~*~*~*~*~
Luggage clutched in a death-grip, Ben Urich whipped his head around to scan the sidewalk behind them. Let out a slow breath. No security. Yet. Like they'd believe it even if they saw it. I saw it, an' I don't believe it. "I didn't know you could do that to an airport locker."

Cane clearing the way, Matt headed for the rental agency. "Foggy says I've had too much real estate law."

"Guess he doesn't know what six years in St. Agatha's does to a guy." Even today, that orphanage had a reputation.

"They were good people. They tried."

"Didn't say they weren't." Ben tried to figure out where to walk, ended up stepping out to the edge of the cane's reach. "So how you going to explain how that kid ended up in there?"

"That 'kid' was carrying at least a kilo of heroin." Matt shrugged. "And believe me, he's not going to remember anything."

Ben sighed. "Security cameras?" he said pointedly.

"The only one with a view was off."

The reporter looked at him askance. "And you know that for sure."

"The others smelled warm. It didn't."

So that's why Matt had maneuvered the kid left along the lockers. "You're a menace."

Matt grinned, shoulders finally relaxing now that they were clear of the terminal. "Nice to work with you, too."

~*~*~*~*~
Scanning the neat boxes stashed in Vivian Cannon's bedroom, detritus the young woman had left on breaks from New York, Jim frowned. Mulroney had come up with them long enough to give the room a once-over, then gone back downstairs to talk to a sweetly unhelpful Mrs. Cannon. Deliberately unhelpful, Jim was sure of it. Maybe they threatened her? We should check her phone records. No matter what Tony Cannon wants.

Not that there had to be a call. Organized crime had all kinds of ways to get their message across.

Who knew. Maybe Mulroney could get it out of her. Though Jim doubted it. If Blair's charm couldn't talk a lady out of information, no way would a dirty Fed have a chance. "Not like Simon to jump at shadows."

Glancing under blue-striped pillows, Blair ran a finger along the sheet to check for hidden pockets. Came up empty. "So what makes you think he is this time?"

"Guy ends up stuffed in an airport locker with two Ks of heroin? Probably some rival gang, trying to make a point." So far they'd drawn a blank. There was a young woman's scent here, but it was months old, overlaid by Mrs. Cannon's and a teenage male scent over various packages and under the bed. Her brother, by the scents of junk food and dirty clothes thick in the next bedroom over; no doubt in and out of here ever since his elder sister had left. At least, if he's anything like Steven, Jim thought. Kid never would stay out of my stuff.

"And they left him with the drugs?" Blair argued. "Expensive point." He stepped back from the bed, dodging the antique wardrobe. "I wonder if I could talk to the flight attendants. Find out if anyone freaked out on one of the incoming planes."

"I never had any problem with planes."

Blair crossed his arms, glanced out the bedroom window. "Jim, when's the last time you were on one with your senses on-line? By yourself?"

Alex, blonde and laughing, stealing his guide.... Jim shook the image away. "Say there is another sentinel. What makes you think he's alone?"

Silence.

"Blair?"

The anthropologist's gaze slid past his, full of surface charm. "Just a guess, man. Haven't met one of you with a partner yet. Well, except for Hawke. Maybe. And you have to admit, we didn't exactly meet him very long...."

Kree-ah-ah-ah.... Swift, powerful wing-beats, rattling the wind. A whistle of air through stooping feathers, fast as a plummeting plane.

"Jim?"

The sentinel stepped up to the window, scanned the sky. "Thought I heard a falcon."

"You did?" Blair bounced over to sun-warm glass. "Where?"

"Right over-" Jim paused, peering into empty sky. "Must have headed behind a building." He reached out with his hearing, searching for a flutter of feathers.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

An irritated voice, nasal with New York's mean streets. "I am not lost."

"Right." A lighter, quieter tone; still New York, but gentler. Soft taps punctuated it, like a scatter of rain on a tin roof. "That's why we parked two blocks over."

"Hey. It was free parking."

Jim could almost hear the smile around the words. "I think that's a little easier to find on this coast."

"Ha. Like you'd know." Paper rustled, folded. "We take a left here...."

"Watch the curb."

"Wha- ow!" A shoe heel thwacked on cracked concrete, dragged the man with the map off-balance in a rustle of trench coat and garbled East Coast profanity.

"Told you."

"Grrr...."

"Jim?" His guide gave him a questioning look, quick company to the grounding hand on his arm.

"Pair of New Yorkers down there." The detective's hand hovered near his gun. "We might not be the only ones playing a long shot."

Blair didn't bother to move. "Not unless the mob's hiring blind assassins."

What? Jim blinked, focussed on the pair that had just rounded the corner. Tall and not-so-tall; the shorter guy was wrestling with a Cascade city map, felt hat pulled low to shade eyes already hidden behind amber lenses.

But it was his companion that drew the eye; hair an auburn blaze over a light brown suit, shirt and tie neat hues of blue that exuded quiet confidence, gentle face half-shaded by dark glasses.

Necessary glasses, the sentinel realized, watching the redhead's careful body language. Light, easy movement, the sort he'd seen in a dozen masters of the martial arts - but inextricably tied to that rhythmic, tapping cane.

Left tap as the right foot steps forward. Right tap, left forward. Repeat. Jim tried not to stare. Blind. Not just can-barely-see-light-and-dark blind; all the way gone.

Which didn't mean he wasn't an assassin. Cascade had seen weirder. "Help me look closer."

"Okay, focus." Blair's voice dropped. "That suit looks like wool, you should be able to catch a scent...."

Wet wool, all right, Jim registered, tasting the wind. Hint of mint with a bitter bite; the shorter man was trying to quit smoking, from the waft of stale smoke from his trench coat. And... "Leather."

"What?"

