Falling from Grace

by Rob1

This is a dark novel, heavy on the angst and violence. Book I begins with our 'hero' discovering that an old enemy still lives. He's about to discover something worse.

2. Book II: A Season in Hell

Book II: A Season in Hell

Chapter 5

Roman walked out of the airport terminal, his shirt instantly plastering itself against his skin. Ah, the joys of springtime in New Orleans- 100% humidity, gators to bite you in the ass and flying cockroaches to finish off your mangled remains. This was what being an ass to his wife bought him.

With a sigh that verged on a growl, he turned to the young officer who stood at his side. "Lead the way, officer Ramie. I'm ready to get to the station house, get out of this heat."

"Actually, sir, Captain Hale wanted me to take you to a little local restaurant. He thought ya'll could talk over an early dinner."

Roman smothered another sigh. All he really wanted was to check-in with the department and then hit a hotel so he could call Marlena. He missed her already. Southerners and their incessant good manners- damn them all. The New Orleaneans were the worst, he'd be lucky to make it to a hotel before dawn if prior experience was any indicator. Pushing aside his impatience, he merely nodded. "Sounds good. I haven't had crawfish in ages."

****************************************

The steps sagged beneath his weight and Roman wondered how this place had avoided being condemned years ago. At least he didn't have to worry about vermin. His eyes already stung from the scent of the chile peppers- nothing could survive long in such an atmosphere. He had to struggle to remember why he had thought coming to New Orleans would be a good idea.

The restaurant had obviously yet to be discovered by the hordes of tourists that flocked to the city, the tables virtually unoccupied. Slow-moving ceiling fans did little to disturb the cloud of smoke generated by the locals clustered around the bar, and the man he was here to meet was easy to spot amidst the rickety tables that dotted the main room. Conspicuous in his shoulder holster, the sleeves of his blue oxford rolled-up over bulging biceps, a beefy man sat holding court in the far corner of the room. Walking over, Roman extended his hand "Captain Hale?"

Rising to his feet, the man dominating the corner met his grip in a firm clasp. "Commander Brady? A pleasure. We've heard of your work against organized crime even down here in the heart of the bayou. My department is at your disposal."

"I appreciate your cooperation," Roman answered, sitting carefully down in the chair facing the Captain, grateful when it didn't collapse underneath him. "We have a lead on a smuggling operation, and it looks like it originated out of here."

"Entirely possible," Hale replied. "Given our waterways, and the difficulties of patrolling the marshes, we get more than our share of smugglers. But before we get down to the nitty gritty, let me treat you to a New Orleans delicacy." Gesturing toward the bar, the Captain yelled out, "Two orders of gumbo and a basket of dirt dobbers, Ernie. And bring a cold one for my friend."

Gratefully sipping on the ice cold beer, Roman leaned back and gave up all hope of getting out of dinner in anything even resembling a timely fashion. If he was going to be stuck in this smokey dive for a couple of hours, he might as well enjoy it. While always alert to treachery where Dimera was involved, he had checked out Hale's reputation and he had come-up as clean as anyone could. If he was going to get anywhere on this case, he was going to have to trust someone and Hale had avoided the scandal that plagued so many in the higher echelons of the New Orleans P.D. Getting comfortable, Roman nodded at the captain. "So, tell me what you have on an underworld figure who goes by the alias 'the Phoenix'."

****************************************

"Damn boy, I'm telling you, I don't care if it is Stefano Dimera. Nobody can run a base of operations as big as you're suggesting off of our coast without us having at least some inkling of it. The gulf coast runs long, but access to that kind of volume is just not feasible. Come on in the back. Ernie has a map in his office- I'll show you what I mean," Hale said, rising from the corner table they had monopolized for the past two hours.

The meeting was not going well. Captain Hale refused to admit to even the possibility of such an intricate organization operating in Louisiana waters. It was a load of crap, and Roman knew it. The Captain was not going to be much help and Roman wasn't certain if it was because he was dirty or merely stupid. With a mental shrug, Roman followed the big man into the back, already thinking up excuses for calling it an early night.

The small room's single lightbulb hung directly over a rickety table. Hale draped a large map of the Louisiana coast over the pitted surface, blunt fingers tracing the waterline. "Look, there are only a very few spots where the water is too shallow for our patrol boats and yet transportation inland is sufficient for the quantities you're talking about. We know all of those spots. There is no way the kind of volume you're looking for could be getting in undetected."

Roman feigned interest, leaning over to study the expanses of marsh indicated on the map. Hale's heavy hand slapped against his shoulder and he jerked back at the sudden stabbing pain. Backing away, he stumbled against the wall behind him, letting it take his weight.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He shook his head, trying to clear away the sudden fog that obscured his vision. Captain Hale stood looking at him, a peculiar expression on his face. Son of a bitch....

Roman struggled to stand, to resist the effects of whatever drugs were surging through his system. He managed a single step forward before he lost his balance and crashed down on top of the table. The sound of splintering wood, and he was on his knees. The dimly made out forms of two men moved through the room. He raised his hands, tried to stand, tried to fight. The last thing he felt was the floor, coming up to meet him.

****************************************

His head snapped back as if kicked and he found himself drowning. Ice cold water bruised his face, forced its way down his throat, up his nose. Flopping over on his belly, he coughed up the water and tried to remember where he was. The force pounding against his back suddenly stopped, leaving him huddled in the center of a small concrete room. Shit! Gotta get up. Gotta get out. He managed to reach his knees before the rushing stream of water slammed into him again, sending him spinning across the floor. He hit the wall hard and stayed there, struggling to breathe through sodden lungs. When the water finally stopped, he remained prone, trying to get his bearings. The air was muggy, so thick you could almost see it. A tremor shook his frame and bare skin prickled in reaction to the icy water, the contrast with warm air making his frozen skin ache. Stripped bare, he felt the rough rock beneath him as it scrapped against his flesh. He forced stiff joints to move, curling into the fetal position, trying to stop the shaking of his body.

"On your knees, Brady. Face the wall, and lock your hands together on top of your head. Move it, you know the drill," a voice barked out of the surrounding lights.

Roman groggily raised his head, swiveling to face the voice, trying to make out an image behind the blinding lights glaring at him from the far side of the small room. Another blast of water lashed out at him, forcing him back into the wall. Distantly, he noted that they were using a firehose on him. Stefano always did have a creative talent when it came to ways of breaking a man down. The pressure once again released him from its grip and he sank to the floor, coughing up more water, feeling like he'd already puked an ocean. He was no longer certain which was worse, the water forcing its way down his throat or the water forcing its way back up moments later.

"We can do this all day Brady- now stop screwing around and face the wall," the voice called again.

Knowing there was no point in resistance at this stage of the game, Roman complied. He clenched his jaw shut to still the chattering of his teeth and rolled himself to his knees. The blank concrete wall watched him as he linked his hands together on the top of his head and waited, feeling very naked and very vulnerable. It was the exact way he was supposed to be feeling, but knowing that didn't make it any better. Knowing it made it worse.

The sound of footsteps behind him. Two sets. Boots. He involuntarily flinched, expecting the beginning of a beating. Instead, a pair of dark grey sweat pants fell to the floor next to him.

"Get dressed."

Unexpected. Appreciated. He hated that he appreciated. He grabbed the pants anyway. With stiff fingers, he slowly pulled the thin cotton over his legs, trying to give himself time to assess the situation. Two burly guards, armed with nightsticks, stood directly behind him. Through the lights on the far wall, he could make out another pair of figures, one of them holding the fire hose. Four men. No way he could take four men. He blinked his eyes as his vision blurred. Drugs. He did not need his mind fogged with more drugs. Better a beating than the drugs.

"Get up. Get up!"

The toe of a boot prodded him in the ribs and he felt the first flash of anger surge through his blood. It felt strangely good.

"Get on your feet, Brady."

The baton whipped out, thudding solidly against the muscle of his shoulder. Roman flashed the guard a smile that was anything but friendly and forced himself upright. Roughly he was pushed forward, his hands slapping against the wall in front of him in an effort to keep his balance. His feet were kicked wide apart and he stood braced precariously against the wall. He focused his attention on the sound of his ragged breathing and tried not to think about what was going to happen next. Whatever it was, he wouldn't like it.

Two guards. He could take two guards. A little voice inside his head told him he could drop them both and never break a sweat. He ignored the little voice, it scared him more than the guards. Fear. He hated fear. Hated it more than pain, more than death, more than betrayal. Rage was much better than fear, and he could feel the rage rising. He feared it too.

A heavy hand on the back of his neck, and his cheek ground against the concrete wall. Rough rock against his skin, and he knew the blood had started to flow. It brought with it clarity and his breathing eased. He could feel the oxygen flowing through his body, the blood speeding it to his muscles. Two guards at his back. Two guards were nothing. His lips pulled back against his teeth in a grin he never noticed. Only two guards.

One arm was jerked behind his back, tugged high up between his shoulder blades, the joint aching from the strain. The 'click' of the handcuffs, and cold steel wrapped tight around his right wrist. White light exploded behind his eyes as a long forgotten memory came suddenly into focus.

"You want me to do what?"

The old man leans comfortably back in his padded chair. Swirling a snifter of cognac, he studies the amber fluid and tries to repress a smile. "I want you to put them on. The concept is simple."

"The concept is simply stupid. There is a difference, you know."

"John, I am telling you, this is a necessary step in establishing your cover. It will only be for a few days, don't be such a baby about it."

"Why am I always the one going undercover?" With a resigned sigh, he sinks down into the chair before the desk. The metal cuffs dangle from his finger and he eyes them distastefully.

"Because you enjoy it. Remember? You were complaining about being bored- well, I found you something to do."

Stefano's dark eyes follow his every move, and he realizes he is again tugging at the bandages that wrap his face. Irritated by his lapse, he drops his hand to his lap and shoots the old man a scowl. "I think I prefer being bored."

"John, what's the problem with the handcuffs? You've never hesitated over a mission in your life. Why now?"

Dimera's looking at him with those 'mother hen' eyes again and it pisses him off to no end. The old man wants to talk about the Soledinos for the millionth time. Fuck the Soledinos- he'll do anything to avoid thinking about them. "There's nothing wrong with the stupid handcuff's, Stefano. They just remind me of cops. You know how I feel about cops."

Black eyes continue to bore into him and as always, he rises to the challenge he sees there. The young man never blinks as he snaps the steel snug about his own wrist. He clamps down, forcing the circle smaller, feeling it pinch his skin. He snarls an ugly smile and ratchets the metal tighter, waiting for the fear to make itself known. Stefano's face pales, eyes narrowing in worry, and he knows he should stop. He can't stop, needing to face the fear. Needing to beat it. The fear never comes, but the rage takes its place. It howls through his mind, grateful for its freedom and needing to be fed.

Jesus, Stefano had owned him. He had wiped him clean and taken everything that mattered. His name, his memories, his wife- all of it gone. Not again. He would not lose her. He would not go back. Not even Stefano could make him go back.

"No!" His vision blurred, his brain on fire. His body moved, the muscles flowing through a dance long forgotten. A step back and the fingers of a guard tightened their hold, digging into his shoulder. The perfect distance and he slammed his head back into the face of the nearest guard. He heard the bones snap, the grunt of pain. The rage fed, consumed, demanded. Kill them all. Kill them now. Deep inside his mind, something ugly broke free.

He spun around, his knee taking the second guard in the groin. The man dropped like he had been polaxed, retching up his guts and no longer a threat. The guard who was still standing ignored the blood gushing from his nose, yanking at the club on his belt. So freak'n slow- where did Stefano get these losers? He put his bare foot through the man's jaw, the crack of bone loud in the small concrete room. The dead man moved as slowly in death as he had in life. Roman watched as the body toppled to the floor, the light in the eyes fading as the jagged shards of bone worked their way deep into the brain. Two seconds and both guards were down. Two whole seconds- he was out of practice.

He loped across the floor, pure instinct and animal need. The lights called to him, Dimera was waiting. Kill Dimera. He was almost to the lights when the full force of the hose slammed into his chest, once again knocking him off his feet. This time, he curled into a ball to give himself breathing space. With a clarity of thought he could never have imagined, he waited impatiently for the blast to stop so that he could finish off the remaining guards. In this place in his mind, there was no fear and no mercy, and he luxuriated in the hunt even as the pressure of the water pounded against his aching ribs.

Over the sound of the water, he heard a familiar voice. "He's too dangerous like this- hit him with the taser- put him down." It was a voice out of a nightmare, and he tried to fight against the water to get to the man the voice belonged to. Get to him before the jolt of electricity from the taser took away his consciousness, robbing him of the kill. Blinded by the spray of water, he didn't even feel the taser's dart hit home in his thigh, but his body arched in agony as the electric current surged through his system and shut down his motor control. As he hit the stone floor, fluttering on the edge of awareness, he heard the voice order "hit him again," and the lights went out.

Chapter 6

His heart pounded out an irregular rhythm that sent the pain lancing through his head like a knife. He took short hard gasps of the thick air and tried to see past the white haze that fogged his mind. The smell of dirt, of medicine, of sweat- he concentrated on that and ignored the tight leather that pulled against his chest, dug into his arms and legs. He ignored the stiff bite of the strap at his neck as it cut off his breath. He ignored the pain, he ignored the panic, he ignored....

"Let me up!" The words tore free of his throat and his body spasmed, jerking against the bonds that tied him firmly to the high-backed wooden chair. The bright light that shone down on him was suddenly blocked off, a dark figure looming above him. A worried face. A fearful face. A familiar face.

"Let me up," he hissed, his features drawn back in a snarl. The blood starting to flow as the skin on his wrists tore and the rage surged through his mind with the intensity of a tidal wave. "I'm gonna kill you. I am gonna fuck'n kill you!"

"John, stop it! You're going to hurt yourself. Stop it!" Dimera moved to snake one long arm around the bound man's chest and pulled him back against the worn wood of the chair. The body writhed in his grasp, muscles twisting as if seeking to escape the very skin that contained them. The man's heart pulsed against the palm of his hand, a random pattern that could stop at any moment. With his free hand, Stefano snatched a syringe from a nearby tray and plunged the needle deep into the meat of the bare shoulder. The tranquilizer took quick effect and the sweating body began to still.

"John. Roman! Stop it," Stefano repeated, his voice growing gentle, almost soothing. He felt the pulse beneath his fingers begin to slow, to steady. The man's head lolled forward, no longer fighting against the restraints. A tremble ran through the bound body and clouded blue eyes struggled to focus.

"What the hell do you want from me, Dimera?" The words hurt and he forced them slowly out between long gulps for air. Please, God- he could not go through this again.

Stefano's deep chuckle rang out. "I should ask you that. You are the one who came looking for me. Why did you do that? I would have thought you content to stay in Salem with the lovely Marlena."

"You know why I'm here." The arm around his chest withdrew, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He shivered, despite the heat of the room.

"Yes, John, I do know why you're here. I am wondering if you know. Well?"

"Stop calling me that!" The words came out in a sob, and he strained once more against the tight leather straps.

