Hey everybody! Still alive, and still writing! Apologies to those of you whom I promised I would have this chapter up by Thanksgiving break; that…didn't happen. But I have only one more final project left, so I thought I would take a break and write this sucker up for y'all. Hope what happens next helps make up for the wait—I know a few of you have been waiting for it for some time now.

Twist-pull. Twist-pull. Ignore the pinprick (twist-pull) pain and the burning (twist) muscle ache, it isn't (pull) important.

Twist-pull. Twist…pull. How many now? Ignore the

(trickle of sweat or blood)

Twist-pull

(risk of tetanus—how long ago was your booster?)

twist-pull twist-pull twist pul—

(clink)

xxxxx

Jo's mouth sagged open slightly, a wet red gash in her pale face, not enough to see the damage she'd done to herself but just enough to beckon the gaze closer. Her fingers, nails clipped close by the nurses, lay flat on the industrial grey blanket. Goren tore his eyes away, looked at the picture-less walls.

"I'm telling you," the nurse said, "Dr. Gage hasn't been here since the first time." She crossed her plump arms, then uncrossed them and set them on her hips.

Goren ran his hands over the books on the shelf. Four yearbooks, one romance novel, one album, three criminology texts. All covered in dust.

"So he just completely cut off contact?" Wheeler asked. "No phone calls to see how she was doing? Did he ever ask a particular doctor or nurse to give him any updates?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. There's a note in her file to call him if she regains consciousness, but he's not the…hovering kind."

He reached for the volume on hostage situations and then wavered, plucked out the album. Ah, not an album after all. A wedding planner. He flipped through it.

Every page was blank.

"What about fellow inmates?" Wheeler pushed. "Was Dr. Gage especially friendly to any of them, show any sort of interest?"

"He did ask if it would be possible to speak with Edgar Buendia, maybe on a regular basis before or after his visits with his daughter. But Mr. Buendia died of AIDS complications just a few months after Ms. Gage slipped into her coma. It never panned out."

Wheeler jotted the name down on her notepad. "Thank you, ma'am. We'd like to take a look at his records and his former room, just in case."

"I'm telling you and I'm telling you." The nurse sighed and shook her head. "That man wasn't here after that one time. We tried to get him around for her birthday or for Christmas; the most he could do was send along a present in mid-January. And then what does he send her?" She harrumphed. "A wedding planner!"

Of course. It's all wrong, Bobby thought, and realized he'd said it out loud when the two women's heads swung around towards him.

The nurse harrumphed again. "You're telling me."

"No, no, it's—it's wrong. The planner, the—" He beckoned Wheeler closer. "This isn't—his pathology, it's not, not—look at it!"

Wheeler came to his side, peered down at the planner. "What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

"It's—it's empty…it's supposed to be a taunt to me but it's empty…" Wheeler's face stayed blank, and Goren fought the feeling that his heart was swelling to pop in his chest.

Breathe, Bobby. What Eames would say. If she were here.

"But she's not, is she?" Nicole sneered, lounging on the bed next to Jo. "Oh dear. Do you think you'll be able to get the words out, Bobby? Or will they just careen in circles in your chest, bursting to get out but you just can't think, can you, they're making you dizzy, they're sucking up all the air—you'll be pulled away to the madhouse and nobody'll know you're shouting the truth…"

"Goren?" Wheeler's bright eyes, concerned. "Goren, just walk me through, okay?"

"And you'll shout and shout till you're throat is scraped raw with the words bursting out of it but nobody'll listen and she'll die and it will all be your fault because right now, right now when they would have believed you, you couldn't make the words come…"

"Shut up…" Bobby whispered. Squeezed his eyes shut. Words, words, words, casting in the darkness—

"Goren, do you need me to call a doctor?"

"No! No, no, I'm—" He sucked in a breath. Eames. Think of Eames. "It's wrong. The planner. Declan blames me for what happened to Jo, he said…he blames me, so it should be full of anger. Broken dreams. All his, his repressed hopes for his little girl."

A quick intake of breath; did she understand? "But it's not."

"No, no, it's—" He opened his eyes. Flipped through the pages for her to see. "It's blank. Declan's…absent. Jo's…absent. It's not about, the things he said it was about aren't what it's about. It's not—"

A piece of paper fell out from the beginning of the section marked 'Reception Hall.' Both detectives swooped down for it but Goren was quicker. "Coupons…half a page of coupons from the Sunday paper—"

"Nah, the paper's wrong." Wheeler examined it closely. "This is more like from those booklets you sell for fundraisers in high school." She shrugged. "I did debate."

Goren wheeled around towards the nurse. "Do you have any idea how this got here?"

She eyed him like he was a dog that might spring at her. "Uh…well, Missy's boy is always selling things for his swim team…she might've brought some of those booklets in when Dr. Gage was here, I suppose."

"We need to see them."

xxxxx

Her right arm was no longer restrained. The bloodied manacle hung by one rivet to the table. She wiped the frayed skin of her wrist against her thigh and hoped he wouldn't look close enough to see.

"What on earth do you hope to accomplish?" Nicole asked.

She flexed her arm, her fist, each joint. Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench. CPR for muscles dead to use for weeks.

"You couldn't strangle a kitten," Nicole snapped. "At this point I've got more muscle definition than you." She waved her own arm to demonstrate, flesh slipping and sliding on the bone.

Eames had not been able to smell anything since Bobby's phone call. She couldn't remember if that was ironic. In any case, it was merciful.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of dig about my state of…deshabille?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Felt her mouth stretch in a grim parody of a smile. Clench, unclench.

Her right arm was free, and her mind was clear and ready for the first time in weeks and weeks.

Clench, unclench. Breathing life back into bone and muscle and sinew.