"Heavy leather. Like biker's gear; the kind that keeps you from spreading your skin all over asphalt if you lose it going ninety." Jim eyed the redhead. "And there's something... different, in his scent."

"Different how?"

"Don't know." The sentinel took another breath. "Reminds me of L.A."

Blair rolled his eyes, evidently recalling the mess that had been their last seminar in that city of weirdness. "That doesn't exactly narrow it down."

Down on the Cannons' porch, Mulroney's breath caught. "Oh, hell," he muttered. Headed down the walk at an indecent clip, bristling like a wolf spotting a pack rival. "Damn it, New York said they'd handled him...."

Jim glanced at his partner, headed downstairs. The sentinel listened to the FBI agent's wake, trying to piece together Mulroney's behavior into a coherent whole. Angry, Jim noted. Some kind of threat. But he's not looking for a gun. Why?

"Urich!" the shady agent growled. "What are you doing here?"

Urich? Coming out the front door, Jim frowned at the shorter man. Sounded vaguely familiar.

"Should I know you?" Urich glanced at the agent, glanced past; taking in the house, the truck, Jim's silent presence.

Trained observer, the detective thought. Funny. Why did he feel like the redhead was watching him just as intently?

"Special Agent Mulroney." A badge flashed. "And New York told you to back off!"

"New York told me to clear out of my office." Urich jammed his map into his coat pocket. "Freedom of the press, Agent. Look into it sometime."

Oh no. Behind him Jim heard Mrs. Cannon's heels clicking his way, the swift patter of Sandburg distracting her from the sidewalk confrontation. Not a reporter.

And not just any reporter. Ben Urich of the New York Post, recently famous for blowing the lid off the Kingpin's organization. Great. The last thing we need in the middle of investigating Mulroney. A reason for him to lay low.

"Interfering with an investigation-"

"What investigation?" Urich cut in. "You guys told me to stay out of it, I'm out of it. But she's a source on a story I've been working for the past few months. I'm just looking for some deep background. You know, give it some human interest. Editors like that kind of thing." A shift of shoulders, and he moved to step past.

"What story?" Mulroney growled. "If this is a ploy to work on another Kingpin piece, I swear-"

"Gargoyles."

Lying, Jim knew, watching the reporter's stance. He knew a Sandburg-style obfuscation when he saw one.

But Mulroney seemed to buy it. "Gargoyles?" The agent snorted, disgusted. "Some nut puts together computer animation and a couple idiots in rubber suits, and you want to write a story on it?"

"You looked at the top of a New York subway recently?" Urich's grin was crooked. "Rubber claws don't punch holes in steel."

"So some nuts go at it with a crowbar. Gargoyles. Daredevil," Mulroney muttered. "Alligators in the sewers."

"There are no alligators in the sewers," Urich informed him matter-of-factly. "Not in New York. Trust me."

"Whatever." Mulroney swore under his breath. "Ellison! Call me if you find anything. I've got to get back to work."

"Have a good day, agent." Calm words; the blind redhead waited for the agent to stalk around him, then carefully rapped his way toward the door. "Mrs. Cannon? We're friends of Viv's. May we come in?"

~*~*~*~*~
"I told you not to call me unless it was important!"

Phone to his ear, Special Agent Frank Mulroney frowned at the raw edge in Kant's voice. She's been under way too long. "When you run a civilian? From New York, no less? What's going on, Kay?"

"Good things, Frank. Good things." Glee flickered in the undercover agent's tone, faded into urgent sobriety. "I just need a few more days, Frank. Just a few more."

"To do what? Get yourself arrested? Ellison's too close, Kay. Pull out. We'll nail who we can. What good's a clean sweep if we have to sweep you up?" He'd seen plenty of the detective's work, and he'd heard more. Jim Ellison was Major Crimes' pit-bull; once he grabbed hold of a case, it'd be all but nailed into the ground.

"I can give you Ig."

Calabrese. Head jackal of the bikers' pack; the one they'd never been able to pin so much as a parking ticket on. And, rumors had it, a direct link to Elliot, an up-and-coming shadowy overlord in the Washington federal crime scene. Tempting. Very. The Cascade office had taken some bad hits these past few years. Especially working with Major Crimes.

"Straight-up, conspiracy to commit," Kay coaxed. "No stoolies, no rollovers for reduced sentence. Pure, twenty-to-life justice. Just a few days, Dee, trust me...."

"Kay-"

"Whoops, gotta go. See ya, girlfriend!" Click.

Mulroney regarded the dead phone. Reluctantly hung up. I have a bad feeling about this.

But first things first. He had bikers to coddle.

Just a few more days, you murdering bastards, Frank thought. Then we'll clothesline you all for twenty to life.

~*~*~*~*~
"Well, of course Vivian mentioned her conversations with you, Mr. Urich." Wood thumped; cabinets closing in a rich drift of Kona coffee as Sarah Cannon handed around a slosh of filled mugs. "She was quite impressed by the way you looked for reasonable explanations for those... monsters." High-heeled footsteps clattered toward Matt Murdock, hesitated.

Monsters. The lawyer gauged heart rate, the quick catch in Sarah's voice. She's lying. He gave her a reassuring smile, put his hand on the central table. Traced the grain of polished oak, overlain with the patina of over a century of use. Phone number, address... no. Nothing recent, anyway. There were a few scribbles that might be names and numbers, but they were at least a few years old, pressed over by plate scrapes and polishing cloths. "Just put it to my right, thank you."

Ceramic rang on wood, painting a silvery-black shadow of the half-full mug. "You're talking about the gargoyles," Urich said levelly. If you couldn't hear the wary edge to his voice.

"Is that why you're here?" Sarah's heart sped up. "Did they... do something to her? She promised me she wouldn't be out after dark, New York's not safe-" A swift intake of breath. "That is, well - she knew how to deal with Cascade, but it is a big city. It's easy for someone to get... hurt... with monsters around...."