"Then indulge me. Tell me if you know why you came to me."

The body finally slumped in the chair, held up only by the restraints. Blue eyes sought out black, as he bared his teeth in a feral grin. "Yes, I know why I came here. I came here to kill you, old man."

Stefano reached out and brushed back a strand of dark hair. "You didn't do a very good job of it," he replied with a small smile.

"The day's still young."

Again, the sound of dark laughter. "Ah, but I have missed you! I had almost given you up as lost. I should have known you were too stubborn for that."

"After all you've done to me, to my family.... Dimera, I will never stop. Never. Not until you are dead and rotting, I swear to God."

Stefano's eyes narrowed, a hint of anger flashing in their dark depths. Slowly, he circled the chair, taking unconscious pleasure in the sight of his helpless opponent. He stopped once he reached the rear of the chair and selected a new needle from the array on the medical tray. With the flick of a finger, he cleared the air bubbles from the fluid and then slipped the long needle deep into the neck of his prisoner. Dimera took his time, relishing the moment before gently pushing the plunger home.

Roman's fingers clenched, digging into the scarred wood of the armrests. He could feel the drug hit his system, the searing heat spreading swiftly through his veins. He closed his eyes and held on to the images of her. Images that came so easily, for she was as much a part of him as his own blood. She walked down the stairs of their home, holding Sami in her arms. His wife. His baby. His beautiful ladies. He would not let them go. In the church, the candles flickering, the smell of incense in the air. He took her hand and stared into those golden eyes as he slipped his ring on her finger and claimed her before both God and man. The way she wrapped herself around him when they made love, all silk and satin and his. Wanting him. Calling out for him. Accepting him. He would never let her go. Never.

"What's your name?" the dark angel whispered in his ear.

"Fuck you."

Thick hands shoved his head back until he could feel the strain in his neck. Fingers dug at his eyelids and Stefano's smiling face hovered above him.

"What's your name?" Dimera demanded, insistent and expecting.

"Roman Augustus Brady! My name is Roman Augustus Brady, you son of a bitch!"

White pain exploded against the side of his face, the force of the blow jarring his teeth.

"Wrong answer," Stefano snarled, furious that the man would fight him on this. This was not how things should be.

Roman stared up into the black eyes of his tormentor, hating with ever fiber of his being. The drugs twisted through his mind, ugly thoughts and ugly feelings that fed the lurking fury. His lips curved in a hunter's grin. "I won't forget her, Dimera. You can't make me. Not this time. I won't let you take her away from me. I'll die before I let her go."

With a rough shake, Stefano released his grip and backed away from the chair. Claiming another needle, he stood before his prisoner and slowly filled the syringe with amber fluid. His eyes never left Roman's face as he slid the needle home and released the drugs. Almost immediately, the body beneath him began to spasm and a low moan forced its way from between clenched teeth. Stefano reached out and stroked his fingers across the dark bruise that now marred the man's cheek. "Your death is not an option, John. But if you fight me on this, I will hurt you. I don't want to have to hurt you, you should know that by now."

His thoughts were jumbled, the images of her dancing just out of reach. Still, he managed a dry croak of a laugh at Dimera's words. The old man had lost it, lost whatever tenuous grasp he had held on sanity. He closed his eyes and prayed to God that he would not join Stefano in the madness.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear...

I shall fear...

I shall fear...

The words of the prayer refused to come to him and his last coherent thought was that there were some places even God refused to go.

****************************************

He awoke gaging once again- this shit was getting old. The dank smell of rot and decay struck at him from out of the darkness. His thoughts were fractured chaos, and none of the images were good.

He takes the front stairs three at a time and doesn't bother to slow down when he reaches the front door. Dropping his shoulder, he rams his way through, the lock splintering beneath his weight. Stumbling to a halt, he searches for some sign that he is not too late.

"Stefano?! Stefano, god damn it! Where are you?!" The elegant foyer stares back at him in silence and he feels like an intruder. The old man is here, he has to be here. More importantly, she is with him. Shit, he's going to be too late!

The bedroom is on the second floor and he draws his gun as he pounds up the staircase. They will be there. They have to be there.

Through the door and into the center of the room in less time than it takes to think the thought. Dimera's heavy bulk holds her down on the big bed, but he sees the flash of blond hair even in the dim light. Blond hair, the ivory skin of a shapely leg, the silvery glint of a knife...

He is snake quick, and it's still all he can do to beat the knife as it falls toward unprotected flesh. Too late, too late, too late.... His fingers latch onto the wrist an instance before blood is drawn. A prisoner- they need information, they need to interrogate, they need.... Fuck 'they'- he needs the kill and hate overpowers reason. Muscles knot and his foe is yanked from the bed, air driven from lungs as the wall stops the body's flight. Stunned eyes look up at him and he allows himself a smile as he pulls the trigger- once, twice, third time the charm. The limp form slumps to the floor and he steps forward, puts the barrel of his gun to the temple, and blows away the back of the skull.

For a long moment, all is silent. Finally, he breathes out a deep sigh and realizes he should feel at least a twinge of guilt, a hint of remorse. He doesn't. "Are you okay?" he asks gruffly.

"I will be, once you tell me what just happened."

With a rueful shake of his head, he finally turns to face the bed. "She was an assassin. We just discovered it. Damn! I thought I was going to be too late!"

Dimera levers himself from the bed, shrugging on his shirt. "Your timing did show a flair for the dramatic, but I suppose I can forgive you this once," he comments, walking slowly over to stand beside the body of the once beautiful woman.

"I should have been more cautious, more suspicious. Sorry, sir. It's just...."

"It's just, she was a woman," Stefano finishes for him, glancing up to shoot the younger man a bemused look. "I'm surprised you killed her. I didn't think you had it in you to kill a woman, John."

The youthful face hardens, suddenly looking much older than its years. "The little bitch was trying to off you, Stefano. She's just lucky I did her quick."

Deep laughter rings out. "Boy, sometimes you scare even me. The gods must have been very angry on the day they made you."

A flash of pride and he gives the old man a tight grin. "God had nothing to do with it."

Someone was screaming, over and over again. The sounds tore at his ears until he prayed that they would stop. His voice finally gave out and he closed his eyes on the surrounding blackness, grateful for the silence. Concentrating hard, it was all he could do to master the simple act of breathing. Get your shit together, Brady. Now was not the time to go insane.

His heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm and he searched his mind for some hint of where he was. The thoughts came grudgingly, forcing themselves through drug-laden synapses. A prisoner. He was once again a prisoner. Dimera was here. He was doing it again.

He could feel the knife in his hand, the warm blood coating his fingers. The knife felt so good, so right. The knife wasn't real. Drugs. Just the drugs, Roman. Probably something similar to the ones used the last time. The last time he lost himself. He wouldn't do that again. White light flickered in the corner of his eye- the glint of the knife. He turned his head and it was gone. The shadows told him lies, he knew that. But in the darkness, all he could see were the shadows. If he ignored it, maybe it would all go away. He would make it go away. His eyes blinked slowly, methodically. The darkness was still there, but the visions weren't. The drugs couldn't last forever, he just had to be a little bit stronger than they were.

The guards would be back. They'd probably be back soon. They'd bring him needles filled with golden fluid and they'd beat him down when he tried to resist. He would resist. He would always resist. Eventually, he would win.

He had to get his bearings, had to know which way to run when his chance finally came. Staring into the darkness, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Just a hint of light, that's all he asked, but all around him was the dark. He used to love the dark. He used to live there. The dark places...

His thoughts skittered away from the dark places as a moan leaked from his throat, low and foreign. It told him of the pain, the dead weight that used to be his arms. Numbed fingers refused to work, and his shoulders cramped in protest as he tugged at the chains that linked his hands behind his back. He struggled to sit up and the agony streaked through the muscles of his chest and neck. Ignoring the pain, he focused on finding the light.

The air higher up in the room was even more muggy and hard to breathe, the heat more oppressive than it had been in the bayou. Distantly, he wondered if he was still within the U.S., knew that he wasn't. The clank of a lock, and his head jerked down in response to the blinding glare of lights. Too soon. Way too soon. He tried to curl his fingers into fists, couldn't tell if he succeeded or not. It didn't matter one way or another, merely a matter of pride. Then again, sometimes pride was all a man had.

Dark shapes coming at him. Lots of dark shapes. His lips smiled and he heard the sound of giggling laughter. The sound was evil, but he couldn't stop it. Let the dark shapes come. He was going to kill them. He was going to enjoy it.

A boot smashed him in the belly, doubling him over. No air left to breathe and he rested his head against the damp earthen floor. The boot again, it pressed him down, grinding against his spine. The click of the lock was the only hint of his release, the nerves still unwilling to serve him. With a sudden jerk he was yanked to his feet. A guard at each arm, the man in front of him snapping the steel cuff closed before his freedom was ever recognized. A grunt of effort behind him- four men. At least four men. His vision began to clear and he lunged out with his left foot, only to find his feet manacled together with a short length of chain to limit his movements. The guards were taking no chances, the cost of making a mistake more than they were willing to pay.

Roman's breath quickened, the panic rising with each raw gasp. His jaw knotted in an effort to keep the grin from his face, the laughter from his thoughts. A sudden jerk and his arms were nearly ripped from their sockets as he was hoisted into the air by his wrists. After being bound behind his back for so long, his arms spasmed as they took the full weight of his body. The lean form convulsed as a scream ripped from his lips. Aching for the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness, he felt the rage tear through his mind like white fire. His head arched back, the tendons in his neck straining to be free. With an ungodly howl, he gave himself over to the hate.

His body was a meaningless mass of nerve endings that his mind ordered to act. Even as his cry echoed through the dank cell, he heaved his body higher into the air, using his protesting arms as a lever. Long legs snaked out, the length of chain binding his ankles slipping around the throat of the nearest guard. No thought of escape, of pain, of mercy. No thought at all. Only death and the need to make it happen. The muscles in his shoulders cracked with the strain, the blows of the remaining guards falling on his unprotected back. His smile bared his teeth, an animal about to feed. A low snarl and his captured prey left the ground, face turning purple, eyes bulging from the sockets. With a final grinding of muscle, the delicate bones of the neck snapped, the guard going cold and dead. The bloodlust sang triumphantly as his tortured body collapsed, oblivion finally achieved.

****************************************

In a darkened room down a darkened hall, a shadowed figure settled comfortably back in an antique leather desk chair. Lighting a Cuban cigar that was as thick as his thumb, he stared thoughtfully at the rising curls of smoke. Inevitably, his gaze was drawn back to the video monitor and the images of the remaining guards beating the apparently lifeless body as it jerked at the end of the chain. Stefano Dimera, the unchallenged king of the criminal underworld, flashed a grin that was almost paternal.

He had thought that time might have tainted his memories, made a legend out of what was merely a man. He had been wrong. John Black was everything he had remembered and more. The man was a weapon, as deadly as a gun and just as willing to kill. Such a weapon was far too rare to waste. With the push of a button, Dimera sent a message to the guards to stop the beating. Their fear and anger might lead them to do irreparable harm to the prisoner, despite their orders to the contrary. His eyes remained locked on the monitor, searching for some sign of life as the beating came to a halt. The guards gathered their downed comrade, keeping warily beyond the reach of the gently swaying body. Just before the door to the cell was pulled closed, shutting out the last ray of light, Stefano caught a hint of movement, a flash of electric blue. As all light died and the monitor went black, the battered man raised his head and laughed.

Chapter 7

"I see your father's been here. He always brings you white roses, doesn't he?" Kneeling down, Marlena brushed a finger across the delicate velvet of one fragile petal before setting a small bouquet of marigolds beside their more regal brethren.

"I thought you might like these for a change. The color always reminds me of the coming of summer- bright and fresh and new." Settling down on the cool grass, Marlena crossed her legs in front of her and gazed up at the clear blue skies. "Guess you know why I'm here, Isabella. It's the same reason as usual. I'm worried about him. Of course, Lord knows I'm almost always worried about him- you know what he's like. But this time.... He's lying to me, Isabella. He went down to New Orleans. It's the first time he's been gone from me since I came back to Salem. He left and he was lying. He only does that when he thinks the truth will frighten me. Well, that and when he's planning one of his 'surprises'."

"It's been three days and he hasn't called. Bo can't meet my eyes. Even Abe looks guilty and Abe never looks guilty! It's been too long, you know. It's like, it's like I've lost him and nobody wants to tell me the horrible truth. They gaze at me with these sad puppy dog eyes and talk about the weather!" She gave an angry snort and brushed at the tears that crept to the corners of her eyes. "I can't lose him, Isabella. I can't. You know....

"Damn! He is so stubborn!" Her hand trembled as she wiped away an escaped tear and she shook her head as if to banish unwanted thoughts.

"I'm sorry," she finally muttered. "I'm just... worried. He always keeps things bottled up. Some things, he just refuses to face. I think that's why he never comes here. I know he did love you. In his own way, in the only way he knew how at the time, he did love you. But not once since the funeral.... I asked him one time- why he never comes with me to see you. He just said, 'Sometimes it's best to let the dead stay buried.' He wouldn't talk about it more than that. He's never talked about what happened when I was gone. A little about you, about the kids, but nothing about what he thought, what he felt. He shut that part of himself away behind a locked door like he's afraid of what will happen if I see inside. He's doing it again now, Isabella. He doesn't want me to know about New Orleans. He doesn't want anybody to know- and that frightens me."
She rolled her eyes and plucked at a blade of grass, thinking of her husband and listening to the wind. Looking down at the polished marble, she reached out and traced the chiseled words with her fingertip. "I know it's not fair of me to ask you to look after him. None of what happened to you was ever fair. It wasn't fair when I came back after all those years. It wasn't fair when Roman let you go and turned to me. It wasn't fair when the cancer took you, so quick and so young. We tried to be there for you, Roman and I. We tried. But- it still wasn't fair." Marlena sighed softly, the memories still painful after all of the years.

"I've always kind of thought that it wasn't really the cancer that took you. I think your heart just decided it didn't want to beat any more. I couldn't live without him- and now I know that you couldn't either. If I could change one thing in my life, it would be the hurt you felt because I came home. I can't regret being with him- but for the fact that it hurt you, I will always be sorry. But Isabella, there is one thing we have always held in common. One thing that has always bonded us. We both love him, Isabella. I'm asking you to be with him right now, because I'm not and I know that he can't be alone. Whatever it is he's facing, he can't be alone."

Clenching her fists in her lap, Marlena closed her eyes and whispered her prayer to the wind. "Lord, be with him. Please."

****************************************

He was smothering. What air he could draw into his lungs burned, and red fire danced before his eyes. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only grasp onto memories and try and keep his sanity as he felt his brain imploding under the onslaught of powerful psychotropic drugs. "Doc," he whispered in his mind, hardly aware the sound had also escaped his parched lips. "God, Doc, I need you," he thought, as he found himself once more immersed in a red haze of confusion, anger and pain.

