Kayla hesitated on the sidewalk, gazing at the wide brick building that stood before her.

That building, for all its innocuous appearance, had been a key player in what had not only been the worst period in her life, but a possible silent witness to the crime that had been perpetrated against her husband. There, in one of the viewing rooms, Steve had lain in repose in the days before the funeral, and with Shane's information that additional dosages of the drug would have been administered to keep him under its effects, it would have been a convenient place for those additional doses to have been dispensed. Anyone pretending to be a friend or mourner would have had almost unlimited access to him during viewing hours. Beyond that, even, if the mortician in question had been part of the plot.

Unaware of his sister's hesitation, Bo opened the door and he and Hope stepped inside, leaving Kayla to linger on the stoop, overcome by the unexpected emotions that were swelling inside her. Like the fatal swoop of a dark bird of prey, the painful flashback of her last visit to that place plunged her into a sudden and profound sensation of melancholy. Steve had been alive. If only someone had noticed, if only someone had realized, all those lonely years without him could have been prevented.

"Kay?"

Forcing her eyes from the sign, she saw that Bo was standing in the doorway, holding it open. When she hadn't followed them inside, he had come back looking for her.

"You all right?" he asked in reaction to her anxious expression.

"Sorry," she said, trying unsuccessfully to put on her usual cheerful expression. "Just being foolish, I guess. This place has some really bad memories for me. It's so surreal to be back here, like if I step through this door, the last few hours will just vanish, and Steve will be lost to me again."

Hope stepped back outside and placed comforting arms around her sister-in-law. "It's all right, Kayla. Steve is really alive. It's not a dream, and if we're lucky, we'll get some answers here about why this was done to him."

Still, she hesitated, reluctant to revisit the scene of her unspeakable grief.

"Maybe some kind of written consent from you will be enough to get them to open the records for us," Bo suggested. "That way, you won't have to come inside. You could wait in the car."

She drew a deep, steadying breath. "No, I think I need to do this; to be a part of it. Steve is okay," she added as a reminder to herself.

"He's absolutely okay," Hope agreed. "And when we get finished here, we'll take you back to him."

Steeling herself against the flood of memories that assaulted her from all sides, Kayla stepped through the door. Her eyes were immediately drawn down the narrow corridor to the viewing room where Steve's body had lain. The door was closed and another name was on the plaque beside it, but she felt her throat constrict in reaction to it.

Bo saw where her eyes had strayed and understood the stricken expression that flashed across her face. It was his hand on her elbow that brought her back to reality, and she turned to look into his face.

"It's all right, Kay. You know he isn't there; he's back at the safe house, waiting for us."

She paused a moment to regain her composure. "I'm fine. It just seems so strange now, knowing that Steve was alive when he was lying in that coffin in the viewing room. I can't help but question my medical abilities. I should have noticed something. I could have spared all of us those terrible years without him."

"Don't beat yourself up, okay? Even the doctor who pronounced him dead was unable to tell that he was actually alive. All the monitoring equipment said that he was dead."

"Bo's right," Hope said in a firm but kind voice. "You heard what Shane said about that drug. This wasn't your fault."

"I know, but it just doesn't seem possible that any organization, even the I.S.A., could produce something that could so thoroughly fool everyone. There must have been signs that we didn't pick up on. That I should have picked up on."

"We don't know that," Hope said, gently.

"Well, I think one thing is obvious," Kayla said, her eyes straying toward the viewing room again. "Shane said the drug had to be re-administered several times to keep him under. It was probably done right here, when no one else was around."

Hope nodded. "You're probably right. There would have been ample opportunity for that, especially if the mortician was in on it."

"You still don't have to do this," Bo reminded his sister. "If they won't turn over the records, we could even get a court order, if necessary."

"No, that would take too long." She drew a deep breath. "Let's just get this over with, so we can get back to Steve."

