Part 7 Three p.m.

It seemed he was both far beneath reality and yet in the middle of it. He could see foggy images, surreal and distorted, from a tilted angle on the floor. Floor? He saw boots and blood and some french fries. There was a noise. What was that noise? It was a slow sound, like wind in his ears. Breathing. His breathing? Was that it? Something was very wrong. Something was very wrong. He tried to think. He tried hard. Someone was moaning in the wind in his ears. His cry? What happened? More feet came by and one of them kicked him. Pain exploded in his side. The sound in his ears changed to a sharp cry. Someone was hurt. Someone was bleeding. Someone was he.

The silence was broken by harsh voices. A face with dark hair bent over him and began laughing. A slap to his face, pain exploded on the left side of his head. The man's words didn't all trickle though his foggy netherworld, but a few did.

"...bleedin'...pig...fucked...now...die...shot..."

He tried to talk but his tongue wouldn't work. He turned his head painfully and wished he hadn't. There was body in the narrow aisle. It wasn't moving. A man. A dark blue suit. Didn't Danny have a suit like that? Danny? Danny? Danny's hand, fingers half-curled. Danny's body. Danny's body?

Then he saw the blood. A lot of blood. It was growing and pooling under his partner. His partner? That thought nearly ceased the erratic pulsation of his heart. The legs moved again, blocking his view. More harsh words. Someone was pulling him. His head exploded in a brilliant burst of orange pain. A scream from far away surrounded him, invading his ears. His scream. His voice. His pain. Too many tangled, shattered pieces of a puzzle. What happened?

A new face, the old face. The man with the gun. Not just any gun. His gun. His gun? As he was dragged from the spot, he saw more blood. His blood? Flashes stabbed at his throbbing brain. The older man's arm turning with the gun. His own arm grabbing for it. Two shots...two shots...Danny's body. Danny's blood.

Then he realized and the pain was far worse than the wound he had suffered.

*"Oh, God, what have I done?"* he screamed silently.

He'd shot his own partner. He'd killed Danny Taylor.

He was rolled on his belly on the kitchen floor. Something stung his face, burning his wounds. He smelled the strong odor of cleaning solvent.

He didn't feel the pain anymore. He didn't care about the boots kicking his legs and body. He didn't feel the blood pouring down his face into his eyes. Through a dull, distorted, macabre scenario, he saw the waitress and pregnant woman huddled together. The younger girl was crying. The sound in his ears was changing . The heavy wind was slowing down, his eyes were sliding shut. He only saw half of the waitress now and the legs of a table.

Then Danny's body appeared, dumped a few feet away. Blood -- the smell invaded his nose and choked him. Danny's blood. The stench of death more vile because it had come at his own hands. He'd never be able to free himself from that stain or stench.

The agony of what he'd done made it easier. The sound in his ears got slower. Like the fadeout of an old movie, his world was moving into a black circle. He parted his bleeding lips and with a soft sigh he gave himself over. The last image inside the closing black circle were the tapered fingers of Danny Taylor, still uncurled and kissed with crimson.

"For...give..."

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

Four p.m. Atlantic City

"ACPD! Open up!"

A shuffling of feet, several curses and a shattering of glass brought the door in. Two officers, guns drawn, preceded the F.B.I agent into the room.

"Freeze, hairball!"

"Get your clothes on," his partner advised the woman in the bed.

"I didn't do nothing!" Tony Vecchione protested.

"We'll see about that," the officer cuffed him and turned to his partner.

"Lookee, here," he held up a gun, "how much that this matches our friend Beaumont?"

"That's not mine! I never saw that before!" the protesting prisoner denied. He eyed the man in the doorway, narrowing his gaze. He saw the badge clipped to his hips. It wasn't the same as the cop's.

"Who the hell are you?"

"F.B.I." Malone concluded, "and since you're not missing anymore, my job here is done."

The interrogation was short. On the night of his disappearance, Tony had witnessed a mob hit on his way home. He had seem the shooting and the body go in the water. They had seen him, too, and he went into hiding. He came out the night of the murder to get money from an old friend who owed him a favor. He'd intended to leave the country. Unfortunately, he'd had a few drinks while he was waiting and Crystal showed up.