Pain. So much pain, it seems to clot the very air he breathes. The skinning knife in his hand drips fresh blood onto the expensive Turkish rug beneath his feet and he smiles a feral grin as his heightened senses pick up the soft sound of the impact. He stands unmoving, seeking some hint of resistence, some sign of threat. There is nothing- no one left to get in his way. On catlike feet he creeps up the spiraling staircase, ignoring the mad glee that urges him to hurry. No need for haste, no cause for worry. He has a message to send, and that message will not be rushed. He has all the time in the world- when he leaves this house, there will be no life left in it.

The door swings open without a sound and he stalks slowly through the darkened room. The moon shines strong and bright, gauzy curtains doing little to filter out the light. He slips through the shadows, a darker shade of gray.

Aware. He is aware of everything- the gentle rise and fall of the sleeping man's chest, the salty smell of the sea, the drapes flapping on the night's breeze. He glides to a halt beside the four-poster bed and feels a chill run down his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Oh sweet Jesus, he can see the pulse of veins in that vulnerable neck.

The man beneath his gaze sleeps the sleep of the innocent, no hint of his betrayal in the out flung limbs, the gentle snores. Only a fool would double-cross Dimera and have no fear of the consequences. Foolish men deserved to die foolish deaths. His knife drifts out, hovers above the throbbing throat. He makes the moment last, the burning need for this building in the back of his head until he thinks his brain will explode. He can wait no longer, his free hand clamping down over the man's mouth. A brief hesitation, a duty yet to be done- "Stefano Dimera sent me for you." The whispered words twist in the breeze and the knife slides through the skin as if it were silk.

Blood, everywhere. It covers his arms, makes the knife slippery in his grasp. The sickly sweet smell blots out the call of the sea as he kneels in the center of the bed, a priest making sacrifice, a surgeon cutting out a malignancy. He hums a pop tune beneath his breath, realizes he is doing it, wonders briefly if it is a sign he is insane. With a grunt, he saws through the last flap of skin connecting head to body, decides he is simply very good at his job. Looking deep into the still staring eyes of the dead man, he can't help a small smile, a word of advice delivered just a bit too late. "Mess with the bull, boy, and you get the horns." Tangling blood-sticky hands into the short hair, he slips from the bed and heads for home with his trophy. He has most definitely earned his keep tonight.

Oh God, no. Please, no....

Hail Mary, full of grace.

The shadows lied. The shadows always lied.

Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

The knife was not real. The knife was never real.

Holy Mary, mother of God.

He was never there. He had never been there. He would never go there.

Pray for us sinners....

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" Sweat streaked his face, stung his eyes. He bucked against the restraints from which he hung, the hard metal cutting through his flesh. Flesh was nothing. Blood was nothing. Only the fear was real. Only the fear. Only the rage.

Please, God....

The fear overwhelmed him. He tried not to see, tried not to know. He tried hard. He failed. The blood and the pain, they colored his visions but weren't his to own. The blood and the pain were his legacy and he had bestowed his gifts with the generosity of a god.

No....

The boiling rage once again engulfed his mind and he screamed into the blackness. He fought the unseen demons until the guards crept cautiously into the room. The kiss of a needle, the sweet heat of chemicals, and the darkness called him down into the depths once again.

They left him hogtied in the center of the dirt floor. Stefano Dimera had made it painfully clear- this man was far too valuable to be allowed to die.

****************************************

"It's not working," Stefano said, flipping off the video monitor and moving to pour himself a stiff drink. The sight of the twitching body that lay in the center of the stone cell was something no amount of whiskey was likely to wash away, but at the moment he was willing to try.

"It is working just as I told you it would. That's the problem," Sarte drawled, turning from the open window to address his boss.

"It's killing him, Sarte! You don't need to be a doctor to see it," Dimera snapped.

Dr. Emanuel Sarte, personal physician and general Frankenstein for the Dimera cartel batted his wiry gray hair from his eyes and frowned irritably. "The drugs aren't what's killing him. The drugs are doing their job. He's remembering everything, just as I told you he would. My God, you don't really think 'Roman Brady' could have inflicted the damage saw earlier? That was the work of an animal, Stefano. Your animal, to be specific. The drugs aren't killing him- the memories are. He's too dangerous to play with this way. If you keep this up, your going to end up with a raving psychotic on your hands. I told you years ago he was too unstable to experiment with drugs. You should have listened to me then!"

"He was virtually suicidal at the time, you know that. You also agreed that the drugs were the best course of action. Don't you dare try to weasel out of your responsibility for this mess," Stefano hissed, his patience at a breaking point.

Sarte had always had problems with authority, but he had more problems with the thought of being dead. Recognizing the fine line he was walking, he nodded in resignation. "I know. I know. There was nothing else we could have done at the time. The problem is, I'm not sure what we can do now. He can't keep this up, not for much longer. He's tearing himself apart."

"What if we increase the dosage? Lock him in a padded room and keep him under until he has no choice but to believe?"

Sarte shrugged noncommitally. "Well, that would keep him from killing any more guards. I mean, he'd be comatose, he couldn't be much danger to himself or to anybody else. Of course, if he ever regained consciousness, he'd have lost all touch with reality. I'm not sure what use he would be to you. Maybe you could drop him off in a fast food parking lot and watch as he slaughters all of the Happy Meal eaters. Ugly. It would most definitely be ugly."

"Sarte, you aren't valuable enough to me to be such a smart ass."

"I tell you the truth, even when you don't want to hear it. That makes me valuable," Sarte replied with more confidence than he felt. "Stefano, you are trying to tame a rabid dog by poking it with a stick. So far, all you've managed to do is piss it off. It will not end well, I can promise you."

Sinking into his chair, Dimera rubbed at his temples, grimacing in frustration. "What if we stop the drugs? Give his mind some time to clear?"

"I don't know. I've told you before, it's not the drugs that wiped his memory the first time and it's not the drugs that are killing him now. His thinking processes have always been a little- bent. He's unpredictable and he always has been. Right now, every time the drugs start to wear off he starts to fight. He's strong enough and stubborn enough that he'll manage to kill himself if we let him. Stefano, if you went in to talk to him, I doubt he'd even hear you. If you take him off the drugs, he could die before you manage to get through to him. You freed too many memories to hope to bring him back to a rational state. Those memories are killing 'Roman Brady', but John may choose to die rather than lose that piece of himself."

"It's not his choice to make," Stefano stated coldly.

"You may not be able to control this situation, Stefano. You do understand you aren't God- don't you?"

"I'm the closest thing to God you are ever likely to see." Flashing Sarte an ugly look, he steepled his fingers and looked into the distance. Inspiration taunted him from the corner of his eye and he concentrated hard in an effort to unravel the pattern. "What you are telling me is that John needs something to ground him. Something to keep the memories from overwhelming him. Give him time to digest things. Am I correct?"

"Theoretically. But I'll state for the record, I don't think he's likely to come back. He's lost somewhere in his own past and that's a very ugly place to be. The kindest thing to do would be to give him enough morphine, let him go peacefully. You owe the boy that much."

"I owe him nothing, Sarte. If there are debts to be paid, they aren't due from me. Now get out of my office and don't come back until you have something useful to say. I have arrangements to make." Waving a negligent hand, Stefano turned his attention to an open file before him.

Stopping in the doorway, Sarte turned and risked one last comment. "It's been 15 years, Stefano. It's been too long. You aren't going to get through to him this time."

Looking up, Dimera's eyes twinkled with a dark secret. "He may not come back for me, Sarte- but he will come back for her."

Chapter 8

Dr. Marlena Evans-Brady was pissed, there was no other way of putting it. Mad, angry, irate- no other word could sum it up quite as well as 'pissed'. It had been five days and the only word from Roman they had heard were the platitudes from the New Orleans P.D. assuring them that he was fine. Marlena was pissed and now she was going to do something about it.

She rested her chin in her hands and stared at the case files before her. She was stalling and she knew it- but opening these files took more courage than she currently had. Her finger trailed across the name on the top file- 'John Black'. She knew every word in the thin manilla folder. She had, after all, been the author. Still, to open the file was to open her memories- and not all of those memories were good ones.

Of the other two files, one she shouldn't have had access to and the other she shouldn't have known she needed. Marlena had Bo to thank for both files. Roman's little brother was no better at lying than he was. Bo had cracked like a walnut when she had cornered him at the pub and demanded to know what was happening with her husband. She understood now why Roman hadn't wanted to tell her the truth about New Orleans. She would have never let him go if he had.

Dimera. Stefano Dimera. She had managed not to think about him at all over the past few years. At least, she had managed to pretend not to think about him. Her jaw clenched and she slid the file with Dimera's name on it away from her, it's very existence distasteful.

The third file. The last file. Roman Brady's file. With a certain sense of foreboding, she realized that this was the file she knew least about. She had written the file on John Black. She had lived many of the events depicted in Dimera's file. But the file on Roman Brady.... Police department psychiatric notes were sealed. No one had access to them- not the mayor, not the IAD, not the chief of police- no one. Not unless they were very sneaky. Luckily, Bo Brady was very sneaky. It hadn't been hard to guilt him in to 'borrowing' Roman's file.

Three files. Three keys. She simply needed to decide if she really wanted to unlock the past. Now she was lying to herself. The past was something she had no interest in. The future was what mattered- her family's future. But the past was intruding on that future, endangering it in ways she could not explain. Before she could change her mind, the first file was already open.

November 7, 1985
Patient Name: John Doe
White male; approximate age mid-20s

Patient was admitted by police officers. Patient was only semi-coherent, there were signs of recent injuries and concerns he was suffering from dehydration and exposure. As the psychiatrist on call, I was brought in due to the extreme anxiety displayed by the patient and his refusal to communicate with the hospital staff.

Contact was too brief to form an assessment. Though the patient seemed defensive with other staff members, refusing to allow an examination or the removal of the bandages that covered his face, he was receptive to my intervention. Given his response to hospital personnel, I had expected the bandages to conceal a disfigurement of some type- that was not the case. However, the patient left the hospital without permission almost immediately after the bandages were removed- I did not have time to develop a rapor with him. There is currently insufficient information on which to make a judgement regarding this client. I have asked to be notified immediately if the patient is readmitted. He was somehow- intriguing.

Short and to the point- and woefully inadequate when it came to describing her feelings at the time. Then again, perhaps 'intriguing' was the best way to have summarized it. She flipped past the admission sheet, plunging deeper into the past.

A handwritten note- random musings to herself over the new head of security. She wondered briefly why she had included it in the file.

John Black has to be the most irritating man ever born! If he tries to give me orders one more time, I swear I will tell him exactly where to put that hospital sign-in sheet. Why the Hospital had to hire him as the head of security, I will never understand. The man is abrasive. He's secretive. He is ALWAYS watching me- I wouldn't be surprised if he put security cameras in the lady's restroom! He can't fool me, though. The man is most definitely hiding something. There are secrets lurking behind those blue eyes of his- my instincts are never wrong when it comes to secrets. When he was first admitted as a 'John Doe'- with those bandages all over his face and jerking like a frightened rabbit every time someone went to touch him- well, he didn't look like some 'old pro security expert' then. If I could just get that man on my couch for 5 minutes.....

Marlena's laughter bubbled up and she wondered if she had realized the implications of the 'couch' comment when she had written the note. Probably not. 'John Black' had had the rare ability to drive her from rational thought with his mere presence. She would have discovered his secrets much sooner if all of her energies hadn't been focused on catching a glimpse of him strolling the hospital corridors in those tight jeans he used to wear. Of course, John had done his fair share of looking too. Still smiling, she rifled through the pages, stopping when she reached the first set of session notes.

November 8, 1986
Patient name: John Black

Pre-session notes:
He finally told me his secrets. To be more accurate, he confirmed my guess. John Black is an alias. A created identity meant to fool the men who are chasing him. I suspect it was also created to give him a sense of self. Every human being needs that- needs to know who they are and where they belong. Aside from a few shattered fragments, John has no such identity of his own. Finally, he has agreed to let me help him piece together the images in his mind, to hopefully dig up new images to complete the picture. This first session, I plan to induce a light hypnotic state. If nothing else, we need to make sense of the few memories he does have.

Session summary:
It should not have been dangerous. I've put hundreds of patients under, and never have I seen a reaction such as the one I saw today. A few cases I've read about- torture, brainwashing, repressed memories- but I've never personally seen it. The sessions need to stop. I need to be more certain of what I'm doing. He needs to be more grounded. He wants to continue- but I think it's too risky. It could be dangerous. I'm afraid 'he' might be dangerous.

The session started routinely. John was a little nervous, but I've noticed he tends to be a little nervous around me. He went under easily enough. He's either very susceptible to hypnosis or he's done it before. The images came quickly, though there was little he didn't already know. It's disturbing somehow- to watch a man I met a few short weeks ago talk about me, my friends, my family. He talks about the intimate details rather than the big picture. He knows my favorite color, my favorite flower, my favorite song. It would be kind of sweet if it weren't for the other things he knows. He knows Dimera's hideouts, the places he did his dirty work. He knows the cases Roman used to work and the men who grew to hate him for it. He knows where money is hidden- or at least, he knows that he should know. He knows how to pick a lock and field strip a rifle- and he knows he's done both things many times before. He remembers nothing clearly, yet he knows too much, and I'm not sure why. But all of those memories, they are on the surface. They shouldn't be on the surface. They are too scattered, too disparate, too fragmented to be surface memories. There is no coherence to them. It's as if someone took all of his thoughts, chopped them up into tiny unrelated pieces, and then drew out a random few that he would be allowed to keep. None of it makes any sense. The only thing that is certain is that all of the memories seem to touch on me in some way.

The memories were disquieting, but the danger didn't arise until I tried to push below the surface and make him look into the dark places in his mind. He didn't want to go there and I shouldn't have pushed him. If I had known....

The change was sudden. I walked him back through his thoughts until he reached the door to the hidden memories. He seemed afraid to touch the door, and I don't think I've seen him afraid before. But I told him to open the door and he did. He had reason to be afraid. I tried to bring him out of it. The moment he opened the door, I knew something was wrong and I tried to bring him back. His entire body contracted, one big knot of muscle. His breathing was strained, and I believe the danger of a heart attack was real. I did the only thing I could- I slapped him hard across the face. Three times I had to hit him before he responded and when he did.... I don't think I was afraid of him, I'm not certain I could be afraid of him. But when he grabbed my arm, I thought he was going to break it.

He doesn't remember any of it, not once we tried to go below the surface memories. He wasn't even aware that he had grabbed my arm. I didn't tell him, he's already hesitant about letting me help him. He wants to try again. I told him it was too soon, though I'm not sure how long that will hold him off. I'll have to study the journals, see if I can find another case like this one. I need time to think before I decide what to do next. I'm tempted to tell him it might be for the best if he stopped trying to remember. He's stubborn, though. I doubt he would listen. He seems almost driven to find out about his past. I know that he's worried that people are after him. He needs to know who he is if he's going to protect himself. There's more to it than that, though. I think he believes he needs to control the memories so that they don't control him. I think he may be right.