The reception alcove just inside the door was empty, but the large wooden desk and computer indicated that its occupant was present, just not at the desk at that moment. As they approached it to wait in the chairs that were scattered about the area, a young man stepped out of an adjacent office, alerted to their presence by their voices or perhaps by the opening of the front door.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long," he said, apologetically. "Clarice stepped away from her desk for a few minutes, and I was on the phone with a client. How may I help you?"

Although dressed in the typical black suit of a funeral home employee, he did not quite fit the television stereotype of the tall, willowy, somber-faced mortician portrayed so many times on movie and television screens. To the contrary, he was shorter, fairly muscular, and pleasant faced. He looked curiously from one to the other, waiting for someone to speak, but Bo and Hope deferred to Kayla.

Taking her cue, she stepped forward. "My name is Kayla Johnson. We used your facility for my husband when he passed away fifteen years ago. We're trying to contact an employee who was here at the time. Would you be able to help us with that?"

"Well, if you're needing help with another funeral, I'm sure I could –"

"No, no. We're not in need of another funeral. I just need to ask him some specific questions relating to my husband's funeral."

"Oh, I see. Do you have the name of the agent?"

"Not with me, no. I've since moved to California, and that is where my paperwork is. I wondered if perhaps you kept those records archived."

"We do, but since that information is available to family only, I will require photo identification before I can open them," he told her. "We have strict privacy restrictions."

"I understand." She was prepared for that, and had her driver's license and her hospital identification card handy.

He looked at both of them carefully, comparing the picture in each one to the woman who stood before him, then, satisfied that she was who she said she was, he passed them back to her and offered an accommodating smile. "Very well, Doctor Johnson. The original files are kept in storage off site, but we have that information archived on our data base. Follow me."

Bolstered by the hope of finally bringing the mystery to its conclusion, they followed him through the reception area and into his office. He took a seat behind a rather cluttered desk with a nameplate that read: Devon Tyler. He gestured them to take the guest chairs. Kayla and Hope took the chairs nearest his desk. Several more chairs were against the wall, but rather than drag them forward, Bo merely stood behind his wife.

After booting up the database, Tyler asked, "What is the name of the deceased?"

"Steven Earl Johnson."

He typed in the name. "And what is the month and year of his death?"

"October, Nineteen-ninety."

"Ah, yes, here it is. Steven Earl Johnson, passed away on October Twenty Second, Nineteen-ninety. The agent who handled your husband's case was Clifford Wilkins."

Bo withdrew a note pad from his pocket and wrote down the name. "Does he still work here?"

"No. He had terminated his employment before I was hired. I've been here eight years, so he's been gone a while."

"Any idea when he left, or where he went?"

"I don't have access to the personnel records, I'm sorry."

"Is there anyone here who does? It is very important that we speak with him."

"No. You would probably need to speak to our personnel director, Mrs. Shipley, but I'm afraid she isn't here today."

Bo withdrew his badge and held it up for him to see. Tyler's eyes lingered on the badge for several moments, then lifted to Bo's face. Satisfied with the attentive response, Bo asked, "Would you please give her a call? This man may have been involved in a crime, and it's imperative that we talk to him."

"Are you talking about Clifford?" asked a rather gruff voice from the doorway.

Everyone turned toward the older woman who stood there scrutinizing them with sharp eyes that peered at them over the rims of her glasses, which were attached to a chain around her neck. She had apparently been listening, unnoticed, for several minutes.

"Yes, we are," Kayla said.

"I can contact Joyce Shipley, if necessary, but I was here at that time, so it might be that I can help you without having to disturb her day off."

"Do you know where we might find Mr. Wilkins?"

"I was hoping you might tell me," she retorted in the confident, authoritative voice of a long term employee with authority within the company. "He skipped out some fourteen or fifteen years ago. The curious thing was, a fairly expensive casket disappeared at the same time. He and the casket both just vanished, and have not been heard from since! I remember it quite vividly because, as you might imagine, it was a topic of discussion for quite some time! It's the first and only time we've ever lost a casket!"

"Who was the casket for?" Bo asked, intrigued. "A family member, perhaps?"