Oh. Suddenly that scent of helpless fear made sense. Especially coupled to the heartbeat that skyrocketed every time Sarah's attention turned toward the cops. "It's all right," Matt reassured her. "Vivian wasn't hurt." And she didn't hurt anyone, either. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? What she would be afraid of, knowing what she is. Instinct. Protecting yourself at all costs.

A soft breath of relief. "Well. Detectives. If you're through here..." An elegant hand waved toward the door.

"Actually-" Ellison started.

"We should get going," Sandburg cut in, with a smack of flesh on cloth.

Elbow to the ribs, Matt judged. Subtle. He must have practice.

"But if you've got some time afterward, Mr. Urich, could you give me a call?" Blair laid a scrap of paper on the table. "I've been following your series on urban folklore in the Post, and I'd like to talk about some possible parallel reports in Cascade."

"Light reading in the Anthro department?" A wry laugh lurked in Ben's voice. "Or did they dump it right into the kook section?"

"It was on the fringes a few years ago, " the young anthropologist said defensively. "But we've had some... odd things happen in Cascade, and I'd love to discuss the societal and practical implications of paranormal manifestations on urban life-" His heart rate went up. "How'd you know I was in Anthropology?"

"I keep track of people working the fringes. 'Specially when they get a raw deal from the campus brass." Urich tapped a pen on wood. "You want to talk about that sometime?"

"Ah...."

Ellison cleared his throat.

"Right, we've got a case back at the station, you know how it is... thanks for the coffee!" The front door thumped, covering the sound of retreating footsteps.

Sarah sagged back into her chair. "Thank god."

"I take it they don't know," Ben said dryly, lifting out a notepad in a rustle of paper.

"No, of course not!" Mrs. Cannon shuddered. "No one here knows. Viv wanted it that way. And I agreed with her, of course; do you have any idea what her father would do if he...." Her breath caught. Quivered.

"Hey. Hey," Urich said softly, shoving his chair toward her in a scrape of polished wood. "It's okay. We're going to help. I promise."

Sarah muffled her wail in a fold of smoke-scented shirt, let loose a salty shower of tears. "Oh god... oh, my little girl...."

Matt swallowed back the hot burn of anger, waited out the ringing rain. Monsters. Tony Cannon would think his own daughter... was a monster. Poor Vivian.

"She hated me," Sarah hiccuped, leaning into the reporter's shoulder. "I thought she always would... I wasn't her mother, I knew that. I tried, but I never thought.... And then she called me. When it happened. When her world - went crazy. She didn't call Tony. She didn't call Es. She called me." A shaky gulp; hair rustled as Sarah lifted her head. "And now someone wants to hurt her, and she didn't call me. Why? I don't - understand...."

"She didn't want you to get hurt," Matt said frankly. "When someone shoots at you, you stop thinking. I know. I've been there."

"You?" Sarah wiped off a tear; Matt sensed its silver-on-black fall to the table. "But you're...."

"Blind." Matt gave her a casual shrug. "I wasn't always." No need to mention that he'd never been shot at before he was blind. Daredevil had dodged enough bullets for all the years of his life.

"We think she's hiding out," Ben said uneasily, wringing out his collar. "Long as nobody on this coast knows they're looking for a gargoyle, she's got a cover." The reporter leaned forward. "But I have to be honest with you. She's messing with some heavy hitters, and they got ways of finding out what they want to know. Sooner or later somebody out here's gonna start looking for statues with a sledgehammer."

"No." Sarah shook her head. "No, they couldn't. Not Vivian."

"Could," Urich stated bluntly. "And would. I'm sorry."

Mrs. Cannon rubbed her fingers over her face, brushed back coifed hair. Drew in a sharp breath, and straightened her shoulders. "So what can we do?"

Pen scraped across paper; Ben tore loose the sheet, handed it over. "Our room number. You hear from her, give it to her. I know a couple people; she gets to us, I think we could fix something up. Keep her safe long enough to track down the guys after her."

"You should also start thinking about your own safety. And your son's," Matt added. "Sometimes these people don't just kill you. They kill whole families-"

"-Whole families," echoed outside.

Ellison's voice.

Matt's head snapped up. He reached out with his hearing, catching the ring of glass and steel around the detective's words, the muffled whisper of cloth over upholstery inside a pickup cab. "Just be careful." Moving his hand over the table, he felt the difference of air moving over wood, then paper and cylindrical plastic. Pounced on the uncapped pen.

They're listening to us.

Urich's breath quickened. His hand curled around the pen, scribbled across the notepad.

Matt traced his hand across the page. How do you know?

"I don't believe it." Ellison's voice, clear as if the man were standing beside him.

"What?" Blair, puzzled.

"I think they're writing to each other."

"You're serious?" The younger detective drew in a breath. "But that means...."

Ellison was telling Sandburg what we were saying, Matt scratched across paper. Now he knows we're writing. Suggestions?

Outside of GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?

"They bugged my house?" Sarah's screech was pure, molten Nevada rage. "Why, those-" She slammed out the front door, stained glass ringing in its leaded frame. A Valkyrie yell howled through the front yard; Sarah Long Cannon abandoning all pretense of gentility to roundly curse the Cascade police department in general and two Major Crimes detectives in particular.

Ow. Matt rubbed stinging ears, gritted his teeth. Picked up his cane. Took a step. Regretted it, in a bruising thump of leg against a stool echoes were still blurring. Ow, ow, ow....

"C'mon, I saw a back door," Ben murmured, latching onto his free arm. "This the right way to do it? I saw Nelson a few times, but...."

"My hand on your shoulder. Just walk. I'll keep up."

He followed the reporter through a maze of china and antiques, waiting for his ears to stop aching. Shuffle of pile rug, click of deadbolts drawn back, the sun-kissed waft of air across his cheek-

A ring of wind through wood and wire. Privacy fence, Matt judged the shadowy images painted on his radar. Inside chain link.

