AN: I honestly can't believe that it's been nearly three years since I last updated this story...

I can only tell you all that I'm sorry. And please forgive me. Depression...is a helluva beast. One I've been grappling with for many, many years, and still struggle with from time to time. But I'm here, and much to my suprise and absolute delight, so are you! Thank you. All of you. Thank you for checking in on me, and for putting me in check. (Guest reviewers, I'm talking to you! LOL) I've thought of you all often and I'm grateful that you've thought of me, too. I haven't forsaken you, I haven't forsake Above The Law, and I surely haven't forsaken ArWen. Please enjoy the chapter below as I put the finishing touches on the next (and last) one to come.

-Justine


Morgana knows that Arthur is miffed and he has the right to be.

Their brown-noser of a boss pulling them off of Gwen's case in favour of pursuing a rich judge's grandson more than merits the detective chief inspector's current mood.

"Since when the fuck is it okay to prioritize victims?!". Morgana, frustrated, yanks her seatbelt across her chest and lap into its clasp.

"Since money and status made the acquaintance of the legal system", Arthur huffs in disgust, heaving his own seatbelt into place before starting the car.

He's right. There's no doubt that if Gwen were someone of higher social standing her life would be deemed just as worthy of saving.

Hot, seething anger radiates from Arthur's body as he grips the steering wheel, turning his already pale, stretched knuckles even whiter.

You are important Guinevere. So important.

Arthur digs his foot into the pedal, accelerating the car's speed. Morgana grips the handle overhead the passenger's side door and thinks of something- anything to redirect her brother's thoughts.

"Merlin autopsied a drug mule today", she offers.

Idiot, the female detective mentally chides herself.

"'Drug mule'?", Arthur repeats, clearly in disbelief. Her tactic has its desired effect.

"Yes. Poor girl couldn't have been more than fifteen. I've teeth older than that!". Morgana closes her eyes, shakes her head and huffs a sigh in disgust and in sympathy for the lost child. "At fifteen I went to slumber parties, and camp, and record shops…. What kind of life had been forced onto this poor girl where she would find herself a vessel for cocaine? A life where her only hope and way out of her circumstances would be to run into oncoming traffic?".

Arthur is lost for words. Has Albion changed so much from the days that he and his sister grew up in? When did the drug trade find its way into his city? Or claim innocent child lives along with it? When did children start getting kidnapped on their way to school?

Arthur didn't think that his heart could get any heavier.


Back at the police station, Officer Leon's task force is gathered in the squad room eagerly awaiting the senior officer's updates and instruction.

"After questioning Arthur's neighbors, several of them reported similar claims: that a man of African or Caribbean descent was seen around the neighborhood in a black vehicle. Other eyewitness accounts describe seeing a pair of men; one Black one White, going about town in a black vehicle. So we are officially looking for two suspects.

"P.C. Gunner", the senior officer addresses his partner, who walks up to the glass board at the front of the squad room.

"Sir", Percival acknowledges Leon with a nod as he turns to address his colleagues. "One of the eyewitnesses questioned agreed to come down to the station to sit down with a sketch artist. She not only saw one of the persons of interest, but actually stood face to face and spoke with him. She remembered every detail of his face- down to the scar…" Percival walks up to the glass board and tapes the finished sketch onto it. Perched on a corner of a desk with a file in hand, Lancelot stands up and walks up to the spot near the sketch and tack's a photo of the suspect's mugshot found in the Albion Criminal Database right beside it. Gasps of shock and disbelief, whispers of confusion, anger and outright disgust fill the squad room.

The sketch and photo are nearly identical.

The identity of the criminal undeniable.

Lancelot's usually stoic face now betrays his trepidation.

Leon resumes attention on the floor of the squad room, his face grim but his posture set with determination. "The man- the criminal- responsible for Gwen's abduction is Myron Crook".

There.

His name hangs in the packed squad room like a thick, grey, looming cloud.

"It can't be him!", a frustrated copper shouts. "Crook's been under lock and key for the past fifteen years serving what...a thirty year sentence?! It can't be him".