"Poor bastard was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Jack lamented of the dead man. He'd been unwittingly followed and 'questioned' about his connection to Vecchione. They couldn't prove it, but the marks on his body indicated such. Tony got nervous, thinking Beaumont had spilled his guts. So he silenced him.

All this sprang from two people. Kenny "Chooch" Foxe was wanted on several petty crimes. During questioning he traded off, giving the name of Jimmy Carson. Jimmy knew Tony and was with Chooch and Charley in the bar that night. He'd called Martin's number, having heard the F.B.I wanted Vecchione.

Crystal gave up the address of a 'friend', Chantrell, whom Tony visited frequently. This also traded for a promise not to be held on a misdemeanor.

"You need anything else?" Jack asked Paul Murphy.

"No, thanks, Jack. I'll call if I do," the other man shook hands, "Oh, keep the mouthy kid off my turf, okay?"

"Kid?"

"Blue eyes, fast mouth, expensive shirt," he paused, "One of your boys."

"He's not a kid," Malone defended, "and you're right, he's one of mine. I picked him." He accentuated the 'I', clearing up Fitzgerald's place. Then he headed for his car. The storm raged on, making it difficult to see. High winds, driving rain and darkness only made his quest more driven. Home and a plate of pasta, a little wine and some Sinatra, that was his goal. He frowned, eyeing the lineup of cars ahead. Then he saw flashing lights.

"Great," he muttered, slowing down to a crawl. Finally his turn came and he rolled the window down, flashing his badge, "Trouble?"

"Warehouse got robbed. The guard was killed. We ID'd the perps from the security camera. A family 'outing', so to speak. Dad's only been out of the pen three months. The older boy's done time, too. The younger one hadn't, but the video showed him hit. We're searching cars."

"Family?"

"Koslowski"

"Don't know 'em?" Malone noted.

"They're local. Sorry to delay you. Can you pop the trunk?"

"Huh? Sure."

Ten minutes later, he was once again on the Expressway and headed for home.

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

5 p.m.

"I should have taken the Greyhound that day."

"Huh?"

Ellen Weaver looked at the young woman beside her and smiled weakly. The girl was about twenty-five or so, six months along maybe. She wasn't pretty, just average, like thousands of other girls in no-name towns.

"A long time ago. I was eighteen and fresh out of high school. More than anything else, I wanted to go to Hollywood and be a star." She sighed sadly, "I made it to the bus station, all day I eyed that sign. I mapped out the route, including bus changes, and even saw myself on Sunset Drive working in a nice place."

"What happened?"

"It started to rain. I thought that was a bad omen. I decided to leave the next day."

"You never went?"

"No. When it came down to it, I didn't have the guts. So I became another nameless nobody in a dead end job in a town nobody knows." She turned, "You from around here? I'm Ellen."

"Abby Danvers. No, I was visiting my boyfriend. He's stationed at Fort Dix. We were supposed to meet in Atlantic City."

"And?"

"His orders got changed, so I'm meeting him down there -- or I was. I was supposed to get the six o'clock bus."

"Well, maybe he'll miss you and --"

"No, I was surprising him. He thinks I'm on my way back to Boston."

"Oh," Ellen slumped, then saw the father coming over. Louie, the cook, was tied up and gagged, somewhere in the backroom. The old man didn't make it. He was in the freezer.

"How 'bout takin' these off? I can't feel my fingers. She shouldn't be on the floor," the blond head jerked to the mousy brown-haired girl.

"Either of you know first aid?"

"I do," Ellen said. "I worked as a nurse's aid for awhile." She flinched when she was roughly jerked and the ropes were cut off. "Hey! That hurts!"

"Hurt? Lady you don't know the meaning of the word." He grabbed her hard and propelled her forward.

"Wait!" she eyed the two strangers, both bloodied and unconscious, "They need help."

"My boy needs help. Move!"

"Untie her first!" she demanded and he nodded to his son, who was lounging on top of the kitchen table. "Honey, on that shelf behind you are clean towels. See if you can do something for them." She turned to the father, "There's a first aid kit on the wall near the walk-in freezer. It's not much."

"Ray, get it!" he ordered and shoved her into the office.