"Dead end," Urich grumbled.

"This? You've got to be kidding." Matt tapped up to the fence, dropped to one knee. "Come on."

"But - you - ah, never mind." Urich stepped into his grip, launched upward with a gasp. "Give handicaps a bad rep...."

"I want your supervisor's name! Now!"

Poised atop the wall, Matt shook his head. Dropped lightly to the turf, casually brushing bits of grass off his knee. "Those two," the lawyer said dryly, "Are in deep, deep trouble."

~*~*~*~*~
I'm going to kill them, Captain Simon Banks thought, glaring at his phone. Two in the chest, one in the head. Shovel in the trunk. No one would find the bodies.

So much for pleasant fantasies. "Ellison. Sandburg." The captain's voice rose, rattling the glass of his office door. "You want to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing?"

"Well, by that time we knew Mrs. Cannon wasn't going to talk to us-" Blair started.

"Ellison," Simon growled at the senior detective in the pair. And the one with the least common sense, I swear. "You're the one who doesn't want people to know about the Sentinel thing. You're the one who listened in on a private conversation anyway." Which was illegal, and Jim damn well knew it. "And you're the one who doesn't have any bugging equipment to explain how you listened in there."

"Sorry, sir," Jim ground out. "But-"

"No. No buts," Simon cut in. "You got lucky this time. Mrs. Cannon hasn't gone to the press. Yet. We both know why."

He heard a whispered "Oops," from Blair, a stiff silence from Jim.

Good, Simon thought mercilessly. If it'd been Daryl in this kind of danger, and some detective he didn't know from Adam had pulled this kind of stunt - cop or no cop, he'd have grounds for assault. "So. You want to tell me how you got caught?"

More silence.

Simon raised a brow. "Sometime today, people."

"Can't be," Jim bit out.

"It could," Blair objected.

"Would've seen."

"Maybe not. Not if he just had one enhanced sense." Simon heard a faint rustle, pictured Blair pulling his fingers through curls. "I've brought a few people by the station. One sense, two, even three. They don't set off the visions."

Enhanced senses? Oh no. "Urich?" Simon asked, disbelieving. Though it would explain how the man got scoops no one else could. Just what I don't need. A reporter with Jim's ears.

"No," Jim growled. "Murdock."

Oh, you've got to be kidding. "The lawyer," Simon reminded him. "The blind lawyer?"

"He said he was blind," Jim bit out. "Could be faking it."

"I don't think he is," Blair objected. "Would you use a cane if you didn't have to?"

"If I were undercover-"

Simon resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. Why? Why can't things ever be simple with you two? "And did the two of you stop to think about why a guy who may or may not be blind would be writing a conversation?"

Strained silence. Blair cleared his throat. "Um...."

Two bullets. Just two bullets and a load of concrete. That's all I ask. "Go. Interview Esmond Cannon. Find out what he knows. Carefully."

"Sure, Simon."

"Yes, sir-"

"Don't you dare hang up, Ellison!" Breathe, Simon told himself. Trying to ignore the silver-white spark he thought he'd seen out of the corner of his eye. This was a new phone. It was not going to die on him. Certainly not because he'd gotten mad at it. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Repeat. "I said carefully. Which means if you see Urich and Murdock, if you hear Urich and Murdock, if you in any way, shape, or form suspect either of them might be within ten blocks of where you are - you stop! And call for backup! Am I clear?"

"Ah... yeah," Blair said reluctantly. "But they seemed okay, Simon. At least until Mrs. Cannon went berserk...."

"We should find them," Jim started.

"Oh, no you don't," Simon said swiftly. "If you two don't remember Alex, I do. And I am not taking the chance on another officer drowning-"

A rap on his door. "Simon?" Inspector Megan Connor opened the office door, waved a sheet of notes. "I've-"

Simon held up a hand. Wait, he mouthed. "You two find Miss Cannon. And make sure Mulroney doesn't find her. You leave Urich and Murdock to me. Clear?"

"Okay..."

"Yes, sir."

Simon hung up. Sighed. "They're not going to listen."

"That could be bad," the Australian redhead stated, tapping her page. "I checked the flight times? Our two guests from New York would have been in the terminal just about the time Mr. Dirk Newman had his unfortunate encounter with the locker."

"Along with a couple hundred other people," Simon muttered, tapping fingers on his desk. Maybe Jim was right. Maybe he was just jumping at shadows.

"None of whom made as lasting an impression on the staff," Megan said wryly, scanning her notes. "Apparently our Mr. Murdock became quite panicky mid-flight. One of the ladies thought they'd have to sedate him. Would have, indeed, if his seatmate hadn't calmed him down; he was eyeing the door that badly."

Simon stood, strode out into the bullpen. Nodded to Joel Taggert, who was scratching out notes as he tucked the phone in his ear. Henri and Rafe were out downtown, chasing down a few of the chop-shop leads; who knew if they'd get anywhere. "What else?" Connor wouldn't look this grim if it were just a case of a flight-phobic passenger and suspicious timing.

"Okay. Thanks, Morgan." Joel hung up. "Matthew Michael Murdock," the detective read off. "Of Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law. No wants, no warrants, fingerprints on file with the NYPD due to his work in criminal defense cases. Catholic; born and raised in Manhattan, specifically Clinton. Blinded at twelve; some kind of industrial accident, real bad. Father murdered a few months later. A mob hit. No suspects." Joel grimaced. "Kid was the first to find the body."

"Rotten luck," Megan murmured.

"Seems to have coped; honors from Columbia. Known as 'the blind lawyer of Hell's Kitchen'." Joel leaned forward, all hint of humor wiped away. "Seriously, Simon. Morgan says this guy's got a reputation. He only takes innocent clients."