"It was reduced to twenty with prior time served", Elyan corrects the female officer. He'd only learned of Myron's release from prison from a friend and parole officer that morning.

Every single occupant in the room turn at the sound of the attorney's voice. Elyan continues advancing into the squad room; the officers parting like the Red Sea for the usually impeccably dressed, now disheveled lawyer.

The past forty eight hours spent not knowing the whereabouts of his sister, his sole sibling and living family member, have taken their toll on the lawyer. His usual custom tailored three piece suit and Italian leather wingtips had been abandoned in favor of a drab, dingy looking grey sweatsuit and trainers. His handsome, clean-shaven face now bore days' old stubble. His keen and kind eyes, so lost and searching, host dark circles.

Elyan looks as though he's been running about as many hours as his sister's been missing.

"The last five years of Crook's sentence", he continues once in front of the glass board, standing beside Leon, Percival and Lancelot, "were pardoned for…", he struggles to say the next two words. "...good behaviour".

"Good behaviour?!" Lance spews incredulously. "The animal bound and beat his girlfriend for days- intent on killing her. She intentionally broke one of her wrists twisting it free from its bound, found a nail on the ground of the cellar where he'd kept her and carved the side of his face, disorienting him long enough and managing to escape her hell. That's the only reason why she's still alive today and why Crook went to prison for attempted murder".

As the computer analyst vividly recalls Myron's past, he inadvertently voices his fears and everyone else's… Myron failed his first attempt at murder. Would he succeed this time?

"Good behaviour..." Lancelot huffs once more disgustedly, shaking his head and shifts the file under his arm to remove his glasses with a free hand to massage the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off the oncoming migraine. Elyan reaches over to cup his friend's shoulder, presently sharing his sentiments on the legal system he works so hard to uphold. And someday change.

Lancelot rights his glasses and draws a deep breath, checking his emotions. He removes papers from the file in his hand. "Here are photo stills of footage caught on CCTV cameras from the hardware store in Arthur's neighborhood and local petrol station". He sticks them onto the glass board. "These are the only photos I was able to find of the suspects so far. Not a single one of them is with Gwen; before, after or since her being taken. They corroborate witnesses accounts that Myron and his partner had been in Arthur's neighborhood for several days leading to Gwen's abduction. After running the second suspect's photo through our facial recognition software, it returned zero hits".

More bad news.

Percival draws his brows together and rakes his hand through his hair in confusion. "I don't understand", he says to nobody, and yet to everyone in the squad room. "Crook serves fifteen years in prison, yeah? With a nickel left on his bid he's released on good behaviour- he's a free man! And yet not one week later he cases Arthur's neighborhood and abducts Gwen?" Arms folded against his chest, he shakes his head confused and asks the question on everyone's mind. "Why?"

"Does a criminal like Crook need a reason?", one copper offers.

"No", Percival continues. "But think about it. Why go after Gwen? Why not after his ex? Finish what he started. I mean, that's what I'd do, wouldn't I?" The officers surrounding the squad room nod and murmur in agreement.

"Instead, Crook teams up with his mate, surveilles a detective chief inspector's neighborhood and then abducts a high profile attorney girlfriend? It just doesn't make any sense. Unless there's something we're not seeing here". The police constable is right. Arthur would have been a senior in high school and Gwen would have been fifteen or sixteen when Myron went to prison. Neither of them is connected to Myron or to his case at all. So why were they targeted?

Leon turns around to face the glass board. With one arm across his torso and the other folded upward at the elbow, he strokes his chin and scrutinizes the photo of the white male suspect.

"What is it, boss?" Percival asks turning to face the board.

"Something about this man...it's nagging at me. I feel like I've met him- seen him before". Just then the doors to the lift across from the squad room open to an emerging delivery man from 'Gilli's Grill & Bar'.

"I have an order for Ms. Candace". He punctuates by lifting the hand carrying the aromatic contents. The Chief's secretary approaches the delivery man and pays him (signing the bottom of the merchant receipt with the caption "don't be shy" as her tip, right above her mobile number), winks at the blushing, surprised man and takes her lunch, sauntering away with each click of her heels. The curly red haired freckled food carrier stands there a few moments, mouth slightly open, watching the retreating figure of the beautiful, brown skinned woman before slipping back onto the next available lift, a crooked, boyish grin now adorning his face, with receipt stuffed in pocket.

