Part 11

Saturday Morning, early.

The banshee screamed outside in the storm, sending torrents of freezing rain and broken limbs through the dark sky in a frenzied dance. The whole building seemed to shimmer and shake, only causing the small boy to curl up tighter. His heart hammered hard against his chest wall and his sky eyes were jammed shut. The half-choked pleas were barely audible, the sob- tinged words keeping perfect time with the rocking body.

"...please...please...please..."

The wind shrieked louder, seeming to draw on the child's fear. The power was long disrupted; the large building was dark, cold and totally desolate. Every vacant hall and empty room trembled under the fierce storm. It was as if the devil himself were shaking the entire building by the foundation.

Then a heavy step and a harsh, haggard cough filled his world. His eyes shot open, and his heart gyrated wildly, nearly splitting his small ribcage.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He flinched and sweat poured down his face, with every hard tread of the thick boots he felt his stomach lurch. His wide eyes adjusted to the darkness and skirted the room. Past tall stacks of wooden boxes, discarded furniture and other piles of dusty debris they searched, frantic and desperate for escape.

The rank odor of liquor, vomit and body odor nearly suffocated him when the hot breath sailed past his face. Close...so close...too close.. Oh God...Oh God.. He held his breath, flattened himself out and waited. He didn't care about the warm urine now trickling from him. The terror of the nearness of the beast caused that reaction.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

A pause -- a fraction of a second that seemed to turn into hours.

"Know you're here, boy, I can smell you."

The maniacal laughter chilled him and lightning lit up the sky outside, sending a silver light into the darkness. A blade glinted just inches from his face, then the mad black eyes found his saucer-like blue ones.

"Gonna carve you up real pretty."

"NO! NO! NO!"

The lost soul tossed fitfully in the sweat-soaked bed, his wet hair plastered like a cap on his head. The dark nightmare had never revisited in such vivid and horrific fashion. He felt his heart pumping as the boy screamed. He urged the child to run and the small legs obeyed. The tiny body didn't feel the sharp corners of boxes, crates and debris as they tore through his clothes and flesh. He ran blind, right into the large, heavy wooden door. He fought bravely, beating his hands against the wood.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

He nearly made it, his fumbling fingers found the knob, then the hand on the devil grabbed his neck, the talons cutting into his skin.

"DADDY!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He sat up hard, chugging air like an overloaded freight train. His skin was slick with sweat and he was shaking so badly his teeth chattered.

"Jesus Christ!" he whispered in a shaky voice, taking a gang of tissues from the bedstand and wiping his sweat-drenched face. The room was dark, and with the shades down he had no idea of time. Something had awoken him.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three short raps on the door. He rose slowly, his chest aching and his headache raging. He staggered from his bedroom through the hallway and to the door. He peered through the peephole and then slumped, resting his aching body against the frame. His hand fumbled with the locks, finally the door lurched open.

"Man, I have seen better faces and they've been three days dead." The greeter paused, eyeing the boxer-clad figure, with purple skin peeking from his bandaged chest. The eyes were dual slits of confusion and the steady, harsh breathing came out thickly over the still healing ribs. The head wound was nasty and he averted his gaze. There was no flicker of recognition in the pale face before him. He waved a hand in front of the dazed man.

"You with me, Harvard?" He dodged his head, bobbing and weaving, but the face remained blank. "Anybody home?" He paused, starting to worry. He thought on all the complications from a head wound. "Freeze! F.B.I?"

"Danny?" Martin croaked at the blurry dark-eyed figure.

"And they said you were just a pretty face." He paused with a half a smile, "Can I come in?"

"Huh?"

"Where's your old man?" Taylor hissed, eyeing the shivering, wet body, barely able to stand, "You need to be in bed. He could answer the door."

"Huh?"

"Come on," Danny gently turned him, steadying the shaken body until the arm was jerked loose.

"No fuckin' invalid."

"Fine, fall and break the other half of your face." Danny kept pace until Fitzgerald was walking better. He eyed the chart on the refrigerator and the clock. "You're almost due for pills. You hungry? How 'bout I cook some breakfast, okay?" he called out, watching the body limp into the bedroom, "Martin?"

"Yeah...fine..."

Satisfied, he went back to the hall to pick up the overnight bag he'd left there. He dragged it behind him like a nylon dog on a leash. Locking the door, he toted it back into the immaculate apartment. Leaving it in the living room, he scanned the note left by the senior Fitzgerald and then opened the refrigerator. Being at a disadvantage with only one arm to use, he chose wisely, selecting microwaveables from the freezer.