"He's a lawyer," Simon objected.

"And he walks in to talk with a client, asks if the guy's guilty, and says on the spot whether or not he's going to take the case," Joel pointed out. "Morgan says it's gotten to the point that when cops hear Murdock's on defense, they start digging all over again. 'Cause if they don't close the holes in their case, he will. He finds evidence they missed. Tracks down witnesses nobody knew were there. And he knows when people are lying to him."

A litany that was all too familiar. "Aspirin," Simon groaned.

"Before or after we speak with our visitors?" Megan's eyes danced.

The headache retreated, pushed back by the prospect of action. "You found them?"

"Not yet, no. But our Blair is not the only one who studies Sentinels." With a magician's flourish, the Australian produced a phone book. "There are a limited number of quiet hotels in Cascade."

~*~*~*~*~
"Let me see if I have this straight," Jack Kelso said warily, leaning back in his wheelchair as he studied his latest pair of odd guests. I've got to start posting weirder office hours. People keep finding me. "You want to shred Sandburg's first dissertation committee, the Anthro department in general, and Chancellor Edwards in particular."

Urich held up a warding hand. "Hey, I didn't say that-"

"Save it." The ex-CIA operative let his glance pass over his second visitor, wondering why that occasional tilt of the lawyer's head seemed so familiar. As if the redhead caught the edge of sounds no one else could hear. Can't be. On the other hand - Jack, you better than most ought to know handicapped one way doesn't mean the rest of your body's kaput. "I'm Foreign Affairs, not Anthropology."

"And you co-wrote 'Lilejo: Effects of Folklore on Perceptions of U.S. Intervention in Irian Jaya'," Urich said bluntly. "Not to mention you're referenced half a dozen times in Dr. Sandburg's dissertation on police interactions with urban subcultures."

"Touché." Man's done his homework. "So what did Blair say about your proposed article?"

"He didn't get much of a chance to say anything," Murdock interjected smoothly. "His partner seems to be very tightly focussed on their criminal cases."

Jack fought back an involuntary grin. That's the most polite way I've heard Ellison called a self-obsessed jerk in a long time.

"I know how the academic grind goes," Urich took back the thread of conversation. "Between the coursework and the grant paperwork, it's hard enough keeping your head above water. Mess like what happened with Sandburg's folklore research, he's probably had enough trouble just clearing things up with Rainier to get his real dissertation accepted, without trying to go after Edwards' scalp."

Jack wove his fingers together. "So you didn't believe he was a fraud?"

"The kind of people who pull frauds like that, never admit it," the reporter stated flatly. "And if he was pulling something like those cold fusion guys, thought he had a Sentinel for real when he didn't, he'd have published. No." Urich tapped up amber lenses. "Somebody screwed up big time."

"And you plan to get a story out of it." Jack kept his voice level. Noted the ghost of a smile on the redhead's face. No. No way he could know what I'm thinking.

Then again, a lawyer didn't have to be a Sentinel to read people.

"It's what I do," the reporter acknowledged. And waited.

Weigh the odds, Jack told himself. Edwards blew it, and everyone knows it. But since that whole Ventriss mess, everyone in Anthro's too scared to say anything. The university's just lying low, hoping the whole thing blows over. And if you leave it to Blair, it will blow over; man doesn't have a vindictive bone in his body.

Unlike Ellison.

Reality check, Jack. Since when is Detective Jim Ellison going to risk exposing himself as a Sentinel by stirring that whole mess up again? Even if it would help his partner?

Probably never. "Fear-based responses", no kidding.

So. Do you want Edwards out, or not?

Like that was even a question?

There were still good people in the Anthro Department, he knew. People willing to speak up for Blair, and against the university's glory-grubbing chancellor. They just needed someone to start the ball rolling. Someone with tenure, maybe, Jack thought. Hal Buckner would step in, if he thought it would actually go somewhere. He didn't take the kid on as an advisee at sixteen to see him tromped and forgotten. We'd also need someone with enough cash the university's got to pay attention or risk losing donations. Preferably someone Blair's helped out, so they know he's honest....

Like, say, Steven Ellison?

Those two are too quiet, the former operative realized. He'd never run into a lawyer willing to sit still rather than talk a mile a minute. Much less an investigative reporter. Urich ought to be poking, prodding, trying to draw him into some sort of commitment. Instead, he was... waiting.

Like Blair would wait, when he knew someone had almost talked themselves into doing what he asked.

One more check, Jack decided. "I don't usually get a chance to ask this, Mr. Murdock; how are the Braille room numbers?"

The lawyer's dark glasses implored the ceiling. "They'd be a lot more useful if they were all at the same height."

"That's what I thought." Perception matched instinct. These two felt solid, the way a good field asset was solid. "Let me tell you about our dear Chancellor...."

~*~*~*~*~
"So much for talking to Sandburg," Ben grumbled, fumbling his way out of the hotel bathroom. Time, time... yeah, okay. He tucked in a stick of nicotine gum, felt the mint bite of it start to loosen that gnawing tightness in his nerves. "Mess like Kelso laid out, he sees me coming now, he'll bolt." The reporter frowned, leaned on the dresser. Funny; didn't feel quite as stuffy in here as it should. "Nah, there's got to be some way to do it. You think-"

Paper fluttered on his bed. Out, read the short note; flipping on a lamp, Ben recognized Matt's unseeing scrawl. Back later.

Urich traced the breeze to an open window, felt along the sill. He didn't see anything in the fading twilight, but... were those boot-scrapes? "Great. Blind, aggravating, and loose in Cascade. You crazy, Murdock?"

Murdock wasn't. But Daredevil just might be. The Man Without Fear. Why on earth did I think this was a good idea?

Because Viv had called him, looking for help, and he hadn't been there. Because the bad guys had more eyes, and more money, and they wanted her dead. Because this was a story, damn it; and if the Feds hushed up a hole in WitSec, more than just Vivian's life could be at stake here.