All she had to do was wait.

xxxxx

It was a good thing the staff had phoned ahead to Missy Delgado's house, because she barely had time to get out "What can I do for you, officers—" before Goren charged forward, practically barreling her over in her own doorway, vaulting up the stairs to her sons' room two at a time. Wheeler shot the quickest apologetic glance she could at the shell-shocked woman and hurried after him before he could demolish the house on accident.

Ricky Delgado, hair messed like he'd been woken from a nap, poked his head out of his room. "Hey, Ma, I found one of those things you were—"

Bobby ripped it out of his hands before the kid could even finish the sentence. Flipped through it until he came to the page across from the one that had been ripped out, ignoring the squawks of protest from the teen and Wheeler's placating patter.

Hank's X-Tra Large Assorted Appliances.

A cartoon man in red overalls, with a hammer and blue baseball cap. He'd seen that somewhere before…

Ovens, Iceboxes, and Refrigerators.

Red overalls, red hammer. Goofy grin with crooked front teeth, blue baseball cap. Had he seen another coupon before? No. Magazine ad?

Visit us today at one of our three locations.

Radio ad? No, he'd seen it, not heard it. Another case, one he and Eames had worked together, something he'd stuck in his binder? Something he'd picked up? Something he'd seen while they'd been driv—

Billboard.

Billboard rising just over the hill of the St. Brendan cemetery.

"Of course," he said, and Wheeler's gaze snapped back to him. The boy kept complaining, but neither of them paid attention. "Of course," he repeated, and he was so dizzy he was going to fall. "That's what she meant. Jo…and Joe. She said to visit the two Joes…"

xxxxx

She heard him coming early enough to slip her hand back under the restraint, toggle it back into place. He wouldn't look too closely, not at the beginning. He'd rant. Make her recite her lesson. He wouldn't get too close until he needed to hook her up to the pulley to dangle her over the drain.

And then…

xxxxx

Tumbling out of the house as fast as they'd come in, Wheeler barking orders into her cell and barely making it to the driver's seat before him, he tried to push her away but she slammed a glare in his face that sent him reeling backwards and she almost peeled out of the driveway without him—

Hang on Eames hang on hang on hang on—

xxxxx

"I love Bobby." (the words are gray and cold) "Bobby loves me." (the words are far away)"I need to let Bobby take care of me." (the words are getting closer) "I want to let Bobby take care of me." (Declan is getting closer) "I will let Bobby take care of me." (her hand is clenching tighter) "And then Bobby will be happy." (Declan is coming closer and she will only get one chance)

"I will make Bobby happy."

"Good girl." He leaned in, stroked her hair behind her ear. She could feel every dip and whirl of his fingerprints. She could feel his pulse and his breath. She could smell menthol and parsley and whiskey. "Good, sweet girl…"

She lunged.

xxxxx

"Goddamnit, Wheeler, drive!"

xxxxx

Elbow round his neck squeezing tight took him by surprise and he was wheezing popping gurgling his nails clawing at her arm which hurt but (don't let go don't let go don't let) and then he was scrabbling in his pockets for something (syringe) tried to swipe it at her but he couldn't get a grip on it dropped it and then he went limp but she kept squeezing—give me the key give me the key give me the fucking key Declan "Give me—" (her voice is sandpaper rasping, hurts) "the key!"

And his fingers shaking quaking trembling sticks as he pulls it out of his pockets and she sees his wrist tilt back like he's going to throw it so she releases round the neck and once more she lunges

xxxxx

"I am driving, you want to drive any faster we're going to fucking crash—"

xxxxx

—snags the key, just on the tips of her fingers, and

(Declan on the floor, choking, hand on his throat, other hand reaching for the syringe)

undoes the shoulder restraints, her other arm (left) and there is almost no feeling but now she can lean up and the waist strap is next—

Nicole swings and swings in the air, her outstretched arm pointed at Declan, his fingers closing on the syringe, he's rising and

(it's stuck stuck the key won't turn and Declan)

LUNGES

—dodge, just barely and the needle blunts itself on steel and Gage's other hand comes up (scalpel gleaming bright) and LUNGE

(it's a dance, strike and parry)

slices through the edge of her abdomen (burning iron) and into steel but doesn't blunt, she head-butts him back and he stumbles, rises, but he dropped the scalpel on the table and now (slippery in her right hand) she swings—

Time slows till it is nothing but the dim light tracking on the silver shine of the blade as it carves through the air and Declan's throat is nothing solid and the blade carves through it like air and there is a fine red mist that flowers and sprays through the air like slow-motion rain.

He is so confused as he sinks to the floor, the blood flood-spilling between his fingertips, and her heart and lungs are filling up her ears so loud she can barely hear him say, "But I wanted you to be happy…"

xxxxx

CRASH! And the airbags exploded in their faces, the front of the SUV buckling broken glass-and-metal into the side of a red pickup truck, horns blaring—

xxxxx

It took him fifteen minutes to die, while she used the scalpel to pick the locks on her waist and ankle restraints. He wheezed and coughed and tried to rise, his hands slipping in his own blood.

He was dead by the time she got off the table. Her legs were weak and she slipped in his blood too.

Nicole laughed and laughed.

Eames blacked out for a while.

She came to, and checked for his pulse. None. She deepened the cut in his throat to be sure; next, she dug through his pockets for the other keys, the ones to the doors. She found them.

The first door opened easily. And the second. The air was fresher and Eames kept falling over and finally her knees buckled and she had to crawl to the third door. She blacked out again.

The third door had a keypad instead of a keyhole.

She crawl-stumbled back to Gage's corpse, searched every pocket. No pieces of paper. He had not written down the lock code anywhere.

She was trapped.