She shrugged. "No idea. He never mentioned a relative having passed away. In fact, as I recall, we didn't even find out about it until after he had gone." She paused, frowning in deep thought. "That was a long time ago, mind you, but I do remember he had ordered two identical caskets. That is sometimes done when two family members pass away together, such as a husband and wife, so that in itself was not terribly unusual. What was odd, though, was his insistence that they be absolutely identical in every way, that there be absolutely nothing that separated one from the other in outward appearance, right down to any possible variations in the finish. That demand stuck in my mind, since no one has ever been that adamant before. They had to be exact mirror images, he said."

"Would you be able to find out who purchased those identical caskets?" Bo asked.

"I could not reveal the names without a court order, but I will tell you that one casket was bought and paid for by a client. The other simply vanished from the storeroom. We didn't discover it missing until after he had gone. It had been purchased for a different client, according to the requisition that Cliff had filled out, but when we called to notify that client of the theft, we found that the person did not exist, at least not here in Salem. We never found him and he never inquired about the casket that had been ordered."

"Was the name Frederico Vitela?"

She shook her head. "It's been too long; I can't remember."

"Did anyone try to locate Mr. Wilkins?" Hope asked.

"Yes, one of our other representatives went to his place to make sure he was all right. We were worried when he didn't show up for work and didn't call in. His apartment had been cleaned out and there was no sign of him."

"Did you notify the police that he was missing?" Bo asked.

She shrugged, as though the thought had not occurred to her. "Didn't seem much point. Paul looked in the window and saw the place was bare. The furniture and all his belongings were gone, and the apartment manager said he had returned the key, so it seemed obvious he had left on his own."

"Still, doesn't it seem odd that he would pack up and leave town without letting anyone know?" Hope asked. "That just seems so abrupt."

She shrugged. "I suppose, but this type of job isn't for everyone. We've had people come to work, then leave for lunch and never come back. Seeing grief on a daily basis is difficult for some, and it can lead to such terrible depression. I've seen it happen before, and I suspect that's what happened to Cliff. Frankly, I think it's less surprising that he left town without notice than it is that he might have stolen that casket. That isn't something that travels without notice, if you know what I mean."

"Yes," Bo agreed. "I can imagine. So you never recovered the missing casket?"

"No. It was written off at the end of the year as a loss. The only time we've ever lost a casket, and I must say, it raised some eyebrows in corporate! It's still missing to this day."

"Does he have any relatives in Salem? Someone who might know his whereabouts?"

"No, not that I know of. He isn't from this area, though. I believe he transferred in from one of our other branches in another state. I don't know which one."

"What about personnel?" Hope asked. "Would they still have his records on file?"

She gave a slight grimace and a shrug, indicating that she had no idea. "They might be on the computer, but since I'm not in personnel, I can't say for sure. You'll probably need to talk to Corporate about that, and their business offices won't be open until Monday. I can get you the phone number, if you'd like, but I'm sure you will need a court order before they can release the information to you."

"We can do that," Bo said. He withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else relating to this matter, I'd appreciate it if you would give me a call."

She took the card and glanced at it. "I will, but I don't think there is anything more to tell, Detective. We were really left in the dark with him. We talked about it later, and even though some of the employees thought he had been acting kind of strange, we never had a clue that he would steal a casket and then just disappear."

"How was he acting strange?" Hope asked.

"You know, kind of secretive. There were phone calls that were abruptly terminated if someone came into the room. Oh! And I remember a man came to see him once. Clifford went very pale when he saw him, like he was terrified. He ushered him quickly into a private room. We never found out what that was all about." She paused, thoughtfully. "I wonder if he passed that casket on to that man." She shrugged, and gave a laugh. "But why would he do that? The man looked like he had enough money to buy whatever he needed. It doesn't make sense."

"What did this man look like?"

"He was well dressed, but I'm afraid I don't remember any details about his features. I'm sorry. It's been a long time."

"Did you overhear any of the conversation?"

"No."

"What about other employees who were here at that time? Are any of them still employed here? Someone else we might be able to contact about this matter?"