*******

Daylight was streaming in the windows and he hissed, curled up and cried out. He felt the warmth leave as the shadows fell.

"Sorry."

He muttered something to the voice and let a few minutes waste away. The first thing he saw when he opened his throbbing eyes was the remainder of his breakfast disappearing off of the tray in front of him. There was a brief fuzzy recollection of the meal arriving, then nothing.

He saw a sling resting against a San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt. He cocked his head as the other hand moved, taking a piece of sausage to the waiting lips. He knew the face, but the thick mud in his aching skull covered the name. He was safe, that he knew, the name didn't matter.

He watched for a few seconds and frowned in annoyance when the painful, high-pitched voice of Olive Oyl assaulted his ears. The tanned face softened and a short laugh escaped. That's when the name appeared.

Taylor. Danny Taylor.

He eyed Taylor's profile in a chair next to the bed and grimaced. The younger man was unaware he was being watched. The chocolate eyes were crinkled in mirth and the face relaxed. His gaze rested on the sling again and he painfully recalled the haunting image of Danny lying in a pool of blood. He watched as a time worn leather watchband on the right wrist merged with maple syrup as the last of the pancakes disappeared.

"Make yourself at home," Martin croaked, brows furrowing at the nearly empty plate.

"No sense lettin' it get cold," the sated man piped, eyeing the meager remnants. "I tried to wake you," he paused, eyeing the cranky face, "You were snorin' real pretty."

"I don't snore."

"You're asleep, how would you know!" Danny defended with a sly grin. "Anyhow, it was getting cold and I didn't want all your hard-earned money being wasted." He grinned again, wagged an eyebrow and waved a piece of sausage briefly, before eating it. "No need to thank me."

"Wasn't the...word...I had...in mind."

"Not to worry, I got some oatmeal brewing. You can have that."

"You're all heart" the injured man replied sarcastically, "I'll pass. My stomach's spitting fire now." He stopped when the body next to him stood and moved the chair several feet away. "I'm not gonna hurl on you!" Martin snapped, then cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Least I'll try not to. I'll aim low," he cautioned as Olive Oyl's voice pierced the air. "How can you watch that shit?" he noted disdainfully of the cartoon.

"Can't figure the two of 'em fightin' over the likes of her." Danny shook his dark head at Popeye and Brutus. "She ain't pleasin' on the eye and she's flatter than a board."

"It's a cartoon, Taylor," Fitzgerald grunted, "Get a grip."

"Now Wilma Flintstone, there was a figure. Tiny waist and big..."

"How'd you get into Quantico?" Martin rasped painfully of the strange logic, "More importantly, how'd you get in here?"

"You let me in a couple hours ago." He saw the blank face. "It's almost eleven. You should take some pills."

"Pills?" Martin yawned, rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I can't recall.." Then he eyed the empty plate, "I can't believe you ate my breakfast."

Danny's devilish smile matched the mischief in his eyes as he nodded at the quart container of orange juice.

"You gonna drink that?"

"YES!" Martin defended, grabbing it, "Vulture."

"Okay, how 'bout we move this party into the living room. I'll make you some soup."

"I'm taking a shower," Martin decided, then chugged half of the juice and belched loudly and unexpectedly.

"Proud of ya!" Danny grinned and picked up the tray, "Always better to burp it and taste it than to fart it and waste it."

"Get...away...from...me." The Seattle native wrinkled his nose distastefully at his chuckling partner.

Later, when lunch was finished, Martin cleared the plates away. He cleaned up and saw the note on the fridge.

"How'd it go?" Danny asked, watching the blues staring past the note.

"Better than I thought. He seemed sincere enough," he paused, thinking on the early flight his father had taken, "You must have just missed him." He poured himself a mug of coffee and noticed Danny rubbing his eyes and flinching, his hand sliding to the injured shoulder. He saw the black bag on the floor and frowned.

"I travel lightly," Danny yawned, nodding to the couch. "I'll be fine here with a blanket and pillow."

"You're staying?"

It wasn't so much the question as the total shock in the wide blue eyes that halted the dark-haired man. He was across the room lounging in a recliner, flipping through college football games. He muted the sound and turned.

"You can't stay alone, the doctor said --"

"Thanks!" Martin spat defensively, not totally sure why it was so venomous. "I don't need a fuckin' babysitter."

