim beforehand: a Tejana beauty with a gap-toothed smile, a serious-faced woman with her dark hair drawn back into a severe pony-tail and another woman who seemed a non-descript version of the other two.

"Boarder patrol has been keeping an eye on the situation for years now. We've helped out when we could, but until recently there has been no reason for us to intervene."

"Until now…" Don repeated slowly. It was a hated phrase, ranked right up there with little did he know and Don, you're the oldest and you know Charlie looks up to you. That long ago feeling caught up to him then in that moment, leaving him drained and feeling years older. "What's changed?"

Pat grabbed a folding chair by the back and lifted it over to the desk. He sat down with his massive legs sprawled out and his back bent slightly forward, unconsciously shrinking himself to eye level, "The victims crossed the border, Don. Maria Santos here -" he motioned to the photo of the body in the shallow grave. "-She was found last week. Couple of kids playing soccer…"

Don winced and picked up the picture. It wasn't a pretty sight.

"Yeah, exactly," Pat sighed. "Cops down in El Paso thought it was a single homicide until the other two girls showed up."

"When?" Don interrupted.

"Elena Fuentes on Saturday and Prudence Aguilar Monday. All three were strangled, signs of sexual trauma…"

Collins pulled his chair closer, unconsciously lowering the timbre of his voice, "Here's the thing, Santos and Fuentes look like typical las muertas de Juárez, both never made it into work the mornings they went missing. This new girl, Prudence disappeared during a night out on the town with some friends. There's something else–" Another photo, a close up of the girl's torso with her yellow tank top torn revealing dried blood and deep scratches, skated to the top of the pile. "She's got a superficial heart carved right here," he said, pointing an inch or two lower than her left shoulder. "And a blue silk scarf wrapped around her wrist."

Don could feel his heart quicken, could feel a tight cold fist bury itself deep in his gut. He grabbed the stack of pictures, studied the close-ups and landscapes. "You're sure about this. Absolutely sure?"

Pat rocked back on his chair, "Had the ME triple-check it, Don. It looks identical to the Merotti murders."

"You've got to be kidding me," Don stood up, the rapid force propelled his chair back till it hit the wall. He began to sift through the paper work, stopping when he found the coroner's report. He sat back heavily as he read through the details. "Those details were never released to the press…"

"And Paul Merotti's dead. I know, Don." Pat sounded as frustrated as Don felt in that moment. His next words were a mix of reverent sincerity and droll irony, "You and Cooper were the team that took the bastard down. It was legendary. Really."

"That level of detail. The scarf and the…" His voice wavered for a moment. "That pretty much eliminates a copycat." Don chuffed his annoyance at Pat's not so subtle dig, "So we're looking at a partner…"

"A partner's whose gone to ground for almost two years. Maybe figures it's his chance to get in the limelight?"

"Something to make his mother proud…" Don kneaded his head with the palms of his hands. "I just don't get it. All the evidence pointed to Merotti working alone. His was the only DNA ever recovered at any of the scenes. And the girl… Allison, the one who survived. He was the only one there."

"Exactly," Pat said. "That's why you, me and Cooper's going down to Texas. We're going to clean up any loose ends."

oOo

El Paso wasn't the ugliest town he'd ever seen.

The air was dry and tasted like dust and Tex-Mex. The lighting was more sepia and tobacco smoke than it was in Washington. The deep browns and golds of the Chichuachuan desert teased along one end of town with Río Bravo del Norte on the southern edge, hemming in the tejanos, mestizos and gringos from all sides.

The sky was a wide-open expanse, a pool of blue hazed over with clouds and air so thick he could feel sweat pool down the back of his shirt. The mountains of the Mckelligon Canyon Park dividing the city pressed a lurking claustrophobia that left him feeling jumpy and strangely hyper-aware.

Every time he glanced over his shoulder, there was nothing there.

The Ten flirted with the Border before heading northwest to Las Cruces. He thought a moment of following it west, towards California and Pasadena but he didn't and probably wouldn't even later when he might have the chance.

Don hardly paid attention to the mountains that blurred by, to lawns decorated in gravel and cacti. Instead he changed the time on his watch – he gained a couple of hours and it was nearly the same time it was when he left that morning.

Collins took shotgun, claiming it for his long legs, leaving Don to get cozy with his luggage in the back seat. He didn't ponder time or relativity. He thought instead about a pretty young woman with long blonde hair that draped over her left eye like Veronica Lake's. She had been laid out, looked like Sleeping Beauty waiting for Prince Charming with a deep purple bruise on her neck and a rusty brown stain soaking the front of her blouse.

The clearing in the forest had been an almost fairy ring, had almost been more Brothers Grimm than crime scene. Cooper had stumbled on to it first, stood frozen with his arms hanging out from his sides, cursing silently. Almost as if he was afraid he would wake or offend her.

Don wished he had.

It had been the same everywhere: the beautiful girl, a wide open space, the blue silk scarf she had been strangled with knotted on her left wrist, a small heart, no more an inch in diameter cut into her chest.

It was a scene out of a freakin' Quentin Tarintino slasher flick and there had been two more girls before it had ended. They had been too late for Diane, but had reached Allison in time, found her at a riverside park, fighting for her life.

Even now, Don could close his eyes and see her bluish-purple skin, the way she gasped and writhed. He remembered shouting, remembered drawing his gun, remembered the moment her head fell to her chest, and then remembered not firing.

Billy had done that.

Merotti had fallen back and Allison, forward. Don raced to perform the CPR as Billy called it in and covered him. He had ridden in with her, had sat with her till her family came, and even lingered a little while after.

He remembered an aunt and a brother. Maybe the guy could was her cousin, he hadn't been sure. Hadn't asked. They had only spoken a few words, the aunt had thanked him and the man brooded in the corner. Allison thanked him months later, after her voice came back and the scar on her chest had faded.

God, how could it be happening again?

He leaned back into the seat, his left arm wresting on his briefcase filled with case reports and even his own personal notes that he hadn't officially filed. The brown leather bulged with more details than should exist, the contents keeping the bag heavier than its appearance. It dragged like a ball and chain, weighing down on him more than he cared to admit.

Their ride skirted around the south side of the Fort Bliss Military Reservation on the Ten, going from the east side of the city to the west. Their escort was a few years Don's senior with a large Chuck Norris Stetson and snake-skin cowboy boots. He'd been rather quiet since after introductions at the airport and his posture seemed to say that he had better things to be doing than playing chauffer to out-of-towners.

"You here from Cooper yet?" Pat asked.

Don rubbed the grit from his eyes. They had taken an early flight out of Dulles that morning and he had a feeling he'd be needing more than the one coffee he had before leaving the house that morning. "Yeah, he said he's getting in tonight. Had a few more things to tie up before he left California."

If he knew Billy Cooper, and Don could figure his own mother didn't even know him as well as he did; Billy's loose ends probably had to do more with quality time at a laundromat than anything case related. Not that he blamed him. Fugitive Recovery was not a sweet-smelling occupation.

Pat nodded and started drumming his fingers along the dashboard. Don thought the rhythm sounded a little like the Magnum P.I. theme song but then veered sharply off into something undistinguishable and mariachi.

Don closed his eyes and let the rhythm carry him off.