Steve opened the door to a smiling Chief Powell, who strode into the room, hat in hand, when the SFPD inspector took a step back to make way. Powell was followed by a grinning Sergeant Walker and a large Hispanic man, in a State Police uniform, that neither San Francisco detective recognized. Captain Olsen brought up the rear, nodding genially to Steve as he entered then stood out of the way near the door when it closed.

Moving closer to the bed, Powell looked from Steve to Mike and shook his head in relief, exhaling loudly. "Holy hell, is it ever good to see you two again," he laughed, holding out his hand for Steve to shake then realizing his mistake with an embarrassed chuckle, opting instead for an avuncular slap on the smaller man's left shoulder.

"Chief Powell," Steve smiled and nodded in salutation.

The older man had started to turn towards the bed when he swung back. "Calvin, please, Steve…" He stepped to the bed, eyeing the smiling Mike with another shake of his head. "I hear we came pretty close to losing you, didn't we?"

Mike tried to hide the wince the chief's words elicited; his eyes briefly snapped to his partner and he saw Steve freeze almost imperceptibly as the younger man faced Walker and they exchanged an awkward but heartfelt handshake. Mike smiled warmly up at Powell. "I'm still here and hopefully going home soon," he chuckled.

Walker approached the bed and held out his right hand. "Lieutenant Stone, I'm Sergeant Walker. It's an honor to finally meet you, sir. I was the guy talking to you two on the radio that night."

Mike took his hand and shook it as vigorously as he could. "I hear we owe you big time, Sergeant. And I can't thank you enough for not giving up…"

"Well, sir, we knew you were out there, we just had to find you."

"Mike, Sergeant… call me Mike, okay?"

"If you call me Dean, sir."

Chuckling, Mike nodded. "It's a deal."

Powell had moved to stand near their third visitor. "Mike, Steve," he began with nods, "this is Officer Javier Rios of the CSP. He and his partner were the second car on the scene that night and Rios was actually the guy who found you, Mike."

Rios, who had already shaken Steve's left hand, approached the bed. "Like Dean said, sir, it's a pleasure and an honor to meet you," he said formally, shaking Mike's hand, "and it's good to see you doing so well, sir."

Swallowing heavily, Mike nodded, slipping his hand from the tall, dark-haired cop's. "It's an honor to meet you as well, Officer Rios, and, on behalf of my partner, my daughter and myself, to have the opportunity to thank you to your face. We will be eternally grateful for your diligence." He raised his index finger. "And it's –"

"Mike. Yes, sir, I know," Rios grinned shyly, turning his service cap nervously in his hands. "My friends call me Jay."

"Then Jay it is," Mike said with a sharp nod and a grin.

"Thank you," Rios said quietly, "and, ah, just so you know, Dean and I were only two of the officers involved in the search and your recovery that night. It was an interdepartmental operation and, thankfully, a success."

Mike snorted. "We don't get enough of those, do we?" Powell led the chorus of agreeable nods and grunts before grabbing one of the hard plastic chairs that were stacked against the wall, pulling it free and setting it down near the bed.

The others did the same until all five were sitting in a semi-circle facing the bed, Steve at the head near his partner and Olsen beside him. Chief Powell glanced around the group then faced the two San Francisco detectives. "So, ah, I guess the floor is ours, right? Well, we've got a lot to tell you… so where do you want to start?"

Mike and Steve exchanged a look and the older man nodded. Steve faced Powell; they had already discussed what they wanted, and needed, to know, so he was ready for the question. He inhaled deeply and nodded. "Well, I guess our first question is who shot us?" he asked simply.

Walker and Rios looked at Powell, who met Steve's stare evenly. "Fair enough, but I just want to back up a little, if that's okay. That night, well, almost morning really, after we got you two into the ambulance and on the way here, Officer Rios and the other men at the scene, and myself, we went to the farmhouse… that third location… right then and there. We didn't want whoever did this to you to get away, even though it was hours later but we thought, well, with the fog and everything, maybe they were just as trapped as you guys had been. And we were right… the shooter was still there."

Steve and Mike glanced at each other, both of them subconsciously holding their breaths.

"It was The Reverend Jimmy Scott."

Steve dropped his head and closed his eyes as Mike's jaw dropped slightly. Before either of them could say anything, Powell continued, "He didn't give us any resistance… he was already dead… he killed himself."

Steve's head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. "He killed himself?"

Powell nodded.

Mike was shaking his head slowly. "I don't understand… we were told Scott was spotted in The City…"

"He was," Powell continued to nod, "and we think we've figured out what happened. Jay?" He turned to Rios, who nodded before leaning forward and focusing his attention on the two injured detectives.

"We've been able to corroborate that Scott was, indeed, in San Francisco on the dates you were aware of, but then at some point he returned to that third property… possibly to lie low until the furor over Kowalczyk's murder died down… or, as we're starting to believe, to eventually kill himself when he realized that he had no other way out." He exhaled loudly. "You guys just, ah, well… you happened to stumble onto him at the wrong time, I guess…"

Mike snorted dryly. "Lucky us." Steve glanced at him with a brief sad smile. "What did he use?"

"A Thompson Submachine gun," Powell stated flatly.