"Mike? Mike?" He kept the gun on her and shook the clammy, sweat-soaked body with the other hand. "It's in his gut."

She nodded, then opened the shirt, stiff with blood, and winced. It didn't take a medical degree to see that the wound was fatal. She took his pulse, checked his pupils and listened to the horrid breathing. Sighing heavily, she rose, wiping her hands.

"I'll get some water. I can bathe his face, make him comfortable --"

"You better do more than that!" Ray demanded, aiming the gun.

"That won't bring him back," she assessed without flinching, and waited. "I'm sorry, he's dying. I didn't shoot him. You should stay with him, he's barely breathing."

He nodded once and she left, feeling Ray Jr.'s gun on her back. She eyed the girl on the floor who was holding several sodden towels against the dark-haired stranger's shoulder.

"It won't stop."

"Press harder, honey, as hard as you can!" she ordered and the girl obeyed. The man twitched and cried out, and she saw the girl's tension ease up. "NO! Never mind him crying out -- you push and get that bleeding stopped! DO IT!"

She took a glass and a full pitcher, pausing to eye the other agent. He was on his side, not moving. Her eyes flicked to his chest, rising and falling steadily. No new blood was under his already battered face. That was a good sign.

"Get moving!" Ray Jr. ordered, waving the gun.

She did what she could, wiping his face and neck, resting his sweat-soaked head in her lap. Lord, but he was young. Her anger rose at the walking vermin who'd fathered this child. He was the real murderer. The boy moaned and cried out, and she soothed him, talking low and stroking his face. Then it came, that awful rattle. His head lolled and his hand slid from her grasp. She turned to the father, who was sitting on the side of the sofa.

"He's gone."

The man made no sound, just waved the gun towards the door. She nodded, took the kit and the pitcher of water and left. She immediately dropped to the unmoving man's side. She recalled the badges and guns taken. Fed's? Lawmen, servers of justice and keepers of peace. They took risks every day that most people couldn't fathom.

She gently moved her hands down his legs and arms, feeling for broken bones. A soft hiss escaped when she moved her fingers over the left side of his ribcage. She gingerly eased him onto his back and then sat him up, while easing his suit coat off. Her eyes raked to a stack of burlap sacks of rice nearby. They were just the right height to support him, especially with a rib injury. She pulled him back and eased him down. His head flopped back, hitting the sack. She tilted it to one side to inspect the damage. Most of the left side of his head was soaked in crimson. Her fingers parted the sticky hair and she saw a nasty wound high over his left ear. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled up his teeshirt and winced at the horrid purple and blue bruising, streaked with crimson. She eased him over and noticed the new bruises forming. She glared openly at Ray Jr., whose boots had done the damage.

"Bite me, lady!" he grabbed his crotch and leered.

"Honey, you should have kept on driving," she murmured, rinsing a cloth and wiping the blood that covered the entire left side of his face. She dabbed at the wound with antibacterial wash and pressed the cloth against it.

"Ellen."

She laid the handsome man's jacket over his chest, pulling it up to his chin. She turned then and saw the question in the other woman's face.

"Can you help?"

"Sure."

She moved about six feet over to where the other lawman was lying. The jacket was off and his white shirt was maroon with dried blood. She gently tugged at the fabric, wincing as skin stuck to it. Finally, it was free. She ripped the shirt, exposing his shoulder and side. She tipped him forward, then saw a larger hole in the back of his shoulder.

"It went through. That helps a little bit. Rip up those white linen clothes." She pulled the kit open, fishing around for the antibacterial wash. She saturated two clothes, pressing one on his back, the other to the front. She eyed the area, spotting a pile of tableclothes, "Get them. He should be raised a little."

Finally, she used patches of linen and strips wound around to make a crude bandage. She watched and waited, they stayed white. Sighing in relief, she pulled his jacket and a tablecloth over him. She knew before her hand hit his forehead that his fever was rising. She soaked a cloth in the pitcher, taking all the water that was left. She wiped his face, neck and chest. She stood to refill the pitcher and was denied.

"That's it, Nurse Nancy, move it!" Ray Jr. ordered.