Leon, too, watches the secretary as she walks away, only his stare is affixed to the label across the brown paper bag in her hand. The police chief's eyes grow wide and his mouth falls agape as realization dawns on him.

"...Gilli's…", he whispers. Leon turns back to the board with the suspects photos and snatches down the picture of the second person of interest.

"That's where I've seen this face before. The other night while we were all at 'Gilli's' having drinks, I got this eerie feeling. You know the feeling you get when you feel like you're being watched?"

"Yeah", comes the synchronized reply from the squad room.

"Right. Well the other night while the lads and I were out at the bar, I looked over to my right and", Leon stabs his finger at the picture with the last three words, "saw this man. Just then the waitress had come out with our orders, obscuring my view. By the time she'd left our table and I looked back over, he was gone. And so was that eerie feeling. I didn't give it a second thought until Lance did his techie thing…" he typed on an imaginary keyboard, "...and dug up this photo". The computer analyst half-heartedly rolls his eyes at the police chief's base description of his job.

"Thank you, Lance", Leon says sincerely to the techie who nods curtly. "Right", Leon gives his orders. "Constables Richards and Murphy, I want you two to go down to Gilli's and interview all the staff; waitresses, bartenders, cooks- even the dishwasher who were working on the evening in question". Holding up the picture to the coppers he's addressing, "I want to know what this pock-faced bastard ate, what he drank, what cologne he wore…. No detail is beneath consideration. Go". With that the constables jog to the stairwell and descend to the ground floor and out the precinct doors to 'Gilli's'.

"Looks like we'll have some new footage to sort through", Lance says hopefully in reference to the CCTV cameras outside of 'Gilli's Bar & Grill' that his fellow analysts and interns will collect. "And now that we have actual sketches and photos to release to the public we'll get more useful calls and leads on that anonymous tip hotline. Someone has had to see Myron and his partner with Gwen these past two days. I just know it". With renewed hope Lancelot jogs back to the computer lab to instruct his team.

"Anderson", Leon directs to one copper. "Pang", he instructs another. "I want you both to go to the home of Myron's ex, immediately. She may be in danger". The police chief pinches the bridge of his nose. "Call on the way. Have her bolt all her doors and windows, and instruct her to make or take no phone calls. Hurry". The coppers disappear with their orders. "Percival, you and I leave now to go to Judge Mayweather's home", Leon commands. Percival looks at him dumbfounded. The police chief swats at the air in annoyance. "Chief Oliver's orders", he clarifies.

"Yes, boss". Percival is already down the hall heading toward the stairwell.

"What about me?", Elyan beseeches Leon. "What can I do?"

Leon's heart breaks at the crack in Elyan's voice, a far cry from the commanding, unwavering tone his friend is known for in the courtroom. Holding Elyan's shoulders firm, the police chief peers into the attorney's eyes. "I want you to go into my office, El- and this is important". Leon punctuates this by gripping Elyan's shoulders tighter. "I want you to go into my office and rest". Elyan looks back at Leon bewildered and then angry.

"'Rest'?! That's what you would have me do? How do you expect me to rest at a time like this? My sister needs me!", he shouts. Elyan struggles to shove Leon away from him, but Leon only pulls him closer.

"It is because Gwen needs you that you must rest, Elyan. Please", he beseeches his friend. "Rest and be strong because it's you that Gwen will need to draw her strength from". Two tears stain Elyan's sweatshirt and without a single word more he allows Leon to lead him to his office. With shades drawn and a prayer on his lips, Elyan sinks into the leather futon facing Leon's desk and for the first time in two days he welcomes sleep.


Arthur and Morgana arrive at Judge Mayweather's estate. At his recognition of the detectives viewed on the CCTV monitor screen, the armed security guard stationed in a red brick booth just inside the wrought iron spiked gates grants the Pendragons access onto the grounds. The drive up the arched cobblestone driveway seems an eternity.