"Is that what you think?" Danny jerked the arm on the chair, lowered the footrest and stood up. Now he was angry. "Man, how could I have been so wrong? All that time before we knew you were safe...I felt gutshot...I thought we had something...forget it!"

Martin struggled with the internal storm. What was wrong with him? He recalled all too painfully the horrid iceberg that had invaded him when he'd thought the other man dead. He watched the black bag lifted and the body closing in on the door.

"I'm sorry, Danny."

The body stopped, but didn't turn. Martin sighed, raked a hand through his hair and flinched when he touched the healing, tender area of his skull. He felt shitty, physically and emotionally. He was dizzy and nauseous, his vision was blurry at times and the memory lapses scared him a bit. Moreover, was he so far removed from trust that he was pushing away the very thing he sought?

"The futon in the spare room is pretty comfortable." He took a tentative step. "I'm not used to anybody giving a shit. I guess I rode alone too many years. Would you like to stay?"

The bag went back down and the hand left the doorknob. Martin sighed audibly, dropping his throbbing head. He didn't realize he'd cried out softly until a cold mug was in his hand.

"You're a mess, Harvard!"

He took the pills offered and swallowed, then let his bruised eyes rise.

Brown eyes met blue.

His hand shot up so fast it startled him, latching on to the offered one in a brotherhood grasp. He nodded gratefully and felt the hand press him back.

"Get some sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping. All I do is...sleep," he yawned, his eyes drooping.

"Pretty boys like you need their beauty rest." Danny shoved the body towards the bedroom. "Pizza okay?"

"Yeah."

Danny wandered around the apartment, restless and bored with television. He thought on the short trip into the past the tormented man had given in the diner. He sat on the wing chair by the large picture window in the living room and that's when he saw it. Frowning, he bent down and picked up a child's work of art. He winced painfully at the painstaking effort that a very young Martin Fitzgerald had rendered. He eyed the small but proud name in crayon in the corner.

"Nothing Gold Can Stay." He read the poem, noting how carefully Martin had chosen the fall colors and how much time he'd spent creating it. Every felt leaf on the border was perfectly pasted. So much love had gone into the gift. Had Victor ever seen it? Was it a part of that lost time? He thought on the frazzled state of mind his partner had been suffering since the episode in the school cafeteria. It was a wound too long festering and needed to be purged. His own shoulder pain forgotten, he now was a man on a mission.

He went into the spare room, which Fitzgerald was turning into a den of sorts. He eyed the boxes and continued past until he got to the expensive computer. He picked up a pen and began making notes on the legal pad lying on the desk. He calculated the date and time of the event, based on the brief bio he'd read on Fitzgerald. He used the computer to find the location of the school, on a private island off Puget Sound. It had closed down many years before. He read a brief history of the school and its founder. It had had strict rules and a hard curriculum to follow. You had to be a very disciplined boy to keep up with the rigors of this private school.

His head began to ache and his shoulder was beyond painful. His own painkillers were in the other room. He couldn't see straight with all that pain and decided he'd fare better with fresher eyes. He turned the PC off and found his pills, a cold soda and the sofa. Danny stretched out, pulling the afghan over him. He dozed for awhile, then sat up, eyeing the room. He heard a sound and stood, walking slowly towards the hall.

"...no...no..."

"Martin?"

"...run...run...he's got a knife..."

"Damn!" He entered the bedroom and scowled at the empty bed, the disarrayed blankets spilling over onto the floor. "...the hell?" he murmured, hearing banging sounds, "Martin?" He padded into the room and then moved quickly. "Cut that out!" He dropped down near the closet, where the shaking form was hiding while banging on the door. "MARTIN!" he shouted, grabbing the sweat drenched jaw, "Snap out of it!"

"...the hell's going on?" the dazed man blinked, eyeing the very concerned set of brown eyes. His own gaze fell to the pile of shoes he was sitting in. "Aw, hell." He raked a shaky hand through his damp hair and rubbed his eyes. The dreams were getting worse since his father's visit. He was acting them out now.

Danny backed up and moved to the bed, sitting on the edge. For a few moments, there was no movement. He eyed the bare feet sticking out of the dark burgundy sweat pants and thought on a course of action.

"You need a hand?"

"No," Martin shook off the last fractured image. He inched his way out, feeling every broken rib and the bruise on his skull. He flicked a flushed face to the bed, but saw only worry there.