She helped Abby to stand and moved far across the room, sitting on a crate of vegetables. Ray Jr. seemed to like the fact that from this position they couldn't see either agent. She worried that when Ray Sr. came out of that office one of the two wounded men would become the object of his wrath.

*********** 6 p.m.

"We can't stay, Pop. The cops are gonna be all over this area. They'll find the car."

"Yeah, yeah," the older man eyed the body of his younger son and sighed, "I gotta think. Anything in the safe?"

"No. Just deeds and a couple hundred bucks." The younger one remained just outside the office, keeping his eyes on the two male hostages. "The TV said that they got all the roads closed, searching cars and shit."

"Dammit. We got nothing. That warehouse should have had the payroll. That fell through. Mike died for nothing!"

"Pop, we gotta --"

"Let me think!" the angry man interrupted, beginning to pace.

The fox's blue slits remained narrowed, his face pressed to a rough cloth. He heard the words of the murderers. He'd been awake for several minutes. They were desperate -- desperate enough to kill. He couldn't move his head. He'd tried and the white hot explosion of pain had nearly blinded him. It also sent his lunch spewing forth, all over his chest and chin. He was in too much pain to care. It rolled in waves through his head, obscuring any movement. He couldn't breathe well and the new burning sensation with every searing breath told him the bruised ribs were now broken.

The younger gunman reappeared briefly, twirling the gun and looking bored. Desperate men. How desperate? He thought of the four hostages, who still had a chance. It might be too late to save Danny Taylor, but he would try to save the others. One thought came to mind and he decided it was worth a shot. It was the universal language, one even the desperate understood. A female voice interrupted his scattered thoughts.

"Hey, this little girl needs to go to the bathroom? Hey!"

"Yeah okay!" Ray Jr. moved, eyeing his father, "Pop, that fat bitch needs to pee."

"Take 'em both. Be quick!"

Martin faded for a moment, and the next thing he was aware of was a warm, wet cloth wiping the vomit from his mouth and chin. He coughed, shivered and began to tremble violently.

"Easy, Sugar. Ellen's got you."

"I think...I...I..."

She turned him just in time, letting the remainder of his stomach empty into a large towel. Quick hands cleaned him up, and he mutely followed the rinse, spit and drink orders. Finally, she laid him back, cupping his chin.

"How's them pretty eyes doing?" she cast a sad smile, his left eye was discolored and swollen shut, "Well, at least one pretty eye. Can you see me okay?"

"...ye...yeah...fuzzy...but...yeah..." He shifted, and sent a ripple of agony through his chest. He cried out, bit his mashed lip and rolled his eyes. Two hands held his shoulders, keeping him still.

"You're a mess," she lamented, "A bullet parted that pretty head of yours, and that creep's boots worked overtime on your back, side and legs." She saw his maroon-stained fingers pressing to the injured side. "They're broken."

"Figured," Martin breathed, then felt the mug pressed to his lips and took more water, "Girl?"

"Holdin' up pretty good. Louie's tied up but he's okay," she noted of the cook.

"...old...old...man..." He saw her head shake and his eyes slid shut. "Damn." It was then Danny's teasing grin invaded the shimmering agony that was his world. First his partner, the first person in a long time he'd trusted, now the old man. A helpless soul who just picked the wrong time to have lunch. Dead...dead...dead...on his mantle. "Oh God. I'm sorry."

"What?" she saw such agony in the one blue eye that wasn't swollen shut and flinched. She cupped that chin and gazed at the emotive pool, "Honey, this isn't your fault. It was an accident. Those creeps are the ones who --"

"No!" he hissed, pulling away and forcing hot breath through clenched teeth, "stupid Martin...fucks up again. He trusted me...watch...his...back..." No more words would come, the pain in his chest was too great. Every breath through the burning ribcage was like inhaling jagged, hot pieces of glass.

It took her a couple of minutes to realize what he meant. The full gravity of the pain he felt enveloped her. She stroked the bruised cheek and fell into that emotive blue pool.

"Honey, look at me," she directed, "He's not dead. Is that what you thought? Your partner?"

"Danny Taylor," Martin choked, trying to sit up, "I thought...all the blood...he didn't...didn't move...I...I..."