And when it came to finding things hiding out on rooftops, Daredevil was his best shot.

A fist pounded the door; police or mob, by that aggressive weight. "Who's there?" Ben called.

"Detective Taggert," came a friendly man's voice. "Cascade PD."

"Might we talk to you for a few minutes?" an Australian woman added.

Ben peered out the peephole, eyed the badge and its dark, hefty holder. Both looked legit. And last I heard, Kingpin didn't have an in with Australia, he thought, eyeing Taggert's freckled partner. One way to find out. He opened the door. "Yeah?" Backed up involuntarily. Sheesh. That guy could give Kingpin's bodyguards a run for their money. "Hello."

The tall dark guy in gold-rimmed glasses came in behind the detectives, gave him a polite smile. "Captain Banks, Major Crimes," he rumbled. "Detective Joel Taggert, Inspector Megan Connor."

"We'd like to talk to your partner, Mr. Urich," Megan put in.

"I work solo." Partner? What the heck? "If you want Matt, he's out."

Banks' gaze fixed him. "Where?"

"Hey, I'm not his keeper," Ben shrugged. "Just met the guy a few weeks ago."

"But you're traveling with him." Taggert's tone was level, but his body language screamed cop with suspect in sight.

"Mutual vacation," Ben said, carefully casual. What the hell do they think I did? Outside of walk away from a certain not-quite-empty airport locker. "That a crime?"

"I don't have time to play around here, Urich. You're not on vacation. You're not out of the Cannon case. In fact, you're so deep in, you'd better have a snorkel." Banks took a long step forward. "I have reason to believe you have information on Vivian Cannon's location. Information you're withholding. And that your partner," Banks shook his head, looking over the abandoned luggage on Matt's bed, "Is probably out looking for her."

Two out of three, Urich thought, standing his ground. They're good. "I told you. I don't got a partner." What the heck were they on?

"Really?" Megan asked gently. "How long have you been helping Matt with his senses?"

Urich stared at her, gum tucked into a corner of his jaw. "How long have I what?"

Behind the shock, a reporter's mind shook pieces into place. Sandburg was working with enhanced senses. Sandburg's on the force now, working with Ellison. Who overheard us, half a block away. Which means that diss... wasn't folklore research at all.

What a story!

No. I wouldn't do that to the kid. Even if his partner is a pain in the neck.

Banks saw something in his face, bit out a curse. "He's out there with no guide - damn! We've got to call Jim in before somebody gets killed."

"With no what? Hey! Whoa!" Urich scooted between the cops and the door. "What do you mean, killed? Matt wouldn't hurt a fly." Daredevil, though... Don't think about it.

"Ordinarily, I'm certain you'd be right." Megan gripped his arm in an effective come-along hold, freckles standing out against her sudden pallor. "But this is Jim's territory, not Matt's. If they're in the same area, seeking the same target, and your friend moves to claim Blair-"

"Could get ugly," Taggert said shortly, hustling down the hall. "Real ugly."

"Claim him? You sound like Sandburg's a piece of luggage." Feet moving against his will, Ben jabbed a finger toward Banks, careful not to connect. Last thing he needed was assault on a cop. Even if the inspector had grabbed him first. "Somebody tell me. Now. What the hell's going on?"

"Joel, call Henri and Rafe. Let them know we've got trouble. You." Simon eyed the reporter like a snake sizing up dinner. "Where do we look for a gargoyle?"

~*~*~*~*~
"Wow," Blair breathed, watching the downtown scenery as they tracked Esmond Cannon's bus. "Hey, what do you know. Those brown blurs are actually buildings."

"I'm still not letting you drive."

"Might be less frustrating. You know, sticking to the speed limit?"

Fingers clenched on the wheel, Jim growled.

Blair grinned, keeping a casual eye on the bus as it pulled to yet another stop. Grabbed the door handle as his partner started looking for places to park. "He's getting off?"

Jim's smile had a feral edge. "And you'll notice it's not the library."

Meaning the thirteen-year-old had lied to them. Not good. Not good at all. And there's something even less good, the anthropologist realized, catching too-familiar lights in the side mirror. "Ah, Jim?"

"The motorcycles?"

"Yeah. I mean, they haven't been behind us all the time, but...."

"They've been switching off with a black Mustang."

Really not good. "So what do we do?"

"They haven't done anything. Yet." Jim's jaw worked as he watched the teen jump down the bus steps. "We keep tabs on Esmond. We see where he goes. If he's smart, he's not going to see his sister. But he might be hitting a drop-site they both know."

Blair glanced at the sentinel. "But you don't think he's that smart."

Jim shrugged, pulling over. "Last I heard, they didn't teach Escape and Evasion in junior high."

Too bad, Blair thought, getting out. I sure could've used it. "Jim?"

Halfway into the shadows near the office building, the detective had frozen. "I don't believe it."

"What?" Hustling into cover, Blair followed his gaze. Skyline, a few stray birds in the twilight, maybe a scrap of paper fluttering across rooftops. "I don't see anything."

"Right, red fades out for you...." Jim blinked, eyes dilating. "There's a guy, running across the roofs. About five blocks from here. In a red leather suit."

"Say what?"

"With horns."

Blair stared at his partner. "Are you kidding?"

Jim started; as if he could stop something almost a mile away. "No - don't-" Sucked in a breath. "I don't believe it. He must have a grappling hook, or something... Blair, he just jumped off a building. And he's not falling."

Great. We have a nut in a costume running around Cascade. As if the city weren't weird enough. "Esmond's heading inside."

Jim followed his gaze, shook his head. Nodded, ever so slightly, toward the motorcycles pulling into the alleys behind the building. "If they're going to try something, it'll be down here."