They had both been right. Through the glory of hindsight, she knew that there had been no other choice but to pursue the memories, to follow where they led. Back then, the path had not been nearly so clear. The closer they had come to discovering the truth, the less certain she had been that she wanted to. Marlena's eyes skimmed down the pages of the file, seeing how the words had become more hesitant, the reports more brief. She had started to believe that John was really Stefano. She had started to believe in the possibility long before they had fled into the mountains of West Virginia and she had seen the tatoo that marked him. Her old reports were rife with unfinished statements and undrawn conclusions. If she had allowed her pen to complete its work, the words would have been undeniable. By denying the words, she had tried to deny the truth she had feared.

Marlena shook her head, impressed with her own ability to delude herself. But in the end, even that had failed her. The last notation in the file was hurried, the words jotted down as if she had been in a rush. Perhaps it was her panic that had forced her to complete this one last report, for to Marlena's trained eye, it looked less like a set of session notes and more like a prayer.

November 12, 1988
John Black

He's close to the breaking point. Too close to stop now. He says he has to go and there is no way I can let him go alone. He's volatile. Explosive. If he were threatened, if he thought he was in danger.... He might be capable of violence. I know he's capable of it. The other day in the nurses' lounge, something snapped. I walked in just as he smashed the glass. I could see the pain on his face, the aftermath of the memories that had visited just moments before. I didn't like the look on his face. I didn't like the way he held those shards of glass. I can't let him leave like this. Not alone.

The doctor who performed the plastic surgery will meet us in West Virginia. We'll find the answers to John's past there. If he finds out he's really Dimera.... It doesn't matter who he is. I owe it to him to be there. I owe it to myself.

At the very end of the file, tucked in almost as an afterthought, was a picture. The picture. She suddenly found it curious that the file should end with that- as if all of the problems in their lives had been solved and 'happily ever after' was at hand. Nothing could have been further from the truth, yet the file had nothing more to offer. Roman had never regained all of his memories. She doubted he had regained most of them. For years, she had known he pretended that he remembered more than he really did. When some old friend would say 'hi', when Caroline would ask if he remembered how happy they were on some holiday, when Abe would refer to an old bust- all the times he would nod and smile and mutter agreement, she alone had seen the truth. But after West Virginia, Roman had never come to her. He had never tried to regain his own memories, content to fill in the gaps with remembrances that had belonged to others. She had let him do so. She had been glad. Had she been afraid to press her luck, to risk her perfect happy ending? She stared down at the picture in her hand and wondered if she was risking it now.

The picture was of a handsome young man with laughing blue eyes. Thick brown hair worn a little too long curled about his face and added to his image as a prankster. So young. So long ago. So very different than he was now. Marlena had almost forgotten the physical differences. Stefano must have paid a small fortune in order to change Roman's face. He had gotten his money's worth- no one would have seen 'Roman Brady' in the guise of her mysterious 'John Black'. The entire structure of Roman's face was different now. The cheekbones were higher, the nose aquiline. Even his hair seemed darker than it had been. Of all of the changes, though, it was the eyes she noticed most. John Black's eyes had been colder, harder, darker- and John Black's eyes hadn't laughed. Not until the day she had found this picture, the day she had told him the truth of who he was, had his eyes truly laughed. A chill ran down her spine and she wondered what Stefano must have done to drive the warmth from a man's eyes.

Her anger flared and she slammed the file shut, the bad memories suddenly outweighing the good. Avoiding Dimera's folder, she flipped open the psychiatric file from the Salem P.D. The first few pages were from Roman's entrance exam, required of all incoming cadets. The tension eased and she found herself smiling, confronted with the fact that her husband had not always been such a complex man. Honest; intelligent; persistent; a strong sense of duty and loyalty; out-going; linear thought patterns; strong leadership skills.... Seeing the words in black and white, Roman sounded like the original boy scout. It was amazing how misleading words could be. She chuckled aloud, even as she substituted 'blunt' for 'honest'; 'conniving' for 'intelligent'; 'stubborn' for 'persistent'. All of the traits that had made him such a good cop had nearly driven her crazy when they had first met. The way he had simply insinuated himself into her life and refused to leave, no matter how many times she had insisted she could take care of herself! If he hadn't been so darn cute, she might have strangled him. He had also been the best thing that ever happened to her.

She paused when she came to the fitness report concerning his return to active duty. Given the gaps in his memory and his missing year, the department had insisted on the evaluation. Roman had been too good a cop to lose, but too many things had happened to him for the department not to have been leery. She skimmed down the page, struggling to identify why the test results seemed 'off'. Granted, there were differences in Roman's profile after his return- but that was to be expected. The test revealed a personality ideally suited to police work and well within the norms of the general population. So why were alarm bells going off in her head? It was in the general summary that she found the answer to her question.

Summary

Based on the objective test scores and the interview with the client, I recommend full reinstatement to the police force. The subject's readjustment to his return is nothing short of remarkable, especially given the loss of memory and the trauma that caused it. Though the subject was somewhat reticent in his interview, he answered all questions calmly and completely. His responses to my questions revealed no underlying emotion trauma, nor did it reveal in any identity issues as might have been expected given the circumstances. The MACCP test supports this conclusion. The respondent's results are text book.

Text book. Roman's psychiatric profile was text book. It was too text book- no one was as 'normal' as the test showed Roman to be. It was as if he had given the answers he knew would be expected, no more and no less. After all he had been through, Roman Brady should have been anything but 'text book'.

Uneasily, Marlena continued her study of the file. She had the feeling that she was spying on him, betraying him in some way she didn't realize. The feeling deepened, and she pulled out a sheet of paper from the time she had been gone. This was a version of Roman she hadn't known- a version he had refused to share. Now she saw why.

Required psychiatric exam (Departmentally mandated) 1988
Post-shooting review

Incident summary: Subject was involved in an on-duty shooting. After a short foot pursuit, officer shot and killed a robbery suspect. Suspect was shot 4 times at a range of approximately 40 feet. Suspect was DOA. Two shots were fired by the suspect, the officer was uninjured. Witnesses support officer's contention that the suspect turned and raised his gun prior to the officer opening fire. **Note- shooting has been cleared by the department.

Interview summary: Subject is currently dealing with the emotional aftereffects of the shooting by repressing his responses. Though willing to discuss the events of the shooting, he has so far avoided any emotional reaction. This is a fairly typical response, and not unusual in officer-involved shootings. When asked how he feels about the shooting, subject focuses on the legality of his actions rather than on moral issues. His only concern appears to be that it 'Was a good shoot'. What is less typical in this particular response pattern is the subject's failure to be in any way defensive concerning his actions. Most officers who focus on the necessity of the shooting appear to be trying to convince themselves as much as they are trying to convince me. This officer evidences no such need and appears indifferent to the incident beyond the actual facts of the case. No doubt, the emotions evoked by the shooting will come to the fore with the passage of time. I recommend but do not require further counseling when this occurs. Based on the interview, I have certified the officer fit for duty.

Marlena grimaced at the brevity of the report. Roman hadn't wanted to talk about the shooting and the department had been willing to leave it at that. Of course, this had always been the standard response. Until very recently, police departments had been notorious for their failure to recognize the psychological costs that came with being a police officer. Knowing Roman, she could well imagine that getting him to discuss his 'feelings' with a stranger would have been next to impossible. Discarding the report as largely useless, she returned her attention to the file.

Required psychiatric exam (Departmentally mandated) 1989
Post-shooting review
Incident summary: Subject was involved in an on-duty shooting. Officer was serving as a sniper with the SWAT team. SWAT was deployed in response to a hostage situation resulting from a domestic disturbance. The suspect had opened fire after police responded to reports of a woman screaming. Suspect held a gun to his girlfriend's head and demanded his release. When officers refused to vacate the area, the suspect cocked his revolver. At that point, the subject of this interview opened fire, killing the suspect with a single shot to the head. No other injuries occurred. **Note- officer on leave pending departmental investigation. **Note2- shooting has been cleared by department.

Interview summary: The subject currently shows little emotional response to the shooting incident. This is not unusual, especially among snipers- an outgrowth no doubt of their training. This case is atypical in that it is the second shooting the officer has been involved in in less than a year. However, the justifications in both cases seem clear-cut. It is unlikely that the shootings occurred due to overzealousness on the part of the officer. The response to this shooting mirrors the response to the first shooting incident- he is detached and concerned only with the legality of his actions. Any feelings he has on the matter are buried too deeply to be drawn out in a single interview. What is surprising is the officer's complete dismissal of the first shooting. Given the amount of time since that shooting took place, I expected him to express either anger or remorse- if not for the shooting itself then for its necessity. As before, the officer evidenced a complete emotional detachment. I'm not certain he even remembered the incident when I first brought it up. Such a psychic break with the consequences of his actions is alarming. However, all reports indicate that the officer's abilities have been in no way impaired by either of the two shooting incidents. It may simply be that the subject has not developed a bond of trust with me as a counselor and thus refuses to discuss the emotional impact the incidents have had on him. I am recommending continuing counseling, but I am not mandating it, as the officer shows no behavioral manifestations of a problem. Based on the interview, I have certified the officer fit for duty.

Two shootings in two years. Marlena knew that most officers spent their entire careers without ever firing their weapons outside of the practice range. Roman had repeatedly told her that being a cop was more about paperwork and pulling cats out of trees than it was about shooting people. Of course, her husband had always had a nose for trouble- but two shootings in two years.... She flipped to the next page in the file and tried to be surprised by what she found.

Required psychiatric exam (Departmentally mandated) 1990
Post-shooting review

Incident summary: Shootings occurred during an undercover investigation into organized crime. As part of a special task force, officer had been operating under deep cover for over 3 months at the time of the shooting. Officer was not wearing a wire nor was backup on-scene. According to the officer's statements, he was acting as a bodyguard for a mid-level drug trafficker. In that capacity, he was present at a meeting with the man in charge of all drug distribution in the city. During this meeting, the two participants became suspicious of the officer. According to the officer, the two suspects attempted to draw their weapons at which time he opened fire. Both men were killed, suffering from multiple gunshots at close range. No other shots were fired, though responding officers found handguns carried by both men. Note: Officer on leave pending departmental investigation. Note2: Officer on leave pending continuing psychiatric evaluation. Note3: shooting has been cleared by department.

Interview summary: Subject's reluctance to discuss his record regarding the use of lethal force verges on defiant. The officer talks about this shooting and two prior shootings only in terms of their legality. He avoids any question that is not a direct question and what answers he does give are brief to the point of nonexistent. The initial interview was cut short when the officer became angry. Though no identifiable verbal or physical threat was evidenced, the officer's body language suggested an increasing likelihood of violence. The anger was triggered when I pointed out that his records indicated a rising use of force, both lethal and nonlethal, following the death of his wife several years prior. Though the subject remained seated, his hands clenched into fists and his voice was- dangerous. He replied 'My wife is none of your damn business, little man. You won't mention her again." At that point, I terminated the interview. I refuse to certify the officer fit until further sessions can be completed.

Addendum: Prior to the second interview, the officer was required to take the MACCP and DDH personality tests. The results of both tests indicate a perfectly stable personality profile. During the second interview, the subject expressed remorse for his prior behavior citing the fact that the case was still under investigation by IAD. I pointed out that this was not unusual given the undercover nature of his assignment and the fact that the shooting had involved known organized crime figures. The officer made no attempt to dispute this, and claimed to be ready to discuss any issues I felt necessary. He suggested that the stress of being under deep cover for such a long period of time had made him more edgy and suspicious than usual.

For the first time, the officer expressed remorse over the first two shooting and explained that he had yet to reconcile his feelings concerning this last incident. The response was exactly what I would have expected from an officer in his situation- and all the more surprising given his prior interviews. The sudden change was- suspicious. When I again broached the subject of his wife's death, the officer simply said, 'I miss her. It's something that's hard for me to talk about. I hope you can understand.' Though he continued to be polite, he completely avoided any further discussion of the matter. The interview, though unsatisfying, revealed no reasons to reject the officer's request to return to duty. I am mandating continuing counseling sessions, though it is unlikely that the officer will be more forthcoming in the future. Based on the interview and tests results, I recommend the officer be returned to active duty. Given the length of time the subject was under cover and the number of incidents, legitimate or not, in his file, I also recommend that the officer be assigned to desk duty. Greater supervision of this officer in the field is also recommended.

**Confidential note. Though the officer has been cleared for duty, I am still vaguely uneasy. All of the tests indicate a normal personality profile, and his responses to the final interview are exactly what would be expected of any other officer faced with a similar situation. However, the answers are all too pat. My sense is that the only time this officer has been truly honest with a therapist was the one incidence in which he expressed anger over the mention of his deceased wife. Such a reaction was markedly absent today, and if the incident hadn't made such a strong impression on me, I might dismiss my concerns as an overreaction on my part. The officer's willingness to use violence is clear. I am coming to suspect that his indifference to the consequences of such violence is real and not due to repression of such feelings or a reluctance to discuss them. During the final interview, I had the distinct impression that the officer was telling me what he knew I wanted to hear. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no objective reasons for refusing to reinstate this officer- especially given his scores on the standardized personality tests. This officer is either the most centered and stable man I have ever met or he is an extremely intelligent sociopath. In fact, I have my doubts that the current shooting incident was justified (see notes on transcript). Given the lack of witnesses, no one but the officer involved may ever know what really happened.

Marlena pushed the file away, sorry now that she had decided to read it. She regretted even more that she had never made Roman talk about their time apart. He had wanted to let that period of his life go and she had let him. She really hadn't wanted to know how he had lived his life without her. She hadn't wanted to hear about the women he had dated, the Christmases she had missed. She should have known how hard it had been on him. Deep inside, she had even wanted it to be hard on him. But she hadn't known....

Her own memories of the time she had spent away were hazy and indistinct. There had been evidence of old trauma, no doubt from the explosion of the plane, and the doctors had finally concluded that much of that time had been spent in a coma. For years, she must have lain still- trapped within the confines of her own mind. When she had talked with Roman about her own fears, her own uncertainties about what had happened to her, he had been gentle and caring and open. Anything she had needed to say, he was willing to hear. He had held her, he had consoled her, he had whispered that everything would be alright. His words had always been kind- but his eyes had been icy. Gradually, she had stopped talking to him about it at all. Without realizing she was doing it, she had tucked that part of her life away and pretended it had never happened. Ignoring her missing years was better seeing the coldness in her husband's eyes. Ignorance had been so much better than the fear she had felt when she saw how hot the rage inside him still burned. She couldn't ignore that rage any longer. She couldn't pretend it was gone. Stefano Dimera was back and if she was not very careful, she could lose the only man she had ever loved to him.

Marlena gathered the files up and reached for the phone. She was sick of waiting, it was time to act. Roman might not want her help, but she knew that he needed it. If Dimera was back in the picture, he needed her more than ever. Bo or Abe would go with her or she would go alone. Either way, she would be on a plane to New Orleans in the morning.

She waited impatiently for Abe to answer his phone, her attention diverted by a knock on the door. Sherri, her secretary, peeked around the corner, a broad smile on her face. "This just came through on the fax machine, Dr. Evans. I thought you would want to see it immediately."