"Save your breath," she coached, "You'll only make it worse." She held him until his ragged breathing slowed. "It went through his left shoulder. He lost a lot of blood and I won't lie to you, he's in a bad way. He's burning up. If he doesn't get help soon..."

"I need to see him."

"Easier said than done," she nodded to Ray Jr. who was pacing.

"You stay...with...Dan..ny..." he paused, reading her nametag, "Eleanor?"

"Ellen, Sugar," She helped him sit up and get his balance, "What are gonna do?"

"Make a deal with the devil." He knelt forward and that brought Junior over, pressing the gun to his already throbbing head.

"Well, well, you're not lookin' so fine now, Piggy!" He ran the gun over the face and onto the bloody lips. "BANG!" he teased, then saw the spark of anger in the one eye that worked.

"Talented," Martin rasped, "peein' through brains."

"Funny man, huh!" the felon grabbed the sticky hair and yanked hard, getting the cry of pain he wanted. He eyed the Adam's apple bobbing and smiled, "Maybe I get a knife and give you a shave, huh?"

"Where's your old man?" Martin panted, trying to remain conscious, "I got a deal..."

Seven p.m.

He'd never swam through fire before. He didn't think he'd do it again. It was hard. Hot waves of lava burned his flesh, but he fought on. Then he heard voices, soft and easy. A woman's words -- water doused the fire -- a woman's touch on his face. Soothing, cooling and reviving. He moaned and parted his eyes, blinking painfully into the harsh light.

"Um, I'm Abby," she paused, not sure of what to say, "Do you want some water?"

He nodded, his thick tongue having a hard time navigating his dry mouth. His eyes closed and someone held his head up. He felt the mug pressing his lips and parted them. Cool water invaded his desert and he moaned, sucking like a greedy infant.

"Not so fast, Sugar, you'll toss it back."

He frowned over the cup, gasped in pain and turned to the new voice. A familiar face swam into view under blond hair. Lunch. He remembered the diner. Soup. That's where he knew her from.

"World's...best...soup?"

"That's right!" she smiled, wiping the fevered brow again, "You got shot. It went through. You can't move around, okay? It'll start bleeding again."

"Sh..sh...shot?" His eyes slid closed and fractured bits of the image replayed. Martin going for the older felon's gun -- after he'd told him not to. Then a shot and an explosion of pain that sent him into blackness. The other agent's rash actions had nearly got him killed. All day the walking powderkeg had brought trouble. Now that mouth sassed the murderers and his poor judgment led to gunplay. Fever and pain took his logic away. His shoulder was on fire, his lungs congested and his head throbbing. He couldn't find reason. He was hurting more than he had in all of his life. His fevered state blamed one person.

"Fitz...ger...ald..." he hissed.

Mistaking his whispered plea for concern, she lifted his face and angled it, so he could see his friend. The other man was sitting on the floor right outside of the office, not close to them. His knees were drawn up and his newly cuffed hands in front, draped on them. His head was down and staring at the cuffs.

"He hasn't moved an inch since he came out of that office," she thought aloud.

Danny saw the right side profile, jaw set and shoulders drawn in a starched shirt. That made him even madder. Why was he over there? He wasn't even looking this way? Didn't he care? Again, his high fever took all reason and sense from him. He struggled in his anger, unaware of the repercussions.

"Don't do that!" she ordered, "You'll bleed again."

He closed his eyes, sighed and felt her fussing again. Too much pain to wade through and too hard to keep his head above water. He'd just rest for a moment.

"Pop, we gotta leave. Whadya gonna do?" Ray Junior kept the gun on the Fed on the floor nearby and his eyes on his father. The older man was still sitting by the corpse.

"What do you think, son?" Ray asked, finally standing and pulling a blanket over the body.

"Are you kidding?" the younger man hissed. "You heard what that tape from his bank account said. He's loaded!"

"Nine a.m. is a long time off. You said yourself the roads are covered."

"Highways, Pop!" Ray Junior moved closer, "We can go to Dace's." He saw the gray head rise and cock, "Only other person who knows about that cabin is Mike, he ain't gonna tell."

"You might have something," the older man nodded, "It might work. You know how to get there? Without hitting the highway?"