"And you want to keep an eye on the guy with horns," Blair murmured.

"You bet," the detective said matter-of-factly. "There's something strange about the way he moves."

"Strange as in...?" Blair prompted.

"I don't know. Something about him's not right. Too fast. Too smooth." The sentinel hesitated. "Blair, this guy just jumped up fifteen feet. Not climbed. Not kung fu, bouncing off the walls. Jumped up." Jim started to reach for his gun, stopped. "Nobody can do that."

~*~*~*~*~
Swing. Aim. Release.

Concrete and steel hurtled by, silver-on-black shadows in his senses. Daredevil fell through the wind, curling at the last moment to land on a narrow ledge, a hundred feet above the street.

I love this.

His grapnel whipped back to his grip, cutting silver across the Cascade night. Daredevil tasted the wind as he ran, felt the texture of it; cooler, wetter; horns and sirens rising and falling in rhythms alien to Hell's Kitchen. Roofs felt strange under his boots; space left open and unused to the sky, without the familiar scents of lived spaces and odd bits of greenery he would have met on Manhattan rooftops. New Yorkers lived up as well as across, high places much-needed refuges from the hazards of the street. Make this run at home, and he'd have dodged half a dozen parties, fights, or who knew what.

Too quiet up here.

Just as well. His shoulder still gave a twinge, now and again; muscles echoing that last, angry struggle to survive-

And he had to stop and perch among the air conditioning units, fighting back the ache in his heart.

Elektra.

He had to believe she was alive. Had to. No one would go to that much trouble to make a dead woman disappear.

Kingpin might.

To torment the man who'd laid him open to the cops? Absolutely. But Kingpin would never have left that charm on the water tower. Would never have even known it was there.

So think, Daredevil told himself, taking half a second to judge echoes for distance before he flung himself across yet another chasm of open space. Natchios was in business with the Kingpin. You know that. So if the Feds believe Elektra has information on her father's businesses, information they can use to take apart the organization... WitSec doesn't just take criminals.

Which meant she might be safe. Just out of reach.

But if there's a leak in Justice, no one's safe.

There was the building he sought; one of several in Cascade that Ben said had been built from Tony Cannon's designs. One that had a roof like other gargoyle 'perches' the reporter had run across; an east-facing exposure out of sight of most buildings, over five stories off the ground. A leap, and a run, and-

Leather-rustle. A scent of bricks and sweaty, feathery hair. A click of talons on stone.

Daredevil halted, poised on the roof edge. Caught the fainter footsteps of a young teen on stairs inside, heading down and using words generally not heard in polite society.

"Oh, Es... Sarah's going to wash your mouth out with soap." Her voice was quiet, resigned; carrying that same odd timbre he'd heard on Ben's tape. The low, not quite human resonance he'd first heard in Hudson's words.

Gargoyle.

Deliberately, the vigilante holstered his billy-club. Sounds like you found her. Now what?

He stepped down onto the roof, following the steady heartbeat. Stressed, but not panicky; evidently she hadn't heard him land.

Not surprising. Most people didn't. "Miss Cannon?"

Jolt of a heart; wings spread with a crack of wind. "Stay away from me." Viv's voice was shaky; radar showed claws arched against the night. "Whoever you are, whatever you are - just stay back! I mean it!"

He didn't move. The gargoyle's breath was quick, almost hyperventilating. The air carried scents of fear, panic, a simmering, bubbling rage.

Daredevil knew that rage. He'd tasted it himself. Rode it, and come out the other side, sick at heart at what he'd done. One wrong move, and she'll go for your throat. "It's all right. Ben got your message."

"Ben?" Faint tremor in her voice. Echoes eased around the claws, showed talons relaxing with sudden hope. "Who are you?"

"Daredevil."

~*~*~*~*~
Back against her black Mustang, Dorcea blinked. Rubbed her eyes. What the hell?

Hell, indeed. The shadows on the roof above might well have come from those grim depths; horned, lithe, a wide sweep of wings over feminine curves. A limber tail swished, rousing ancient fears of serpents with every twitch.

"Guess following little bro paid off," Curly chuckled behind her. Blew softly on his rifle sight, polishing it clean. "Way better than tracking any reporter around town."

When I'm in charge, you'll eat those words, Dorcea thought, hot smile covering cool anger. Ig hadn't wanted to hear about weird redheads, New York or otherwise. If it wasn't a cop or a Fed, it wasn't a problem.

So speaks a man who's never faced down an internal investigation. Urich would have to die. She knew his type. He'd never come out to Cascade for just a source. No; he was after a story.

If Urich was here, he'd already started digging, and he had pieces her local and NYC confederates lacked. Enough pieces to make her pleasant life... very unpleasant indeed.

So Urich dies. But the gargoyle goes first.

Chain clinked, wrapping around a meaty fist. "But who's the other guy?" Curly's second, Roaster wondered. "I mean, is he... one of them?"

"Doesn't matter. Gargoyle bleeds just like anything else." Curly raised his rifle. Glanced her way.

Dorcea nodded. "Do it."

~*~*~*~*~
Click.

Nothing sounds like a chambering round. Nothing in the world.

Daredevil didn't think, just moved; dropping and spinning on one gloved hand, using the full weight of his body to strike behind the gargoyle's spiked knees. Muscles buckled, sent Vivian squawking to the roof.

A cry that turned to a scream, as the bullet tore through fluttering skin.

"Stay down!" Wing hit, Daredevil thought, tracing the scent of cordite and blood, the rattle of wind through the sudden tear. Felt air turn pierced and deadly, more rounds tracing spiral silver-black trajectories over the rooftop. She'll live.

"No... not again," Viv moaned. "Not again!"

"Hey, freak!" A sneer from below, shot through with gunfire. "We got your bro!"