"No. I'm the longest employee here," she replied. "Twenty six years! Paul Patrick was here at that time, I believe he transferred to our Chicago branch. You might be able to contact him. Other than that, I can't think of anyone else. People come and go, you know. It's hard to remember them all after so much time has passed."

"Thank you for your time, Missus -"

"Clarice. Clarice Crelly."

"Let me know if you think of anything else."

The three stood up and followed Clarice to her desk in the lobby, where she looked up the phone number of the Chicago offices and jotted it down. They thanked her again, and returned to the car.

"Well," Bo said as he started the ignition. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where that second casket is."

"At St. Luke's Cemetery, buried in Steve's grave," Hope answered. "Someone must have switched the caskets either after the service, or maybe before it was loaded into the hearse. The one Steve was in was probably loaded into a van or a hearse to get Steve out of town, while the empty one was buried."

"And this Clifford Watkins was given an offer he couldn't refuse. Probably given enough money to live comfortably in the Bahamas, or something." He shook his head slowly. "What the hell is in the Wyatt's house or the Matthews' house that is so valuable it justified such an elaborate ruse?"

No one answered, because no one had an answer.

Back at the safe house, Roman had disarmed the security alarm on the kitchen door and opened it to give him and the other agents a clear view of Steve Johnson pushing his daughter on the tire-swing, but while his eyes were attentively watching his brother in law and scanning the dense tree line that surrounded the house, he was thinking about Steve's reaction to Terrell's torture question and the abrupt way he had shut down the conversation.

He had never thought of Steve Johnson as anything other than the stray-cat hoodlum that his tender-hearted sister had, for some inexplicable reason, taken a liking to. Now, he was forced to reassess his initial opinion and view him in an entirely different perspective – that of a man who had been wronged, not only through a kidnapping, but who had survived untold atrocities. A sense of respect had begun to creep into his attitude toward Steve.

"What do you suppose they did to him?" he wondered aloud as Shane joined him with a cup of tea that he had prepared, preferring it over the soft drinks.

Shane shook his head, slowly. "I don't know, but it obviously holds bad enough memories that he doesn't want to talk about it."

"He's going to have to," Terrell said from the table where he was working on the last slice of pizza, which had long since gone cold. "We need to know everything he went through, so we can build a strong case against these guys."

"Are you sure it isn't simply morbid curiosity on your part?" Shane retorted, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

"I'm not sure we need to know the specifics," Roman agreed. "He's earned the right to a certain amount of privacy."

"I beg to differ," Mitchell said. "The severity of what they did can have an impact on the outcome of this investigation."

"We're not going to try to force it out of him, or he's likely to dig his heels in," Shane warned. "When we pick up the questioning again, we're going to skip over that part and move on to something else."

The two younger agents were shaking their heads in clear disagreement, and Mitchell confirmed it when he said, "I have to voice my objection. We need all the information we can get now, while its still fresh in his mind."

"I don't think it's anything he's likely to forget," Roman said.

"Your objection is noted," Shane said, "but I'm the senior agent here, and we will not pressure this man to reveal the specifics of how he was tortured. You two need to learn patience. I know this man. He will talk about it if and when he's ready, but not one minute before. Pressuring him may shut him down completely, and that's the last thing we want."

Roman detected more in Shane's statement than a concern that Steve would clam up. Shane was literally looking out for him. "Sounds like you and Johnson have become friends," he said, quietly.

Shane nodded. "I guess we have. I've gotten to know him better during the last twenty four hours than during all the years he was in Salem before. He's a very complex person, but I think I'm starting to understand him. I don't know many people who could go through what he has and come through it so well. I have to respect him for that."

"Well, I have to admit, I'm not sure I could have done any better than he has," Roman said. "I wish he'd get back in here, though. This case is too important to risk himself needlessly."

"Well, after all those years of being confined, I think he just needed the reassurance that he wasn't locked in," Shane explained. "We can give him that much."

Roman nodded.

Folding his arms, he leaned on the door jamb and scanned the tree line with alert scrutiny, but he saw only the tree limbs and brush swaying gently in the breeze.