"In my sleep," he noted of the cabin in the dense area of the Pine Barrens in New Jersey, two thousand square miles of darkly beautiful and supposedly haunted area of southern New Jersey. Scored with dense pine trees, rivers and few inhabitants, the wooded area would be the perfect hideout.

"Okay," he walked out of the room, "Come on, Pretty Boy, we're gonna make tracks." He pointed to the pregnant woman. "You, fill some of those bags with food and stuff. You," he motioned to the waitress, "get that bleedin' pig to the storeroom -- before I change my mind."

Her eyes flicked to the silent, injured agent, who had been hauled to his feet. He couldn't stand up straight, and without Ray Jr. holding him by the arm he would have fallen. She didn't like his color or the harsh breathing. Moreover, his words worried her. What 'deal with the devil' had he done?

"Hey! Move it, sister!"

"Get off me," Martin said in a low voice, "I'll do it. He's my partner."

"Knock yourself out!" Junior waved the gun, "Just be quick."

"I'm fine," he answered the kind waitress' worried look.

"What've you done?" she pressed, easing Danny Taylor's inert body up, "You let me do all the work. It's not far."

"I did...what...I...had...to..." he gasped, pain ripping through his chest. His blurred vision saw two doors and he was glad she was in the lead. He used his cuffed hands to support the injured man's legs. His mind kept replaying his move for the gun. If only he'd been quicker, or Danny had moved.

Danny was eased down on a cot in the storeroom. He moaned as the trip caused his injury to throb mercilessly.

"Dammit!" Martin grabbed a pile of paper napkins clumsily, "He's bleeding again." He pressed hard, as hard as his injured side would allow. He kept pressing, despite the tearing pain and fire in his side.

"...doin'?" Danny hissed, eyes shooting open. Through the fire and waves of pain, he saw a blurry patch of flesh and a blue eye, "...get..'way...'

" I'm only trying to help."

"You helped enough," Taylor shoved the arm away, his face creased in anger. "...head twisted wrong...all.day...help..." he scoffed, "...thanks...no...your...help...got...me shot..."

"No. No, Danny listen --" Ellen tried to reason, tipping the delirious face towards her. She caught his dark eyes, but not before she saw the absolute raw agony in the blue one. She saw him swallow hard and try to find his voice. His mashed, bloodied lips moved, but no words came out. His cuffed hands moved, trembling badly, toward the dark-haired agent.

"Sorry."

She flinched when the other man turned away. Then Junior appeared, grabbing the departing lawman hard.

"Time's up!"

"Help'll be here soon," Martin managed, as he was pulled away, "Thanks. I'm grateful."

"I'll take care of him." she answered the silent request. His words were to her, but his eyes never left the feverish face of the wounded man.

"LET'S GO!"

The father appeared, irate and ill-humored. He tossed keys to his son and grabbed the prisoner by the back of the neck.

"GO."

Danny flinched, the thunderous voice rousing him. His bleary eyes opened, blinked and he tried to see through what looked like a waterfall. He saw the two killers, the larger one was shoving someone hard towards the door. He blinked again, the picture cleared and a cry of pain alerted him. "Martin?" he whispered, flinching at the mottled, discolored, swollen and bloody left side of where his face should be. A hand was clutching his ribs and the word came back.

"Go?" He coughed, 'go where?" He struggled to sit up, restrained by two sets of hands. Then his partner turned, just before the storeroom door closed. Brown eyes met blue. In the passing of those hot seconds, they each spoke silently. Danny saw the remorse and guilt and heard his own harsh edict rebound. Something took hold inside of his gut -- the cold icy tendrils of foreboding. His breath quickened, his pulse raced and in that brief flicker of time, he knew. As the door closed, he tried to make his mouth work, but failed. A rough hand pulled Martin's head, the eye rolled and the other man cried out, then slumped. The door closed. The door closed. The echo shot through his mind. He was never going to see his partner gain. "MARTIN!" he panted, trying to fight delirium, pain and reality, "Noooooo!"

Ellen caught him as he slumped, lying him down and covering him. Then the waiting game began. She prayed that whatever plan the other man had devised would work. She prayed that both men lived long enough to reunite and resolve the awful drape of guilt both wore. Most of all, she prayed for the blue-eye young man whose fate was riding in the bloody hands of two murderers