"What a gorgeous home", Morgana gushes in awe marveling at the cream coloured, navy and gold trim Mediterranean-style house.

"'Home'?!", Arthur guffaws. "You need GPS just to get up the bloody driveway for goodness' sake! This isn't a home, Morgana. It's a fortress, and a ridiculously lavish display of wealth for a judge if you ask me", he adds pulling up behind Leon's parked squad car.

"Oh shush! You may be content living in your little hovel, Arthur", Morgana diminishes her brother's bachelor pad as she unfastens her seatbelt preparing to exit the car. "But there are some of us who actually appreciate the finer things in life".

"I appreciate the finer things in life", Arthur says in defense stepping out of the car and shutting the door behind him. Morgana rolls her eyes and walks around the front of the car to join Arthur as they walk together toward the front entrance of the judge's home.

"Opting to drink your lager from a glass rather than a can is hardly posh".

Arthur pauses mid stride and directs his icy blue glare at Morgana. Instead of cowering, the female detective grabs onto the male's upper left arm to steady herself as she laughs at him.

"I'm offended", he puffs succumbing to his own snickers. He's grateful for Morgana's teasing, briefly relieving him from his thoughts of Guinevere and her whereabouts. But remembering where they are and the raison d'etre, Arthur puts a finger to his lips and jerks his head in the direction of the house. Morgana glances up embarrassed, hoping that the sound of her mirth hadn't fluttered into an open window or entryway, and soon the tide of laughter retreats back to a calm. Both detectives straighten and Arthur adjusts his tie as Morgana smooths the front of their blouse.

Once on the porch Morgana reaches over and rings the doorbell. A series of loud rumbling barks and hurried footsteps precede the opening of the door. Martha Mayweather struggles briefly to maintain control of the leash in her hand as the dog advances to acquaint itself with the detectives once the door is open.

"Thimble. Thimble...There, there dear. It's alright". The judge's wife pulls the great dane back placing herself between him and the detectives. Martha sees the familiar confused expression on Arthur's face associated with the mention of her dog's name and offers explanation to his unasked query. "Once upon a time Thimble was quite a small pup for a dog of his breed". She looks back lovingly at the tall massive beast, standing at full height up to her waist. "He's since grown to proper size and is indeed a great, great dane, aren't you my love?". Martha strokes between the dane's ears, placing a kiss atop his head. She dips into the pouch at her waist retrieving a meaty treat for the animal.

"Please do come in detectives". The judge's wife steps aside to grant them entry. Hearing the unmistakable guttural hum heralding his earth quaking bark, Martha retrieves another piece of dried meat from her pouch to appease the beast. "My husband is in his office. This way". She points toward the end of the massive foyer. "I'll show you".

Arthur and Morgana walk in stride behind the matron of the house and her pet. Their heels and paws clink against the turquoise mosaic marble tile floor. The burnt orange walls are lined with brass framed family portraits and rare paintings. The fine crystal chandeliers overhead glisten as if cut from ice. The showstopper, however, is the copper ceiling. The patterns on the tiles are intricate and ornate, beautiful yet masculine too. Arthur feels like he's back in year eight on a class trip to the museum, where one must look only with one's eyes and not one's hands. He reaffirms this notion stilling Morgana's hand when she reaches over to touch a large antique Chinese vase. The tour concludes when Martha stops in front of a pair of solid mahogany French doors.

"Such a beautiful home you have", Morgana offers clearly impressed.

The elder woman smiles wistfully at the female detective. "Thank you dear", she says graciously. "It is a fine home, with many fine things. But a fine life isn't always necessarily a good one". The trace of regret in her voice and soft brown eyes is not lost on the female detective. "You'll find the Judge in there", she says. "He's expecting you".

"Thank you, Ma'am", Arthur says.