"I, uh...don't..." He shifted his feet, bit his lip and and rubbed his neck, "I never did that before."

"It's gotta stop, Martin," Danny attested quietly, seeing the shamed blush, "and it's me, okay? Save that pretty color for an unsuspecting lady." That got a small smile and he stood, but made no move to close in. The other man looked like a deer in the crosshairs. "I was gonna call for the pizza."

"Yeah," Martin sighed gratefully, "I'll take a shower."

He turned towards the bathroom and paused, eyeing the weary gait of his friend.

"Hey." He waited until the dark-haired man turned. "Thanks. If you hadn't been here..." his voice trailed off for a second, "I mean...you're the first person who...that bastard's been chasing me for twenty years." He slumped, his heart still feeling the horror. "Until now, I was fighting him alone."

"Then how about we kill him off once and for good?" Danny tested the water, glad when the tense agent didn't bark back defensively.

"Okay," Martin agreed, then shuffled into the bathroom. He washed his face and neck, peering intently into the glass. It had to stop, the circles under his eyes were getting worse and the acid level in his gut was on nuclear overload.

He let the hot water revive him before drying and dressing. New sweats went on and he pulled on an oversized, well-worn soft flannel shirt before shoving his icy feet into slippers. He couldn't seem to stay warm. He padded into the outer room. He made his way to the kitchen, where the other man was waiting.

"The guy said a half hour when I called, should be here in fifteen." Danny pushed a can of soda across the table. "You, uh, started to tell me in the diner." He nodded to the vacant chair and the reluctant man sat down easy. Then he saw the poem neatly standing against the wall.

"It was under the chair I was sitting in. I didn't go nosing around!"

"I know. I must have...dropped..." Fitzgerald flicked his eyes on it, "Yeah. The day before we took off...I found it...I got sick...I guess I dropped it."

"You did a great job," he lauded, "Did your dad ever see it?"

"No," he hesitated, "I don't think so."

"What happened that day, Martin? The day of the play."

Martin sighed, sipped a bit of root beer, and played with the metal tab. "It was Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. The play was to be at nine a.m., then a small lunch and then we'd all hit the ferry to go home."

"Ferry," Danny noted, recalling the Puget Sound location.

"Yeah, Hawley Academy. It was on a huge piece of ground in the San Juan Islands. It closed about fifteen years ago." He took another sip of soda and a short breath. "Originally, it was a mansion for about a hundred years. Admiral Horace Hawley, retired from her majesty's navy," he noted of the British import, "He visited the American West around the 1840's and loved it. He took a trip up to Canada and hit the islands on the way back. He never left. He built a monstrosity instead, your worst image of a huge gothic mansion with gables and gargoyles -- scared the shit of me the first time I saw it. I was five."

"FIVE!" Danny's eyes shot up. "How could they do that? Five? "

"My mom had...she...wasn't a strong person." He swallowed painfully as the image of a slim sandy-haired woman came up. "My dad traveled a lot and...she couldn't...handle things...life. Sometimes she'd have to go away for awhile," He said distractedly. "I didn't know until years later, she spent a lot of time in a private clinic in Sedona."

"So your dad figured a private school was the answer?"

"Yeah. Anyway, that day, during the play, a storm blew up, a bad one. There was a lot of confusion and running around. The coast guard wanted us all off the island. The school was short staffed already, due to the holiday. It got ugly: black sky, gale force winds, rough water...lots of running around. I had already been counted, they took a head tally, wrote names down and assigned you a spot in the boat. I ran back..."

"Why?"

He sighed, his wide blue eyes went to the poem.

"You're kidding?" Taylor rasped.

"I wanted him to be proud. I'd worked so hard on it. I was only seven, Danny."

"Yeah, sorry. Go on," he encouraged, just as a rap came on the door, "Hold that thought!"

"I'll get it, you get some plates," Martin rose slowly, "Oh, there's, uh, hot peppers and seasonings and stuff in the second cabinet over the sink."

"Looks good." Danny flipped the box open and took a slice out. He saw Martin flip the other one open and frown. "What? I got one plain, the other half sausage, half pepperoni," he saw the frown lines deepen, "uh, peppers, mushrooms..."

"Anchovies."

"Oh man," Taylor's face screwed up, "Fish? On pizza? That's nuts. Talk about disgusting. That's as bad as the ones with no sauce and broccoli on them and shit." He paused mid-bite when Fitzgerald covered his mouth and tried to hide a chuckle. "You're kidding me?"