She glanced at the paper and then allowed the phone to settle back down into its cradle. One look had been all it she needed to know that the handwriting was Roman's.

Doc,

Sorry for the worry I know I have caused you, but there was a lead I had to check out and where I am staying, there is just no way to safely call you. I passed this to an undercover agent, who swore he would see it gets to you. I miss you and the kids so much, but this thing is about wrapped up. I'm not sure if I'm pleased or disappointed, but this seems to have been a wild goose chase as far as the lead I was checking out. It wasn't the man we were looking for- just your typical street punk causing trouble. Anyway, I should wrap-up the case tonight, and I was hoping you were still up for that second honeymoon we were talking about. I've made reservations for you on the first plane out tomorrow, and the Captain has kindly agreed to have you met by one of his officers. I haven't had much time for site-seeing, but I did discover a little place down here where we can... well, I leave it to your imagination. I had forgotten how beautiful New Orleans is, and I can't wait to share it with you, my love. Give my love to the kids, tell them I am fine and we will call them tomorrow after you have arrived and I've finished up the paper work on this case. See you tomorrow,

Love always,

Roman


Marlena laughed aloud, aware of the slightly hysterical tone. All of her sleuthing gone for naught- and few things could have pleased her more. A weight she didn't know she carried was lifted and she breathed easy for the first time since Roman had left. Dimera wasn't back. He was dead and buried in the past where he belonged. Roman would never let her come to New Orleans if there was the slightest chance Stefano was nearby. And if Roman had found Dimera... then too, he would not have wanted her there. The danger was over- it had never been. But for the worrying she had done- Roman would most definitely have to pay for that!

The sudden realization of all of the packing she had to do if she was wanted to make a plane out in the morning hit her and she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. She was already planning what she would take- definitely the new sheer white nightgown she had purchased in the hopes of just such an occasion- as she pulled the door shut behind her. The files were left forgotten and with a smile on her face, she considered what Roman was capable of doing to get back in her good graces. With a spring in her step, she hurried home.

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"Dr. Evans?" A young man wearing the dress blues of the New Orleans P.D. called to her from beside the exit gate. "Dr. Evans. I'm Officer Ramie. Captain Hale sent me to escort you. He was hoping to meet you at a local diner. He told me to tell you that there would be someone there you were looking forward to seeing!"

Smiling, Marlena allowed the officer to relieve her of her carry-on baggage. "Well, Officer Ramie- lead the way."

Chapter 9

Stefano stepped cautiously into the stinking cell. He had no desire to deal with this, but was unwilling to trust it to anyone else. The prisoner still lay trussed on the floor, the only sign of life the cold glint of his unblinking stare. With a flip of a switch, bright light flooded the room and the bound man was forced to flinch, ducking his head and hiding from the light. Dimera grimaced, hating the picture the unforgiving light painted. Hating the fact that he was responsible for it. If this kept up, John would be ruined. That, he would not accept.

Slowly, he approached the body. Two days since the last of the drugs had been administered. Two days since Stefano had allowed anyone to lay a hand on the man other than to force water down his throat. Two days for the body to recover, the mind to mend. Two days hadn't been long enough.

Crouching down, Stefano brushed the lank hair back from the man's face. The blue eyes blazed, no sign of recognition in their seething depths. That burning rage had always been the man's greatest weapon, driving him beyond fear, beyond pain. Now that same rage would get him killed if Stefano failed to find a way to restrain it to the point where coherent thought was possible. The drugs had done their work too well, freeing demons that must again be chained.

Dimera ignored the battered body, focusing on the man's mind. He would not lose John to the madness, not now that he held the key to the man's reality. "I want you to concentrate, Roman. I want you to listen very carefully. Someone is here to see you. Marlena is here, and she needs you very badly. Do you want to see her, Roman? Do you want her badly enough to follow my orders?"

As he had half expected, the only response was a low growl that seemed to originate from deep inside the prisoner's throat. Every muscle in Roman's body seemed to contract, cut in sharp relief beneath filth incrusted skin. Stefano could actually see the ropes binding the man's arms tear into already abraded flesh. "Why do you always have to be so damn stubborn?" he muttered.

Sighing out loud, Stefano turned to a monitor hung in one corner and using a remote, activated the picture. There, laying in the center of the bed in her well-appointed room, was Marlena Evans Brady.

Stefano chose his next words with care, knowing that threats to her life would be counterproductive. If he pushed too hard, the man on the ground would tear himself apart in an attempt to go to her. John would destroy anything and anyone who posed a threat to her- or he would destroy himself in the attempt. Subtlety would be required to draw the animal on the floor back to some semblance of humanity. Stefano Dimera was the king of subtlety.

"Roman, do you want me to bring her down here? Maybe show her the bodies of the men you killed? Is that what you really want? If I wanted you dead, you would be. All I'm asking is that you act like a human being. Act like her husband. Would you really want her to see you like this?"

Roman lay silent, but his eyes were locked on the screen. Dimera could see the awareness, could sense the need. He smiled, despite the circumstances, pleased with his ability to still read the man he had trained. "I'm going to cut you loose, Roman. All I want you to do is simply lay there. That's all I'm asking for Roman. Because we both know that if you want to, you can kill me. And we both know that the second you do, she dies too. Do you understand me, Roman? I just want you to lay still."

There was still no response, but Dimera hadn't really expected one. One quick slice of a knife and the taut stretched rope snapped apart, springing away from the torn flesh. A groan escaped the throat of the prisoner as limbs that had been distended for days were freed, sending the beginnings of pain through numbed nerves. Stefano put his hand on a shoulder, steadying the man who lay at his feet, covering the image of a phoenix emerging triumphantly from the flames. "Easy boy, we've still got the cuffs to get off of you."

As the driving rage receded, the man on the floor contracted in on himself, becoming smaller and much, much more vulnerable. Dimera withdrew a key from his pocket and carefully released the mangled wrists from the steel shackles, then stooped to do the same with the man's ankles. The prisoner lay on the dirt floor, completely unmoving, huddling in on himself as if to gather what strength he had left. Through it all, his eyes never left the face of the woman.

"We'll get you cleaned up, you'll be as good as new," Stefano muttered, almost disappointed by the lack of resistance. He didn't want Roman beaten, he wanted John back. Marlena wouldn't achieve that for him, but there was someone else who might. With a malicious grin, Dimera realized what was needed. An enemy. An enemy who represented a threat to all the prisoner held dear. An enemy who wasn't Stefano Dimera. The irony of it appealed to him, and he believed he had found a way to make John accept the truth.

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Images in red in black flickered before her closed eyes and she wondered why she had a hangover when she hadn't been drinking. Gingerly Marlena laid her hand across her face to blot out the bright light and cracked her eyes cautiously open. The slowly turning ceiling fan above gave her no hint of where she was. One minute she had been riding in a squad car with some polite young officer and the next minute she was here. Ignoring the headache that pounded behind her eyes, she sat up and looked around.

She was perched in the center of a queen size bed, feeling distinctly out of place. The bedroom was huge, the large bed barely making a dint in the floor space. Eleven foot ceilings served only to add to the sense of space. Along one long wall three arched windows were evenly spaced, allowing brilliant white light to flood the room. No glass covered the windows, the only bar to the elements simple wooden shutters that had been left wide open. An open window was almost as good as an open door. On still shaky legs, she walked carefully toward her promised freedom.
Marlena blinked her eyes against the glare, peering out the window and debating her escape. Open windows were not a traditional sign of captivity- she had enough experience with such things to know. She had only to swing her legs over the wide window sill and she could be gone. Gone from where was the first question in her mind. Gone to where was the second.

She stared out the window, her eyes roving across dense green jungle. Far beyond the trees, the glint of blue water beckoned. She could smell the sea, it was carried to her on the thick humid air. Eden after the fall, the lush landscape screamed to her of life and rot and wildness. "We're not in Kansas anymore," she whispered to herself.

With an eery sense of inner calm, she sat down on the window sill and waited for him to come. She didn't have to wait long.

"You look beautiful, my dear. I'm so pleased you've decided to accept my hospitality."

Sitting within the frame of the arched window, she appeared not to hear him, her attention focused on something too far beyond the horizon to see. He knew that she had heard him. He was willing to wait as long as she was.

"Where is he? Is he alive?" she finally asked, refusing to turn and face him.

"Is who alive?" Stefano replied, pacing slowly across the tiled floor. He stopped only once he was close enough to touch her.

Slowly, grudgingly, she turned to face him. God, he had forgotten how beautiful her eyes were- green and gold, like the jungle at twilight. He should have done this long ago. No matter the costs, he should have done this long ago.

"My husband," she stated flatly, aware that Stefano was watching her. Aware that he was enjoying her.

"Ah, yes- your husband. Tall fellow? Dark hair? Bad temper? Yes, he has requested that I keep you entertained while he is... otherwise engaged." Dimera rocked back on his heels and clasped his hands casually before him. He felt so alive when he was near her, so good. It was a feeling he decided to keep. It was time John learned- payback's a bitch.

Marlena wanted nothing more than to slap that damn smirk off of his face. She knew that he expected her to try. She would hate to disappoint him. Sliding down from the window she raised her hand- and then slammed her knee into his testicles.

Stefano dropped soundlessly to the floor, fighting for air. She was through the door before he could draw his first gasp. A dark flash in the corner of her eye and she was past the guard. The man hesitated long enough to look in the bedroom and she was gone, flying down a long corridor and realizing how impossible large the estate really was. The hallway emptied onto a broad balcony overlooking the foyer to the Mediterranean style house. She fought back the rising panic that told her to keep running and tried to imagine where he might be. Footsteps sounded out behind her, leaving her no time for subtlety. "Roman?!" she screamed, her cry echoing until it seemed he must have heard. "Roman, I'm here!"

More guards appeared at the bottom of the staircase, pushing aside curious servants. The boots behind her slowed in their approach. She was trapped. She had known she would be. At least now, Dimera would know that she would not suffer it gladly.

"Your manners appear to have deteriorated over the years."

She could hear the pain in his voice, the effort it took for him to speak. It was a small triumph but a triumph all the same. "I didn't shoot you this time- I'd say that's status quo."

"I have so missed these little encounters. It's the unexpected that makes you such a delight."

She fought back tears, her frustration threatening to overwhelm her. Spinning to face him, she kept her head held high and her voice firm. "If you don't let me see him, I will make your life a living hell. I swear I will."

Dimera sighed, shaking his head. "It is such a shame to see you waste yourself on him. He's not the man you think he is. He never really has been. You deserve someone who is worthy of you."

"Is that why you brought me here? So that you could be the man I deserved?" Her lips twisted in a grimace and she eyed him like one would a bug.

"No, actually it's not. I brought you here for him. I want him alive. I thought you might be willing to help me keep him that way. Of course, if you're not interested..." He shrugged and gave her a small smile.

"Let me see him. Stefano, please?" she said softly, willing to sacrifice her pride if that was what was required.

"In due time, my dear. In due time. For now, I believe dinner is about to be served. You will join me, of course." Dimera stepped forward and with a half-bow offered her his arm.

Marlena glanced away, unwilling to see the pleasure on his face. "You won't hurt him?"

"I never do anything without cause, Marlena. You know that. I suggest that you try not to give me cause."

With only a moment's hesitation, she took his arm and allowed him to escort her down the stair case.

Chapter 10

Three days later, Marlena quietly opened the door to one of the many guest rooms. Stefano had finally consented to let her go to Roman and now she half-feared what she would find. From the doorway, she could see a pale figure, propped up on pillows in an ornate bed. "Roman?" she whispered.

"Doc?" came a cracked reply from the figure laying under the sheets.

The voice was weak, but it was unmistakably his. She walked slowly toward him, afraid to see the damage that had been done. The fact he hadn't moved from the bed was a bad sign. The unforgiving light that shone from the ceiling showed her the cause. With gentle hands, she tried to find a way to touch him that wouldn't hurt. "Roman, what has he done to you?"

"It's OK Doc." He tried to smile at her, but his swollen face refused to cooperate. "This is actually an improvement. You should have seen me before they gave me a shave."

His hand crept from beneath the stark white sheets to find her fingers. Roman closed tired eyes and said softly, "You shouldn't be here."

"Neither should you," she replied, giving his hand a squeeze. At the slight pressure he flinched, the breath hissing from between his teeth.

"Let me see," she said, releasing his hand and reaching for the sheet tucked beneath his chin. Roman shook his head, winding his fingers through the soft white cotton.

"Let me see," she repeated, a demand rather than a request. The material slipped from his fingers whether he meant it to or not and she tugged the sheet down until it reached his hips. She tried to remain detached, strove for her 'Doctor's objectivity'. There is a reason doctors aren't allowed to treat the ones they love.

She stumbled back, her face pale, feeling like she was going to be sick. Roman's arm snaked out, hidden strength there to steady her. "Really, Doc- it's superficial. Nothing important is broken and the bruises will heal with time."

"I hate him. If for no other reason than this, I hate him," she hissed. Giving in to her need to be close to him, she stepped into Roman's waiting arm and let him pull her near. She leaned against the side of the bed and closed her eyes, her fingers running lightly through his thick hair. "I was afraid I had lost you. When I woke up here, I was afraid I had lost you. I couldn't bear that- you know?"

Roman sighed deeply and let her presence take away his hurt. "You won't get rid of me this easily, Doc. I promise you. I figure you're stuck with me for the next hundred years or so."

"What's he want from you, Roman? He's doing this for a reason. What is it he wants?"

"What has he always wanted? He plays his games. It's what he does. The old man's insane. You just take care of yourself, I'll settle with Dimera."

"Roman Brady, don't you lie to me," she snapped. "He did this to you for a reason. I want you to tell me what it is."

He looked up and saw the tears that glistened on her cheeks. With a muttered curse, he pulled her down until her head rested against his bandaged chest. She didn't try to fight him, just lay still as the silent sobs welled up. He trailed gentle circles across her back with the tips of his fingers and tried to deny that the fault for this was his.

"He's trying to do it again, Doc. He's trying to wipe out my memories, make me believe I'm whatever it is that he wants me to be," he finally managed to say.

Marlena shook her head, rejecting the possibility that this was happening. Roman locked his arms around her, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He pulled her tighter and whispered in her ear. "It didn't work. He can't make it work this time. I won't let you go again, do you understand me? You keep me sane, Marlena."

As he spoke the words, he knew they were true. The demons Stefano had placed in his mind had been real. He had heard the screams, smelled the blood, felt the joy of destruction. He would have stayed in that dark place if she hadn't come for him. He would go back there if she left.

Marlena pulled slowly away from him and he reluctantly let her go. She brushed away the tears and forced a hesitant smile. "Is that why you're so beat up? You never have been any good at taking orders."

"Hey, you know me- I'm stubborn."

"Yea, you're the original tough man," she said, brushing the damp hair back from his face and pretending not to notice the tear that trickled down his cheek.

"Tough enough," he replied, dragging her down and taking the kiss he had needed since she'd walked into the room.