Mrs. Mayweather and her horse of a dog prepare to leave. Thimble is whining eager to relieve himself of the digested dried meat. "If you'd excuse us, nature calls. One must answer immediately in Thimble's case". Martha conspiratorially leans in toward Morgana and Arthur. "Otherwise the voicemail is most unpleasant". She wrinkles her nose for effect. The detectives chuckle at her clever and witty reference to dog shit. Mrs. Mayweather throws a final wave goodbye over her shoulder as the great dane pulls her toward the open glass doors leading outside to the lush green hilled back of the property.

Arthur moves to knock when Percival grants him entry from the inside of the judge's office before the detective's knuckles rap on the door. Morgana taps Arthur's shoulder and points overhead revealing the tiny camera at the very top on the left corner of the door frame.

Of course.

"...He's ran away from home in the past which is why I've upped the security as you can see…" Leon takes statements from the judge who's perched on one end of his vast cherry oak desk. His hands are placed on the desk at either side of his hips and his feet are crossed at the ankle. His skin is tanned from avid jogging; his thick, wavy cropped hair, once chestnut in colour in his youth, now salted white with age. Even in his loungewear, a soft yellow cashmere jumper, cuffed khaki trousers and burgundy velvet slippers, the judge is just as formidable as when dressed in his heavy draped black robe and platinum ringlet wig.

The detectives and police constable nod acknowledging one another once inside the office. Which looks more like a library. The east and western walls are lined with shelves without a single void of space. Just books. Leather bound, first edition, hardcover and paperback books, from floor to ceiling. A wheeled ladder at the far end of the right wall leans against the bookcase closest to the judge's desk. The copper ceiling looks even more impressive here in the office complementing the dark red, navy and gold patterned Oriental rug beautifully. The coffee table, made of same cherry oak as the desk, is flanked on both sides with twin caramel leather sofas.

Leon looks up just as Morgana and Arthur reach he and the judge. He shakes the judge's hand and dismisses himself to leave the detectives to their inquiries, winking discreetly at his fiancee as he walks past her to stand sentry with PC Gunner back at the door.

"Detective Chief Inspector Pendragon", the judge greets Arthur with his full rank, shaking his hand. "Detective Sergeant Pendragon", he turns and greets Morgana in the like. "Thank you both for coming".

"Thank you for having us, Your Honour", Arthur replies. "Although unfortunately under dire circumstances", he adds. The judge nods solemnly.

Arthur begins his inquiry. "I overheard you tell Police Chief Knight that your grandson has run away from home before".

"Yes", Judge Mayweather replies. "Gregory is like any typical teenager- a neophyte, defiant, unruly youth who knows it all".

"So Gregory has a history of willfully disappearing", Arthur states firmly sticking only to facts. The judge stands from his perch on the desk, his jaw set and his fists balled in his pockets. Arthur remains unflinching.

"Once or twice is hardly a history, detective".

"Is it possible that your grandson ran away again?", Morgana interjects before Arthur can retort. The judge stares at the DCI a moment longer before addressing the sergeant.

"In those instances Gregory ran away to be with his friends".

'Or to be away from you', Arthur thinks. "Who else would he run to?" he asks instead.

"His father", the judge chews out. "My daughter and son-in-law have separated and she and my grandson have moved in with Martha and I. If anyone is behind my grandson's abduction it's his father".

"And where is Gregory's mother now?", Morgana asks.

"She's out of town on business. I've already contacted her and she's on a flight back to Albion", the judge assures them.

Two phones ring cutting through the tension and quiet filled office. Judge Mayweather jumps to snatch the blaring receiver off of the vintage French rotary dial phone on his desk.

"Grandad", comes the calm voice on the other end of the phone.

"Gregory! Oh thank God", the judge exclaims clearly relieved at the realization that his grandson is alive. Everyone in the office breathes out in shared relief. Everyone but Leon who's engrossed in whatever is being relayed to him over his mobile. "Are you alright son? Are you hurt? ...No? Good. That's good", the judge says in response to his grandson's answers. "Can you tell me where you are, where you're being kept. Look around at your surroundings. Any detail- any clue at all will…" Judge Mayweather's voice trails off at the sound of his daughter's voice over the phone. His brows are furrowed and his voice is hoarse with confusion. "Maggie...what…? Where are you? What's going on?" Morgana and Arthur are keen to observe the changes in both the Judge's and Leon's manners.