Steve sat up abruptly as Mike's eyebrows rose sharply. "A Tommy gun? Where the hell did he get a Tommy gun?"

"You read his file, didn't you, Mike?" Powell asked. "His father –"

"Was a World War Two vet. Yeah, I read that. What, his dad brought one home from the war?"

The chief shook his head. "Not that we can find but we're checking to see if there's a record of him buying one at some point. I doubt there's a record anywhere. But however he got his hands on one, well, when he died, I guess his son took it."

"If he used a Tommy gun," Steve asked slowly, "then how come he didn't keep firing at us as we backed away… I mean, we were sitting ducks…"

Powell almost smiled. "You guys were lucky, I guess, if you could call it… it fell prey, let's say, to one of its weaknesses…" He looked at Mike with raised eyebrows; he knew Mike was an ex-Marine and WWII vet himself.

Steve looked at his partner, whose face suddenly softened in realization.

"It jammed…" Mike said quietly. "It jammed, didn't it?"

Powell nodded gently.

Mike looked down, shaking his head slowly. "God damn it…" He felt Steve's hand on his arm and a comforting squeeze.

Powell cleared his throat and both partners looked at him, frowning. "He, ah, he must have gotten it… unjammed… because when we got there…" He dropped his head momentarily and took a deep breath. "There were unspent shells on the floor and he, ah… he'd put it under his chin…"

Mike and Steve froze; Mike's eyes narrowed and he inclined his head; Steve leaned forward slightly and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "He killed himself with the Tommy gun?"

Powell nodded. "He was lying on the floor just inside the open door when we got there… the gun was beside him… There wasn't, ah… there wasn't much left…"

Mike swallowed heavily before asking. "Then how can you be –?"

"We're sure," the chief interrupted, "believe me, we're sure… beyond the shadow of a doubt… it's Scott."

Feeling his partner's hand gripping his arm even tighter, Mike closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. Then he looked up quickly, frowning. "But I saw headlights… I'm sure I did. After we got hit, there were headlights –"

Powell was shaking his head, almost smiling. "You saw lights, Mike," he interrupted gently, "that's true, but they weren't headlights." He glanced at Steve and almost smiled. "And you didn't make a mistake," he assured quickly when Mike's frown deepened. "For some reason we haven't figured out yet, there were two large… spotlights I guess you could call them," he said with a shrug, "on the porch on either side of the front door. There was still power going to the farmhouse and I guess he'd had those lights installed for the exact purpose he used them for – to blind any approaching intruders, whether on foot or in a vehicle, or to make them think they were being pursued."

"It sure as hell fooled me," Mike said quietly, looking down and shaking his head slowly. "God damn it… We didn't have to run…"

"Don't blame yourself, Mike, you were under attack and both of you had already been wounded. Anyone would've thought that, believe me…" Powell glanced around the room; everyone was nodding. "If he'd snapped those lights on before he fired, maybe you'd've gotten out of there unscathed… but he didn't… and we have to believe that the outcome could've been a lot worse… You guys reacted fast, and that's what saved you…"

Mike looked at his partner. "Steve got us out of there…" he said quietly, "even with his arm all shot up…" His bottom lip quivered slightly. "I had nothing to do with it…" The grip on his arm tightened again; Steve stared into the now haunted blue eyes without moving.

The room fell silent; Powell, Walker and Rios were looking down, Olsen keeping a worried, indirect eye on his injured officers.

Steve smiled, squeezed Mike's arm again then faced the others. "So, ah, did you find anything else there? I mean, besides Scott?"

Powell looked at the man beside him and Rios sat forward, his forearms on his thighs. He shook his head. "Not much; the place didn't look lived in, there wasn't any food or anything… There was a car around back but we don't think he was there too long before you guys showed up. I'm sure you surprised him."

"You said earlier you think you figured out about Scott's visit to San Francisco…?" Mike had raised his head and was focusing on the conversation again.

Rios nodded, glancing at Powell and then Olsen, who nodded for him to continue. "We've, ah, we've been working with some of your guys and we've managed to trace what we think happened after Kowalczyk was murdered. Now what –"

"That second ranch," Mike interrupted, his eyes snapping from Rios to Powell to Olsen, "oh my god, I'm sorry, I just remembered, that second ranch –"

Rios and Powell were nodding quickly, both almost smiling. "Don't worry, Mike, we've been there… as a matter of fact, we went there that same day. And we found what you found," Powell reassured the suddenly agitated lieutenant.

Rios, nodding in agreement with the police chief, smiled in understanding. "Forensics had confirmed that the blood on the floor of the farmhouse belonged to Stan Kowalczyk. And that he was most likely dismembered there as well… like you thought."

Both Mike and Steve nodded soberly.

"And there was something else," Rios added, looking down briefly before continuing. "There's a… I guess you could call it a root cellar under the house. The door's built into the side of the building behind a huge bush… you guys would've had a tough time seeing it in the dark…"

Steve glanced at Mike before replying, "We never checked the outside… we wanted to get to that third place before the fog got too thick…"

"Fair enough," Rios nodded.

"We figured the whole place would be gone over with a fine-toothed comb when we could get back…" Mike added.

"Believe me, it was," Powell smiled sadly. "And that's when they found it… in the root cellar. A bone saw… and Stan Kowalczyk's head…"