Lie, Daredevil knew; unless Esmond had hit the elevator, there was no way he could have gotten down that fast. And nowhere down there was the panicked beat of a teenage heart. "No, they don't-"

With a feral shriek, Viv hurtled off the roof.

~*~*~*~*~
Holy....

For a heartbeat, Jim froze, gaze fixed on the demon diving out of the sky; black mane flying, golden skin torn and bleeding, eyes ruby flames of pure hate.

A shot, and an amber wing crumpled, sent the creature's massive body crashing atop a black Mustang. Tires blew in a rubbery blast of air; a car alarm started its irritating wail.

Somehow, I don't think demons have bad aim.

The thought was there and gone, lost in the controlled panic of a firefight. "Cascade PD!" he yelled in the chaos, catching a glimpse of Sandburg racing into the building just ahead of two of the brighter thugs. Go, go, he willed his partner. Don't let them get to the kid.

Of course, that left just him to try to keep their witness alive. Should have had Blair call for backup-

And red leather hurtled down, dropping onto a biker like a crimson falcon. Not waiting for the man to fall before it launched into the fray, grapnel breaking into two red halves that struck, and twirled, and struck again.

Escrima, Jim thought, recognizing that deadly flow of paired sticks through air. Mixed with something else-

And a chain smashed against his forearm, and there was no more time to think.

~*~*~*~*~
"You're leading us around in circles!" Banks growled.

"Would I do that?" Ben caught the savage look on the captain's face, changed tactics. "Look. All I got is a hunch and some research. We got three buildings that fit the bill, we hit two-"

"And the third would be the charm," Megan said firmly. "Listen."

The reporter hit the back seat window button, heard familiar pops in the night. "Gunfire." And Matt's probably right in the middle of it... ah, hell.

Not that it mattered to him. He was a reporter. This was a story. Sure, Daredevil helped Hell's Kitchen, but so did a couple thousand cops. You couldn't care about all of them.

So why's my gut tied in knots?

Simon glared. "Where there's gunfire, there's Ellison."

"And car wrecks." Megan grinned wryly, as the echoing ache of a car alarm pierced the night. "Don't forget the car wrecks."

Simon snarled.

~*~*~*~*~
Somebody out there's having a worse night than I am, Blair thought, hearing a trickle of shrieks and crashes as he ran. But not by much.

"Excuse me, you can't come in here-"

"Call the cops!" Blair dodged the frowning security guard, heading past the open elevator to the stairwell door. "Shots fired! Esmond, get down!"

For a second, the kid gaped through the door window - then bolted.

Smart kid. Blair shoved a tired secretary back into the elevator, hit the button to close the doors, turned-

Stared down the muzzle of a semi-automatic, as the biker's partner faced down the sweating security guard. "Umm... maybe we can talk about this?"

~*~*~*~*~
Kick. And... kick! Steel screeched free, the Mustang's crumpled door slamming open under the cover of gunfire.

Blood trickling from half a dozen glass cuts, Dorcea scrambled out of her car. Ducked a flying body, seeing ribs crack as the man hit the alley wall. So much for Curly.

And so much for hitting her target. The gargoyle was up and moving, if stiffly; currently busy banging Roaster's head off asphalt as Ellison and the weirdo in red demolished the rest of the bikers. Sirens were wailing, uniforms hustling this way, and her gang was down, out, or running.

Time for plan B.

High boots clicking on pavement, she bolted.

~*~*~*~*~
"...Just think, guys." Hand near the gun he didn't want to use, Blair kept up his desperate patter. Right now he gauged the odds at fifty-fifty if the security guard shot. Bad odds. "Right now, a couple firearms charges, you get off easy...."

Crack! Crack!

And his Blessed Protector leapt into the lobby, pinning one wounded thug as Blair jumped the other.

Handcuffs clicked. "Esmond?"

"Went back upstairs," Blair gasped, holding down his suspect. Trying not to think about the elbow that had found his ribs. Ow. "Ought to be okay. Ah - you mind-"

Jim snagged his cuffs, locked the man into place. "Come on. We've got a vigilante to catch."

~*~*~*~*~
Not. Happening. Again. Not! Happening! Again!

"That's enough." Hands on her arms; leather, red as blood. Red as the pain in her wings, in her heart.... "Vivian! He's down! That's enough!"

"Not enough," she growled. Shot me, shot at Es, clan-threat, kill... "Not enough till he's dead-"

"You don't want to do that!" Words, hard and fast as the grip pulling her back. "I know, Vivian, I've been there." Arms caught her struggle, twisted her toward him. "Viv, look at me!"

And the world was nothing but eyes. Red eyes, glowing pits in that leather cowl, reflecting the crimson rage in her own....

No. She dropped her enemy, her... prey. The man's greasy head sagged to the street, bloody hands spread and helpless. No.

"Freeze!" An unfamiliar voice, loud and threatening as the dark detective aiming Daredevil's way. "Cascade PD!"

"You think he cares?" Ben Urich strode through the wreck of thugs, stood between her savior and the threatening bullet. "Vivian? You okay, kid?"

"I'm not a monster," Viv whispered. Looking at talons drenched in... god, she didn't want to think about it. Concentrated; shoved at savage instinct, torn wings shrinking into her bloody back. Felt the chill of pavement on bare feet, and shivered. "I'm not a monster...."

"Shh, kiddo. It's going to be all right." Urich wrapped a trench-coated arm around her, ignoring the blood. Brushed back black hair from a human brow, no longer bearing amber knobs of horn. "We got you. It's going to be all right."

Red movement caught her eye; she saw the dark cop's eyes narrow. "I said freeze-"

"Simon!"

And Daredevil was up and gone, vanished in the night.

"Damn it, Sandburg-"

"Don't worry, Simon." A tall, tan cop with a retreating hairline eyed Urich, even as his curly-haired partner blocked Esmond's view of the alley. "He didn't go far."