Over the phone Magdalene Mayweather explains to her father that she and her husband have reconciled their differences and had been in contact and on good terms for months following the filing of their divorce and her and Gregory's consequent move to her father's estate. The husband and wife decided to give their marriage another chance. All her childhood Magdalene felt like she was her father's investment, his property she tells him over the phone. The judge reaches behind him for his high back tufted leather executive swivel chair, stunned by his daughter's words, slowly dropping to his seat. She continues asserting that he'd mapped out her entire life since her birth. When she wanted to take modern dance, he'd invested in ballet instead where she danced alongside daughters and granddaughters of the elite and upper crust, allowing him to socialize and forge relationships with those of high society. When Maggie chose a local university to attend Judge Mayweather invested in a more prestigious institution, one where the chairman of the school was a close friend and one of the sponsors who'd helped fund campaigns for him on his rise in the judicial system. When Maggie fell in love with a man who wasn't as high in standing as the politician her father had favoured for her, she married him, finally choosing for herself, and invested in love. But when they'd been going through a turbulent time in their marriage and mutually decided to separate, Magdalene sought the support and advice of her mother, who'd for decades modeled to her the epitome of a devoted, loyal, patient, loving wife. Maggie goes on to say that her son, having grown tired of listening to his grandfather speak so openly and despising of his father and after being under constant watch by the surveillance, the guard, the driver and the housekeeper, devised a plan asking his grandfather permission to take the metro to school with his friends in lieu of the usual limo and chauffeur. He paid one of the upperclassmen at school to "kidnap" him (unbeknownst to his friends) and once out of sight boarded a plane to his father's.

The judge who stood towering just moments ago over Arthur is now a crumpled mess at his great desk. He glances at the monitor screen on top of the desk, all the CCTV live feeds reflect back at him. He pauses and thinks of the heavy wrought iron gates surrounding his property, the armed guard stationed outside, the cameras inside his home…. He's turned his house into a prison, and he the warden. It's no wonder his grandson went to such lengths to escape from under him.

"Maggie", he speaks to his daughter who's done him the courtesy of remaining on the phone. "Maggie, I'm...I'm so...I'm lost. I'm so sorry and so lost, sweetheart". Not for the first time Judge Mayweather seriously considers retirement.

"Judge". It's Percival who approaches the desk and reminds the judge of his present company. "Your grandson…"

"He's fine. Gregory is with his parents". The judge releases another breath of relief. Then remembers. "I'll have the search called off immediately. Thank you for your quick response today officers", he nods toward Percival and to Leon, who's still standing at the door on his phone but has enough respect to bow his head when he catches the judge's eye. Judge Mayweather turns to face Arthur and Morgana. "And to you as well detectives".

Arthur nods curtly. "Thank you, sir"

"We're glad that your grandson is alright, Your Honour", Morgana adds.

"You four may take your leave". The judge dismisses them, turns off the monitor on his desk and returns his attention back to his daughter, hoping he hasn't lost her and his grandson forever.

The doors closed shut behind them, the detectives walk briskly but break into a jog when they see Leon and Percival jogging ahead of them toward the front door. Once outside, Leon and Percival turn their handheld radio transmitters back on.

"Leon?", Morgana breathes out catching her breath. "What is it?"

Slightly winded he pauses. "Gwen!", he says over the reports and voices being transmitted through the radio at his hip. "She's been found alive at the shipping docks. They've rushed her to Albion General". The words come out fast and urgent. "Percival and I are headed there now. You and Arthur go to the hospital- we'll meet you there later". The police chief and his partner zip into the squad car turning on the siren and beacon lights on its roof and speed down the long arched driveway.

Arthur feels his knees give and he stumbles backward. He doesn't hear Morgana call out to him. He doesn't remember her ushering him over to the passenger's seat. He doesn't remember her taking the keys and driving as fast as the adrenaline rushing through her veins, wiping her tear-blurred eyes along the way.

Guinevere is alive. That's the only thought that fills him. The only thing that matters.