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Knocking discreetly on the door, Stefano gave the pair a minute to collect themselves. While the thought of Marlena in another man's arms was distinctly distasteful, he had decided it was the least he owed them. After all, it would be for the last time.

Dimera opened the heavy oak door and stepped inside. "Ahh, Roman. So nice to see you feeling better." In fact, Roman did seem a bit flushed. It was the first time Stefano had seen some color in his face since he had had him carried from the cell below to the room he now occupied.

Roman simply glowered at him, and Stefano turned to beam at Marlena, knowing it would irritate the man in the bed. "And now,' Doc', if you will excuse us, Roman and I have some business to discuss."
"Stefano, don't do this," Marlena replied.

Stefano marveled at her ability to beg, coax and threaten, all at the same time. "Don't do what?" he replied innocently.

"I will do anything, Stefano. Anything to make you stop this. But I won't allow you to strip his mind away. Not again."

"Marlena, don't," growled Roman, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and forcing his legs to take his weight.

Stefano was once again impressed- with both of them. Then again, it was why they had been chosen. Swaying on his feet, his ribs held together with tightly wrapped surgical tape, 'Roman' still managed to look dangerous. Knowing his full capabilities, Stefano thought he looked very dangerous indeed. He signaled to the two guards waiting in the hallway and they came in with tasers drawn. "Marlena, as much as I always enjoy our little debates, I'm afraid that now is not the time. Roman and I have private matters to discuss. I know you don't wish to make a scene?"

Marlena did wish to make a scene- preferably a homicide scene. Roman's fingers linked through her own, pulling her back. She allowed herself to be led, knowing that if she started something now, Roman would end up paying for it. Stefano knew it too, and he played with them as a cat would a wounded bird.

Nodding at Roman's swaying form, Dimera waved a placating hand. "Now Roman, you don't want me to have to put you down while Marlena watches, do you?"

Roman staggered forward one tentative step and Stefano recognized that he was testing himself, considering whether or not he could cover the ground between them before the tasers found their target. Against his will, Stefano found himself taking a step back, insuring the extra second it would take to allow the tasers to do their job. He saw the realization wash over Roman's face, the will to fight draining away. "Good boy. Now why don't you sit back down on the bed and we'll have a civilized conversation."

Marlena stood indecisively, wanting to stay but knowing that if Stefano tried to forcibly remove her, Roman would fight him. For all of the confidence she had in her husband, the current odds were simply too great. Still clinging to his hand, she wrapped her free arm carefully around his waist. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear. "I will always love you. I will always be with you. Don't do anything to get yourself hurt, Roman. Think of me and the children, and how very much we need you." With that, she kissed him lingeringly, and then forced herself to pull free of his grasping hand. Fighting back the tears, she stalked past Dimera, her eyes giving voice to an unspoken threat.

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As Marlena left the room, Roman eased back down on the bed. Stefano noted the grimace of pain, the way he shifted his left arm as if to protect his ribs. The man was not nearly as ready for a fight as he pretended.

Regaining his composure, Roman looked coldly back at Dimera. "OK, just what exactly is it you want from me? And don't say Marlena, because you will never touch her as long as I still breathe."

"Roman, Roman, Roman. If I wanted to take her, we both know you would have stopped breathing a long time ago. No, actually, I come bearing gifts. I am going to give you something you want very desperately. I'm going to help you remember your past...all of your past."

"Don't do me any favors, Stefano. I've had a taste of your 'memories' and I believe I'll pass. If you think I'll let you take her away from me again, you're wrong- and I sure as hell won't believe a damn thing you tell me about my past."

"Don't be so certain, Roman. What I have to show you is very convincing. Now, I believe that if you are well enough to stand, you are well enough to continue our little discussion downstairs. I have a few things that may help aid your memory. It may not be a pleasant conversation, but then every new birth must bring its share of pain, eh, my friend?"

"I'm not your friend, Stefano. I never have been," Roman snapped, his voice harsh. He was once again on his feet, his hands attempting to curl his swollen fingers into fists.

"We may as well get one thing straight, old man. I am going no where with you, Dimera. Not until you let Marlena go. Let her go, and I will give you anything you ask. But as long as you hold her, I will fight you every step of the way."

The will to fight was there, but the madness wasn't. Stefano could sense the fear, he could hear it in the man's voice. He feared for Marlena and that fear made him weak. This 'Roman' was a dangerous enemy, but he could be controlled. He lacked the single-minded will to destroy that would allow him to make a stand here and now- a stand that would assuredly leave one of them dead. It was time to make it very clear to 'Roman Brady' just who exactly was in control.

With two quick steps, Dimera closed the distance between them. He put all of his power into a viscous backhanded blow, his signet ring digging a deep gouge through the tender flesh of the man's left cheek.

Roman had seen the blow coming, had known that his bluff had been called. He also knew enough to stand and take Stefano's punishment for his insubordination. As the ringing blow struck home, he felt bones crack and stabbing pain shot through his head. The force of it knocked him back onto the bed, the salty sting of blood making his eyes water. The red haze wove through his mind, and through the blinding fog he swore he heard himself growling deep in the back of his throat. Adrenalin pumped, his nerves sang, the hungry smile twisted his face. He gathered himself, the urge for destruction overpowering.

"She dies, Roman," a cold voice cut through the fog. "If you come up off of that bed, no matter what you do to me, Marlena dies."

The two men locked eyes, but there was no battle of wills to be fought. Roman sat very still, trying to slow his rapid breathing, realizing that his ribs were on fire and that he couldn't see out of his left eye.

Stefano stepped back very slowly, careful to retain his control. "Roman, I want you to stand-up, turn around, and put your hands behind your back. And Roman, I want you to do it now. Do you understand me?" he asked, a hard edge to his voice.

Without saying a word, Roman stiffly complied, the anger barely contained.

Dimera refused to allow him even the pretense of resistance. Now, while his fear for Marlena was still fresh in his mind, it was time to teach him how to obey. Stepping directly behind the swaying body, Dimera grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and shoved hard. He crashed into the wall, the sound of the impact echoed through the room. Roman flinched, his arms starting to come up to protect himself. Stefano tightened his grip, digging his fingers deep into the muscles, and Roman stopped fighting, putting his hands behind his back. Never loosening his hold, Stefano ground his face into the wall and whispered softly into his ear, "I asked if you understood?"

Roman leaned against the wall, fighting his instinct to turn and destroy. Almost groaning in his anger and frustration, he forced his muscles to relax. Gritting his teeth, he gave the appropriate response. "Yes sir, I understand."

With a satisfied grunt, Stefano motioned to one of his guards to hand him a set of handcuffs. "I don't want you to flinch from that wall. Just stand still and keep your hands behind your back. Do you understand?"

Roman locked his knees, leaning against the wall to keep his feet. "Yes sir," he whispered into the woodwork.

Good enough for now, thought Stefano. And slowly, as much for the psychological effect as anything, he personally snapped the handcuffs around Roman's swollen wrists.

****************************************

Dimera watched as the broad leather straps were tightened, effectively immobilizing the man in the chair. The high-backed wooden chair was bolted to the floor, and Roman was completely constrained. The heavy leather would keep him in place, without causing too much damage to his battered limbs. Stefano knew that this could take a while. Marlena's presence kept Roman controllable, but she also provided a strong tie to the man's current reality. Dimera had to cut that tie, without removing the man's protective instincts and the resulting leverage it gave him. Fortunately, Stefano was fairly certain he knew how to do that. For now, however, it was necessary to once again cloud John's mind, to make him start to question just exactly who and what he was.

Moving to a large cabinet bolted against the wall, he filled a syringe with a powerful combination of drugs. Walking softly up behind the man in the chair, he reached out and gently massaged his shoulder, going over the spreading bruises that distinctly showed where strong fingers had dug into the tender flesh. Roman flinched in the chair, and Dimera felt the muscles beneath his hand surge with power as the bonds restraining him were fully tested for the first time. "Easy now, you're not going anywhere. Just sit back, let it wash over you." He deftly eased the needle through tensed muscles, the bound man slowly relaxing as the drugs started to take effect.

"I believe it's time to break out the family album, John." Pulling out his remote, he touched a button and a still photo flashed on the white wall in front of the chair. The photo showed a man in his early 30's. He was tall and thin, his greasy blond hair blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He would have seemed comical if not for the bulge of the weapon that showed clearly through his designer jacket. "Remember him John? Kyle Reilley. He was a petty drug dealer with delusions of grandeur. You should remember him. He was the first man you killed for me, though certainly not the last. If you can remember who he is John, you can remember who you are."

"I don't remember shit, Stefano. There's nothing to remember and there never will be."

If he said it enough times, maybe it would be true. Then again, maybe it wouldn't be....

The damn winos have been using the alley for a toilet, the musky scent sharp and thick in the summer air. He's not going to let it ruin his enjoyment of the moment. It's been too long. Far too long. Years of practice, of training, of waiting. It had all been needless and he knew it. He was born for moments such as this and he had proven it long ago. Time to prove it to Dimera.

Dimera. The man was probably pacing the floor at this very instance, and he can't quite help the pride he feels at the thought. Stefano was paranoid, he worried way too much. Still, it's kind of nice to be worried about. He's not use to the feeling.

The sound of footsteps bounce off of concrete walls and he grins in anticipation. Reilley is right on time for the delivery. You've gotta love a prompt man, it makes things so much easier. He slips the knife free of its sheath, his fingers curling lovingly about the leather wrapped hilt. Deep breaths, slow and even as a shadowed figure walks past him, never noticing the crouching form of the young man.

Rubber soled shoes make no sound as he rushes toward the unprotected back of his prey. A step behind the target and he can't help but slow down and play with his new toy. He stretches his legs to match the long strides of the taller man, drawing ever closer with each synchronized step. This is just too fucking easy.

A sudden falter in the march to the end of the alley and playtime is over. Reilley starts to turn, his hand already reaching into his jacket. Reilley is too late. Reilley was too late the moment he entered the alley. A hard kick to the back of a knee and the tall man goes down, grunting in pain and surprise. The knife falls, a black shadow forged for this dark night. Impact, the hilt of the knife slamming behind the right ear, and Reilley drops. Stunned, not dead. Not yet.

The clang of metal on stone as the Reilley's gun is tossed away. Half a shout makes its way from panicked lips and again the leg lashes out. The tip of a tennis shoe- Converse All-Stars- and the air is driven from Reilley's lungs. Screaming won't be allowed, it's bad form.

Fingers wrap around the skinny neck and yank the gasping body to its feet. Using the momentum, the boy swings the older man around to slam into the brick wall. He can feel the pulse pounding wildly beneath his hand, the skin itself cold and clammy. Watery blue eyes catch the light from a distant streetlamp, fear plain to see. He needs to see this, needs to watch the eyes as they die. It's been so long. So very long.

"Kyle? Can you hear me, Kyle?"

A frantic nod, a glimmer of hope. If death was coming, it should have been here by now.

"You aren't supposed to be here, Kyle. You don't have permission. Trespassing is a serious offense, don't you know that?"

"Sorry. I'm so sorry. Tell Mr. Dimera it won't happen again. I promise, it won't..."

A dark chuckle, the wildness rising. "I know it won't happen again. Dimera sent me to make certain it didn't."

He relaxes his grip on the pulsing throat, sees the relief that shines in the eyes, the snotty smile that creeps across the lips. With a smile of his own, he lunges forward, the knife slipping between the ribs and searching for the heart. The eyes barely have time to register their surprise and then the knife does its work. Without a sound, Kyle Reilley's corpse slides down the face of the wall.

He turns and walks away from the alley, not bothering to look back. He'd been right- it had been far too long.

"John? Tell me what you remember, John. Tell me what you see."

His breath rasped out harshly from between clenched teeth. The alley. The knife. The blood. "You want to know what I remember, old man? Do you really want to know?" He forced a smile, struggled to focus on the face that peered down at him. The face was expectant, excited, gloating. He'd burn in Hell before he told that face the truth.

"I see her," he continued, feeding on the anger that flickered in those dark eyes. "I see her in the church. I see her in her wedding gown. I see her beneath me on the night we made our children. I see her, Stefano. She's all I'm ever going to see, you pathetic son of a bitch!"

"Enjoy it while it lasts, John, because it won't last much longer," Dimera hissed, raising another needle and calling the nightmares once again.

Chapter 11

Marlena walked slowly, aimlessly across the hard-packed sand. She was alone, completely free to come and go as she pleased. She was trapped, unable to leave no matter how hard she tried. Wading out into the warm water, she climbed up on one the jagged rocks that jutted from the sea like the shattered remains of some long dead monster's bones. Oblivious to the hot sun that beat down on her shoulders, the blue water that lapped at her toes, she sat and she stared into the horizon, hoping for a rescue she knew would never come.

Dimera had been too preoccupied to bother her. That bothered her. It meant he was with Roman. It meant he was hard at work, stripping her husband away from her one piece at a time. She was afraid that he would succeed. If she was truthful, she would have admitted that she was afraid of more than that. Marlena had no desire to be so truthful. The past was dead, she was content to leave it buried. All she wanted was the man she loved. She wanted him home, safe, with her and her children and the life they had made together. Any doubts she had ever held had long been laid to rest. Not even Stefano Dimera could resurrect them now.

There had to be some way off of this damn island. There had to be some pathway home. She had looked for days, and she still hadn't found it. She would keep looking until she did. Marlena knew where Dimera's secrets were hidden. The locations had been easy to find. Armed guards stood in darkened doorways, their uniformed bodies blocked shadowed halls. Those were the places where Roman would be. Those were the only places she wasn't allowed to go. Those were the only places on this godforsaken island she wanted to go. No amount of pleading, of flattery, of flirting had gotten her in. She would simply have to find another way.

Dimera was one key to escape. He had always been vulnerable to her, drawn like a moth to fire. Dimera was too smart, smart enough to know his own weaknesses. She suspected that he avoided her now because he recognized the threat she posed. She would draw his attention from Roman. If Stefano gave her half a chance, she knew she could consume him. He knew it too. Stefano had always been too damn smart. Sarte, on the other hand....

Sarte was a weakness, a chink in the wall Dimera had built around her. The little man had never taken his eyes off of her during the entire dinner Stefano had forced her to endure. Sarte was not nearly so smart as Dimera, he might let something slip if she approached him the right way. Of course, Sarte was probably too afraid of Stefano to ever take a risk- but it couldn't hurt to try.

She had to try something. Every day her husband could be falling further and further away from her. If she waited too long, he might never come back. That was a loss she would not accept. Marlena tilted her head back, studied the gulls as they soared on the warm thermals. When the chance came to talk to Sarte alone, she would take it. If Sarte wouldn't help her, Dimera would still be there. There were some things Stefano wanted even more than his Pawn. She would remind him of that if she had to. She would make certain that he grew to regret it.

****************************************

Stefano paced the floor, nursing a glass of cognac and allowing the strains of an aria to drift through his weary mind. "He won't let go of her," he muttered absently.

Sarte chuckled. "Can you blame him? She's a beauty."

"She is that," Stefano replied, an unnoticed smile on his lips.

"She asked where you were at lunch. It surprised me- I didn't think you were one of her favorite people."

"Nothing that woman does surprises me anymore," Stefano said, nodding his head. "She's more dangerous than she appears. I have the scars to prove it."

"If I were you, she would be my first priority. After all, Stefano, you can always buy more soldiers."

"John is more than a mere soldier, Sarte. Don't underestimate his value to me," Dimera snapped, his eyes hard. "Besides, he's the first step toward having Marlena. If she were to lose him, if I could taint his very memory... She will not be an easy prize to achieve. I will claim her when the time is right and not before."

"Well, at least she's keeping him rational. Stubborn, but rational. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

"I want him back- he refuses to come. I'm not pleased, Sarte. Not at all. I suggest you find some means of remedying that."

"Stefano- I am not to blame in this. The man doesn't want to remember! If he has any choice in the matter, he will go to his grave as Roman Brady. The drugs can break him down, force him to relive the memories. When he refuses to accept the memories, it causes a break with reality- it's as if he doesn't own the memories he's seeing but is trapped by them. I can make him remember but there's not a damn thing I can do to make him accept!"

"I suggest you try harder," Stefano said, his voice deceptively mild.

The pointed look Dimera sent in his direction was a warning and Sarte recognized it as such. "Well, we aren't doing much good right now. You drug him up, he loses his mind. The drugs wear off, he's Roman Brady again. You can probably continue that cycle until it kills him and it won't get you what you want. Maybe it's time for the next step."

"You're the one who told me he wasn't ready. Remember?"

"He's not getting any more ready, Stefano. He clings to his identity as Roman Brady like a damn pitbull. That isn't likely to change. All he's doing now is getting weaker. You're going to have to risk it some time. The longer you wait, the less likely it is he will survive."

Stefano blinked slowly, cold black eyes revealing nothing of the thoughts that lay beneath. Finally, he nodded. "Tomorrow then. And Sarte, if he dies on me, you are very likely to follow. Do you understand?"

Sarte raised a glass in Dimera's direction before downing the contents in one deep swallow. "I understand perfectly."

****************************************

Roman's head swam with memories that were not his own. Images of death and violence, planted by Stefano. It was becoming harder every minute to separate truth from fiction. He was so damn tired. The only time he wasn't tired was in the midst of the dark rages. They were so real. He could remember the sounds, even the smells that accompanied the visions of destruction. God, he couldn't remember the birth of his children with such clarity.

His children... he pictured their faces, using them to hold on to who he was. He had no doubt of his identity, the possibility that he could have been Dimera's man repugnant. Marlena would never have loved a man like that. He clung to the thought- Marlena loved him, he could not be the killer that stalked the dark corridors of his drug addled mind. He would not allow Stefano's illusions to take her away from him.

He heard the key turn in the big iron door, the creak of hinges that rusted quickly in the tropical air. He tried to gather his energy, pull his thoughts together for the continuing battle. Soft footsteps approached, stopping directly behind him. Oh Christ, the waiting was the worst. When Dimera was actually there pushing him, he could gather the threads of his mind and focus on the fight. It was when he was alone, or even worse, at moments like this when Stefano simply stood and watched that the despair surged over him and the red fog threatened to take him. Roman feared the madness. He feared it more than anything Dimera could do to him. He knew that if he lost himself in the red fog he would never come back to her, and if he did, it would only serve to cause her pain. That, he would never do.

The heavy hand gripped his shoulder, bringing him back to awareness. It was a relief to have human contact anchoring him to the present, even if the contact came from Dimera. The large hands kneaded muscles that seemed to knot each time he was left alone. He hated when Stefano did this, especially because it eased the pain and he could not stop himself from relaxing into the soothing motion. "Are you still with me, John?" came the low voice of his captor.

"John's not here, Dimera. Why don't you stop deluding yourself and recognize that this time, you won't break me? I'm stronger this time, nothing you can do will erase the memories of my family."

"Perhaps you're right," replied Dimera. "This does appear to be an exercise in futility- and I have no desire to inflict unnecessary pain."

Roman snorted in derision, "Yea, I've noticed that about you."

Stefano chuckled, pleased to note the man's resilience. He sometimes forgot the reserves of strength that had carried him through many a seemingly hopeless situation. He hoped those reserves would be adequate this time.

"I just wanted to be certain you were aware of your surroundings, John. So often now you seem to slip away into the past. It makes you unpredictable, it makes you violent. Do you remember what you're like when you slip away?"

"Go to hell," Roman muttered, too tired to fight about it.

"I think it's time you remember, John. Your pretended ignorance has grown tedious. I've decided to introduce you to someone who will help you accept the truth. You be a good boy and behave yourself, and I will make this as painless as possible."

Having assured himself that John was sufficiently in control of himself to be manageable, Stefano reached down and released the straps holding neck and chest against the well-worn wood of the chair. Stepping quickly back, he observed the reaction, trying to gage the level of force this was going to require.

Roman doubled over, lacking the strength to hold himself upright without the support of the straps. He had been tied down the entire time he had been conscious, though he had no idea how long that might have been. He knew he must have been unbound at times, because he would come-to, cleaned-up and wearing fresh clothes. He never remembered the experience, though, and the ability to move, even to this extent, felt so good it was almost painful. He rested his head on his knees and tried to control his suddenly ragged breathing. Dimera's hands touched his shoulders, kneading the bunched muscles of his neck and back. For a moment he simply allowed himself to go with it, too exhausted to fight anymore. Stefano would take care of him, he always had.

Dimera could feel the man's utter exhaustion, could sense his surrender. Perhaps the trip to the basement would not be necessary after all. Keeping one hand on the back of the bowed neck, he firmly held the man down and released the straps on his arms. All things considered, he had continued to heal nicely. The swelling was almost gone and the bandages were no longer spotted with fresh blood. John still didn't seem to realize his arms were free and Dimera let go of his neck, bending to address the straps securing his ankles. With snake-like quickness, a bandage encased arm shot upwards, hard fingers digging into his throat, searching for his spine. Using his weight, Dimera threw himself backwards, breaking the hold. Crashing to the floor gasping, he put his hand to his neck and felt the warm trickle of blood. He stared up into flaming eyes, watching as his attacker reached down, releasing his bound ankles.

****************************************

The guards at the door immediately stepped into the room on seeing their boss felled. God, he had to get to his feet, get to Dimera while he still had the will. So close, so close to caving and accepting the inevitable. End it now, kill the bastard and be done with it. His legs refused to work, too long with no use, the circulation cut off. Roman fell hard, taking the brunt with a shoulder, trying to buy himself some time. Get to his enemy, end this nightmare. Prove that he was Roman Brady. Prove it on Dimera's body. Prove it to himself. A booted foot slammed into his face and his head snapped back, the blood flowing. Too late. Too damn late.

"Don't," Dimera ordered, crawling slowly to his feet. The guards reluctantly backed off and Roman was left to lay in the center of the floor, trying to stifle the now unproductive fire that had forced either action or capitulation.

Dimera moved stiffly to stand above the downed man. He reached out, dragging the man's head up by the hair. Dazed eyes stared back into his own, their challenge plain to see. No one could be allowed to challenge him- not even John. Especially not John.

"Never, John. You are never to lay a hand on me. Marlena will pay for your actions this day," Stefano said, allowing the cold anger he felt to show in his voice. It was the only threat that he had, but it was the only threat that he needed.

Roman raised his hand, Stefano's blood still wet on his fingers. Closing his eyes on what he was about to do, he clutched at the arm holding him off the floor. "I'm sorry, Stefano. I didn't think, I swear to you... Don't take this out on her." He groaned, levering himself to his knees in front of Dimera. Bowing the head still held by one of Stefano's big hands, he did the unthinkable. "I beg you- anything you ask, I will do."

Part of Stefano's anger was at his own stupidity. He had known better, but the prisoner's utter weariness had lulled him into carelessness. All he had needed to do to have retained control was to have reminded the man of the consequences of his actions, as he had been careful to do all week. Now he would have to answer the violent attack, there was no choice. John responded to power- it was to be respected. To allow this attack to go unanswered could well sow the seeds of a future clash of wills. "From now on, John, you will answer to your true name. You will instantly obey any command of mine or my men. And you will offer no resistance John. None at all. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, I understand perfectly."

The words were contrite, subdued, even subservient. Dimera didn't believe it for a second. Turning to his head of security, Davies, he ordered, "Make him regret his actions, then bring him down to me in the cell block. This ends tonight."

Chapter 12

Stefano looked up from the monitor he had been studying to watch his men half-drag John down the long corridor. They had followed his orders a little too well and the man appeared to be only semi-conscious. He should have known better than to leave it to Davies. The captain of the guard had only just recovered from the beating John had given him on the day of his capture. Davies hadn't been able to walk for a week and Stefano thought he was becoming a little jealous of the attention being devoted to John's recruitment. Dimera would worry with disciplining Davies later.

Stepping to the sagging body in the guards' grasp, Dimera wrenched John's head back, making sure he had his full attention. "Today, John. Today you come home. It's time you stop playing house and retake your position. Today, Roman Brady dies."

With a nod to the guards, Dimera led the way into the cell block. On one side of the corridor was gray concrete, on the other a row of cells, divided and fronted by a lattice of steel bars. There were five cells and Dimera walked quickly past the first four, slowing as he came to the last. His men obediently positioned their captive in front of the cell and Stefano stepped behind him. Once again, he twisted his head back by his hair, and as the guards released his arms, Dimera shoved John hard up against the bars. Forcing his head into a gap in the steel, Stefano grated into his ear, "You want Roman Brady, you got him. He's laying right there, just as he has been for the past 13 years."

Inside the sparse cell, the sole occupant of the cell block rolled off of his cot and approached the gathered men. "What the hell do you want from me, Dimera."

The man in Stefano's grasp stared into his own face. The face he had been born with. The face Stefano Dimera had stolen from him, along with most of the memories that went with it. For a split second, the two men locked gazes- then all hell broke loose.

John slammed an elbow back into the force that was constraining him and reached through the bars, struggling to destroy the imposter before him. Dimera fell, the force of the blow opening him up above his right eye. The guards scrambled, Davies' taser taking John in the chest, dropping the man to his knees, bringing his attention back to those outside of the cell bars.

The man inside the cell stepped back, felt blood spray over him as the tattered man on the floor thrust himself to his feet and used the force to propel his palm through a nose, sending splinters into the brain pan and resulting in an explosion of crimson. In one flowing motion, John encircled the neck of the next guard and flipped him over his hip. Retaining his hold, he jerked upward, snapping the small bones of the neck and severing the spinal cord. As easy as breathing, John caught a descending wrist, halting the baton intended for his head. He twisted and the wrist snapped. As the man in his grip sank toward the floor, John's knee smashed into his face, putting him out. Davies, the only guard left standing, ran down the hallway for reinforcements. With no one left to stop him, John lunged for the cell and the man standing just out of his reach. "You fuck. You lying Fuck. You are dead!" he screamed. "You are dead!"

Stefano was dazed and covered in blood, some of which he was certain was his own. Someone was screaming death, and he considered unconsciousness before quickly dismissing the idea. He grabbed a taser off the limp body laying next to him and tried not to catch the notice of the madman above him. This was not exactly going as planned, but the fact that John was more concerned with the man in the cell than he was with Stefano was a good sign. Where the hell were his men?

Alarms were sounding all over the place, and Dimera watched as his men came pouring down the corridor. John turned to meet them, grateful there was someone he could get his hands on. Undaunted by the numbers, John advanced toward the overwhelming force. Stefano saw at least three of the tasers strike home, and overloaded synapses finally dropped the man to the floor, clutching instinctively for the wires delivering the current. From behind, Dimera fired another jolt toward John's unprotected back and was rewarded with a spasmodic arching in his rival as he lost all voluntary control. Rolling over on his side to prop himself up, Stefano waited as his men swarmed over the collapsed body, pinning it irrevocably to the ground. Crisis averted, he leaned back to catch his breath. "Nice work, Davies. Secure him in the next cell. Chain him to the bars, wouldn't want these two to kill each other."

Dimera rolled himself to his feet, dabbing at the blood that still leaked from his lip. That was a bit more unpredictable than he liked.

"What the hell are you up to, Dimera? What's he doing here?" asked Roman, wrapping his hands around the bars and watching as the guards swarmed over the downed man.

"Just a little something to keep you company, Roman. I thought you might be lonely," Dimera replied. "Besides, you are going to provide him with an important lesson."

"I'm not providing that stinking drone with a damn thing," Roman snapped, his hands tightening around the bars of his cage until the knuckles shone white.

Stefano smiled fondly at his old rival. "You've already done more than you know, Roman. More than you could possibly know.

"Davies," he called, his attention shifting to the guards who struggled with the groaning body on the floor. "Keep an eye on John. Wake him up and make certain that Roman has his full attention. I'll be down in the morning to see if they've made any progress toward mutual understanding."

"Yes sir, Mr. Dimera. I'll see to it."

As soon as Dimera disappeared from sight, Davies yanked John's head back, his body still penned to the floor. Blue eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to focus. With a vicious smile, Davies drove his fist into the bruised face, taking satisfaction in the blood that started to flow. "Take him into the next cell," he snapped to the men standing around him. "Chain his ankles to the bars on the far side- wouldn't want him to hurt himself. I'll be back in a second."

Furtively, Davies rummaged through Dimera's private medicine cabinet. He couldn't believe the amount of energy that was being wasted on one man. John Black wasn't a soldier, he was a damn psycho. It was time to prove it to Dimera once and for all. Picking with care, he selected a potent combination of drugs from the cabinet.

John was already struggling to rise to his knees by the time Davies got back to the cell. His ankles securely fastened to the bars on the far side of the cell, he shook his head and made an aborted attempt to get to his feet.

"Dammit, grab him!" Davies yelled. "Get some friggin' cuffs on him."

Taking no chances, four men moved in on John, wrenching his arms behind his back and fastening them securely together. Davies reached in, grabbing the short length of chain that secured the prisoner's wrists and yanked up, forcing the man to bend almost double, his arms twisted awkwardly up behind his back.

"I don't want him moving around, tie this off- and keep it tight." With the prisoner now almost completely immobile, Davies jabbed the needle into the tightly stretched muscles of the right shoulder.

"Hey, Dimera didn't say anything about drugging him," one man nervously noted.

"He said he wanted him awake, didn't he? Well, this will keep him that way- and it will keep him from enjoying the experience. He just killed two good men, I'm going to make him pay for it. Besides, Brady here will keep an eye on him for us, won't you Brady?"

"Go to hell," Roman replied, watching curiously from his cell and wondering what the hell Dimera was playing at now.

Davies merely laughed. "A place you're obviously familiar with, eh, buddy. OK, guys, let's leave these the two lovebirds alone- bet they'll want some privacy as Black comes around. I'm going to hit the showers. Just leave them be- Dimera's favorite is going to be a hurting puppy for a while."

The sound of receding footsteps, and the two of them were left alone. Roman studied the man who had stolen his wife, his children, his very identity. The man's face he knew as well as his own. He had seen it countless times- in his cell questioning him, in the pictures Stefano had used to taunt him, in the videos of his family and this... usurper.

"There is justice in the world," Roman said softly, waiting patiently as the man gathered the strength to lift his head.

"What did you do to earn this? Another betrayal? After all, you are so good at that," Roman continued, his hatred bubbling to the surface. "Or is this all just another twisted game? You think I have anything left to tell you after all these years? You sick bastard, I hope they crucify you!"

The man on the cell floor shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Foreign words in a familiar voice assaulted him. He ignored the voice and the promise of pain it carried. He ignored everything, knowing that thought would hurt. He focused on finding his balance in the awkward position as his ribs burned and his lungs fought for air. The dusty concrete floor provided him with no reprieve from his own mind, so he twisted the thoughts until they served his will. An imposter. The man in the next cell was an imposter. Another trick, that was all.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the man who wore Roman's face snarled at him from across the cell.

He raised his head, struggling against distended shoulder joints, and stared into the face that had been his. Older and tired with lines that shouldn't have been there, it was still the face he expected to see in the mirror. Without conscious thought, he lunged out. Nothing mattered but that face and the need to make it go away. A scream ripped from his throat as the joint in his left shoulder separated, the 'pop' sounding loud in his ears. The pain was welcome, obscuring the thoughts, obscuring that face. His body swung to the side, slamming into the bars behind him. The pressure on his shoulders was unbearable, but his nerves were now humming with a drug induced adrenaline rush. His mind was muddled, tiny pieces of reality slipping away from him with each labored breath. The cramps hit, doubling him over, the dry-heaves forcing the air from his lungs. Images in black and white beat him down, forcing him to see.

"He's just a cop, boss. Why do you think he's worth all this effort?" He watches with vague curiosity as Dimera slides the needle into the bound man's flesh. He ignores the screams of rage, the promises of retribution. It's nothing he hasn't heard before.

"This man has caused me a considerable amount of difficulty over the past few years. There is more to him than meets the eye. You'd know that if you didn't spend all of your time in Europe, John." With a satisfied grunt, Stefano reaches down and checks the straps that bind the man to the chair. He slaps the face lightly as the man goes under, his words becoming slurred and incoherent.

"The food's better in Europe," John replies, his impatience increasing with every minute he stands here in this dark closed room. "Look, Stefano, I'm really not in the mood for this shit right now. Do you have an assignment for me or is this another stupid test? I've told you I'm fine. I'm ready to go back into the field. Find me something to do or I'm going to find it myself."

"This is your assignment John. Think of it as a little gift from me to you. A working holiday, if you will," Stefano says, gesturing to the slumped figure in the chair.

John turns from his inspection of the rough rock walls of the underground room, rubbing at his still tender face and wondering what Dimera would think if he just left. Instead, he draws his gun and steps to the unmoving body. "You want him dead, just say the word. You don't think I've lost my nerve, do you?"

"Don't get paranoid on me."

"Well stop treating me like you think I'm going to break! Give me something to do, or I swear to God...."

"What, John? What are you going to do?"

Stefano eyes are dark and worried. They make him feel weak, unstable, uncertain. He doesn't know what he will do- anything to make the damn voices in his head shut up. "What's the assignment?" he mutters, sliding his gun back into its holster.

Dimera hesitates and John worries that he's going to push the issue. One day, he's going to push the issue too far.

Dimera doesn't push. Looking down, he nods at the prisoner. "He's the assignment. He has something I want. Something very precious. I want you to get it for me."

John merely shrugs- a mindless assignment any lackey could fulfil. Stefano still doesn't trust him. It's not worth arguing about. "So what is this 'precious thing' you want me to steal?"

A distant smile drifts across Dimera's face, his eyes clouding with unshared memories. "It's his wife- Marlena Evans-Brady. Come upstairs and I'll explain how you're going to take her."

John hesitates in front of the unconscious man, studying his face, looking for some hint of underlying strength. There's nothing to see, just another white-bread cop, the type that ate donuts and coached little league and threw barbeques in the summer. He should just put a bullet in the guy's head, put him out of his misery. He seriously doubts this guy is dangerous enough to deserve whatever Dimera's going to do to him. Then again, John has never been foolish enough to think that life is fair. If it was, he'd have never been born. With a casual shrug, he turns and leaves Roman Brady to the darkness.

As suddenly as they hit, the cramps eased and he swung loosely from the chains around his wrists. The air cut through his lungs, bringing awareness. Staring at the floor, he refused to look at that face. "Bastard. Fucking bastard. Won't work- she'll know," he hissed, clinging to the one certainty in his life. "She'll known you're not me, you bastard."

"You son of a bitch," Roman muttered, shaking his head and watching the bowed form of the other prisoner. "You really think she's yours, don't you? You don't even know who you are, you stupid punk!

"You work for him! You understand me, you work for him! You stole my whole life and if you think I'm going to let you keep it, you're even dumber than I thought!" Roman hadn't believed he could hate anyone as much as he hated Dimera, but he now knew better. This was the man who had lived his life, who had raised his children, who had made love to his wife. It was only right that John Black lose all that he had stolen.

"You work for him," Roman continued, his voice low and malicious. "You're his friend. His number one man. You'd stand there and ask me about her, try to ferret out the secrets of our life together so that you could pretend like they were your own. I didn't give you much- but everything you knew about her was mine."

He shook his head, fighting against the words, the drugs, the memories. "Not his friend," he whispered. Never his friend....

"Beautiful, isn't it," Stefano asks, watching him with amused eyes.

"Yea, it is," he replies, unable to hide his awe. The fields stretch out before him, nothing but grass and trees and birds. No humans. No threats. Nothing but the peace of the wilderness.

"Every man needs a place to call home. I thought you might like this one."

He looks up at the big man beside him and smiles, the act tentative and unfamiliar. "Who do you want me to kill?"

Stefano ruffles his hair and laughs. "I'll make a list."

He suspects that Dimera is joking. He hopes that he isn't.

The convulsions slammed him against the bars, driving away consciousness, leaving nothing but the empty darkness. If he could think, he'd have been grateful. Instead, he was simply gone.

Roman cursed, his hand slapping against a bar, as the other man passed out. Whatever the drugs were doing to him, Roman wished they'd do it some more. The body kept jerking, muscles reacting in ways they had never been meant to. The movements stirred the memories, and if Roman listened very hard he could make out the fear in the words that spilled from the man's lips. The words were incoherent, but Roman sat and listened anyway. Eventually, the man would wake up. Roman watched and he waited and he wondered what could make a man so afraid.

He swam through the blackness, avoiding the light. The light brought the memories and the memories were all bad. He pulled the blackness to him, wrapping himself inside it like a blanket of nothingness in which he could hide. The light slipped through anyway, and in the shadows of its passage, the memories remained.

Grimy streets, grimy clothes, grimy skin. Even his thoughts are dirty and worn. He clenches his hand to his side, pushing the pain away. The knife he holds is the only friend he will ever need and he grips it tightly as he slips through the darkness and approaches the car. Long and black and so clean it shines- a challenge to his crown of dirt. He watches as the man walks up the front stairs, entering the barred doors like he owns the place. Confident, cocky, powerful- the boy can read it all in the set of the man's shoulders. The boy could never refuse a challenge and he smiles as he makes his way to the waiting car.

"Don't open the door," she whispered in his ear. "Don't get in the car. I'm here with you. Don't go inside."

"Marlena? Doc?" He ground the words out, the effort making his throat raw. He yanked again against the chains, spat the bile from his mouth.

Roman snorted an ugly laugh. "She's not here. Just your own head playing games with you. Did you enjoy the trip? Didn't sound like it to me."

"She's here," he said weakly, talking to the imposter because anything beat visiting the memories again.

"She's not here. You're hallucinating," Roman replied, his tone suddenly sharp and fearful.

Fighting against his own muscles, he raised his head and looked at that face. He blinked, wishing the face would go away. When it didn't, he had to fight back the tears. "Dimera brought her here. I saw her. He wants her. He always has."

"You're lying," Roman stated, the sudden fear bringing him to his feet.

"No. She's here...."

The muscle spasms struck like a blow, the pain of it tearing through his mind, slicing him open, leaving him exposed. The wounds wept memories he couldn't escape.

"Don't leave me, Angel. Please, don't leave me...."

He whispers prayers he knows won't be answered and walks on down the hall. The hallway is long and narrow and impossibly tall. He is impossibly small. But the bat in his hand is magical- it makes him big, it makes him strong, it's going to make him free. He walks forever, and with each step the darkness deepens until darkness is all that exists. He becomes the darkness and enters his new kingdom. The bat, the blood, the crack of bone- he owns it all and is grateful for his gift.

"John! Not now, you bastard. Don't you dare do this to me now. Tell me about Marlena, John. Tell me where she is!" Roman's arm shot through the bars, wanting to shake the man, to tear the truth from him. Instead, he watched helplessly as the body convulsed and blood ran down to join a growing pool beneath the man's bent head.

Peace. As close to peace as he would ever come. The clear waters close over his head, dragging him down, away from the sun. He stares up at the light and opens his mouth, letting the water fill his lungs. He dies. Long before he is born, he dies.

"Damn it!" Roman watched as the man in the next cell slipped further away from reality. Marlena couldn't be here. Not after all this time. John Black was a liar. A dirty rotten liar. But if Marlena was here....

Roman rubbed at his temples, trying to think, to see beyond his anger and his fear. If John cared about Marlena, if he just imagined he cared, that could be all the edge Roman needed. He could use Dimera's Pawn, but to do it, he needed the man alive. Cursing the necessity, he began screaming for the guards. Roman might not have figured out exactly what was going on, but he was very certain that Stefano still wanted his soldier alive.

Chapter 13

Roman's voice was raw from calling for help. Hours had passed and no one has responded. The man in the next cell was dying, the convulsions that wracked him tearing him apart from the inside out.

Feeling the futility of it, Roman once again shouted down the hall for a guard.

To Roman's surprise, this time, his cries were answered. A young man, one Roman recognized as belonging to the swing shift, responded. Hesitantly, the man walked down to the end of the corridor. "What is it? What do you want?"

Knowing there was no time to waste, no margin for error, Roman simply ordered, "Get Dimera, now."

"It's 4 in the morning, it will have to wait," the young man answered.

"Do you want the responsibility for that man's death? Because that's what's going to happen if you don't act, sonny. Call Stefano, let him decide. Look at him, dammit. He isn't going to last if you stall." Roman didn't give a damn if the man died, he'd be happy to do the deed himself. But if there was even a chance the man could be of use...

As if aware of the scrutiny, John raised his head. "Stefano?" he called weakly. He blinked watery eyes, straining to focus. Looking at the young guard, he smiled through bloodstained teeth and hissed, "Dimera is going to destroy you!"

The young guard looked stunned, then he turned and ran for the door. Roman watched him leave, wondering briefly if he was running for help or merely to escape. He turned his attention back to John's now limp body and waited for him to die.

****************************************

Stefano groaned, and half-awake, reached over and hit the intercom. "This better be good," he growled.

"Sorry, sir. It's just, well, John Black doesn't look too good and I just thought I should make sure you knew what was going on," came a hesitant voice.

Fully awake now, Dimera rolled out of bed, snatching up his clothes from the night before. "I'll be right there.

****************************************

"Someone will die for this,' Dimera swore to himself. His hands clenched tight around the cool steel bars, anchoring him to the spot. Wearing the blood stained clothes from the night before, his expression gave but a hint of his anger and the young guard at his side shrank away in fear.

"Open the cell and send for more men. He's still dangerous, even like this. And get Davies down here. I need to know what he gave him," Stefano said, his voice as brittle as ice.

He moved slowly into the cell, the familiarity of this scene striking a deep chord.

"There are less messy ways of killing a man," Roman called mockingly, enjoying the pain he saw on Dimera's face.

"Shut up," Stefano snapped, not bothering to look at Brady. He knelt down beside the body, his hand running gingerly across the deformed joint of the shoulder, noticing for the first time the bloody bile that soaked the prisoner's knees. His fingers curled into a fist as a spasm shook the bound man, and he instinctively reached out, steadying the convulsing body.

"Stefano?" John whispered, one eye fluttering open as his lips twisted into a parody of a smile. "Knew you'd come. Kill these fuckers for me."

"Sir, we called in the day shift- they should be down any minute," Blakely, the nightshift commander, called from the open doorway.

Dimera nodded, trying to hold the sweating man still as he jerked mindlessly against the chains. "Give me the key," he said. "We need to get him out of here."

Two of his men took up positions on either side of the chained man, the youngest guard still standing pale-faced in the doorway. Stefano ground his teeth together, fighting down his urge to scream at them. With a sharp 'click' he released John's good arm from the shackle, the limb dropping like a dead weight. With a low groan, John flinched away, another convulsion making him jerk spasmodically. Wary of the injured man's reputation for destruction, the guards scrambled back, leaving the body to pound against the steel bars.

"Dammit, hold him!" Stefano snapped, grimacing as he tried to grab the free arm.

Blakely moved in, using his body weight to try and pin the thrashing man. Again, burning muscles contracted, but this time there was conscious thought behind the movement. Blakely was flung away, his head cracking against the bars. John lashed out with his free hand, ignoring the tearing of muscle, driving Dimera back. The drugs pumped through him, the adrenalin surging in his veins and blinding his eyes. Searching fingers scrambled against the hard leather of a holster and then Blakely's gun was in his hand. The cold steel of the gun was the only reality he could accept, and he flung his arm out, drawing a bead on the scattered figures before him.

"You bastard," he grated, his gaze and his gun shifting unsteadily from Dimera to Roman and back again.

Stefano calmly raised his hands, careful to keep his movements slow. "John..."

"You lying bastard!" John screamed, huddling against the bars and swaying softly. Tears streaked his cheeks, a low moan rumbling through his chest as he bent low to relieve the strain on the arm still locked above his head. His eyes lost focus, the gun dropping to point at the floor before him. "Bastard," he whispered again, as he brought the barrel of the gun to his own forehead.

Numbed fingers fumbled at the safety, panic urging him to hurry as another wave of cramps washed over him. Convulsing helplessly, his arm dropped and Stefano's heavy frame plowed into him, crushing his free arm against the bars. The gun fell uselessly from fingers that would no longer obey. He let reality go and the light slowly faded, the last of the drugs surging through his system to leave his body hanging limp in Dimera's grip.

"If this is what you do to your friends, I'm glad I'm your enemy," Roman called softly, his voice breaking the lingering silence.

Stefano said nothing, focused on unlocking the remaining shackles. Gathering the body in his arms, he drove himself to his feet.

"Tend to Blakely and tell Sarte to meet me in the infirmary," he ordered the guard who still blinked owlishly at him from the floor. "And I want Davies in a cell- now. Nobody is to lay a hand on him- I'll leave that to John."

Stefano looked up, finally acknowledging Roman's presence with a grim smile. "You've done me an invaluable service, Roman. My thanks," he said, with a half-nod. Turning on his heel, he strode from the cell, John Black's body draped loosely in his arms.