"Nope." Martin smiled, then took a slice of plain. "Uh, actually, I like spinach, too."

"Awwwww," Danny feigned a gastro attack, "Man, I got my work cut out for me. Fish and green stuff on pizza."

The pizza was good and most of it disappeared. The remaining slices were wrapped and refrigerated. The coffee came out along with some butter cookies from a tin over the refrigerator.

They went into the living room and Danny eased himself into the recliner. Martin brought the coffee in and placed a cup by the one-armed man. He took his own to the sofa. Then he returned to the kitchen, bringing the cookies and the poem. He opened the tin and offered the top row. Danny took several, and then Martin sat down. He eyed the poem again, painfully recreating in his mind every hour he'd worked on it.

"My room was on the top floor. The power...well, it went out. Total darkness. I got lost, that mansion was like a maze. Even in daylight, you could get turned around. The thunder kicked up. Lightning flashed in through those long, gothic windows. It was awful. I ran blind, up and down stairs, around the maze-like corridors. I took a fall, must have been out for awhile."

Danny stopped munching and watched the fear slowly returning. Martin began to rock, both hands fisted, the Adam's apple bobbing furiously. The pale man's breath came in short pants and sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Slow and easy, whatever hell you lived through was over twenty years ago, Martin. You're safe here. It can't hurt you again."

"I'm not so sure," he choked, recalling the vivid dreams, "'cause reliving it every night is tearing my guts up."

"Then get rid of it," Danny pressed and waited. Finally the trembling slowed and the breathing evened out.

"I came to and panicked. It was freezing. The wind sounded like every demon from all the worst horror movies I'd ever seen. That's when I saw..."

The chopped phrase drove the lost soul from the sofa. He swayed for a moment as the pressure in his head increased.

"SIT DOWN!"

"I'm okay," Martin gasped, taking a shuddering breath. He paced, not able to settle his jangled nerves. "I saw..."

"You saw what?" Taylor eased his own pained body from the chair and walked to the window, where night fell uneasily on the busy city. He stopped as he came next to his partner, whose face was locked in pain.

"A monster...with no face...huge," Martin's hand came up dramatically above his head, "Uh...thump...thump...thump." He took a shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around his aching chest. "You got no idea what that fuckin' sound does to me. He...was dragging his leg...or something. He had a knife."

"Jesus!" Danny hissed, eyes darting as the images formed.

"He...had a sound...like a twisted up growl, part laugh and part wolf. I was, uh, in the house somewhere...scared shitless...screaming my head off. I ran and ran. But everywhere I turned, I heard that fuckin' thumping leg. He was closing in, laughing at me, saying things about carving me up for dinner." Martin paused then, needing several minutes to get his nerves in order. He swiped the damp eyes and nodded his gratitude for the single hand gripping his shoulder.

"I panicked. I lost my bearings...couldn't figure up from down. The thunder was shaking the house. I ran the wrong way, jiggling every doorknob. I thought I'd found the back door, but I was wrong. It was the basement. I fell. I tried to get back up but he was in the doorway, so I ran and hid. Hell, it seemed like hours...me hiding and him getting closer. He stunk pretty good, I could smell his rancid breath. There were these little windows up high and the lightening hit 'em. I thought I was well hidden. Then that blue flash caught his knife, right by my throat."

"Aw, fuck. Aw, Christ, Martin." Danny jerked, stunned by the confession. In his wildest dreams he hadn't painted a picture so horrid.

"I peed myself."

"I'd have done a lot worse than that -- you were one gutsy little kid."

"He said things, awful things, and I ran. I got to the door...I was banging hard...and then...then..."

"Finish it."

"I can't!" Martin turned away, staggering back to the sofa. He dropped down, resting his throbbing head in his hands.

"You have to. You can't go on like this. What happened in that basement?"

"I don't know!" Martin choked, eyes burning. "I can't remember. That's where the dream ends," he defended hotly, "You think I like this? You think I don't want it to go away?"

"Okay, okay," Danny placated, "Settle down. What is the next thing you remember?"

"Uh, nothing. I blanked the whole thing out. There's, uh, fuzzy images of a yellow slicker and a flashlight. Someone carrying me...and a helicopter. That's it. The next clear image is being in my mom's arms wrapped in a blanket. But that was a while later. I was uh...uh..."

"Catatonic?"

"Yeah. For awhile."

"Who was the guy with the knife?"

"I don't know. My folks wouldn't talk about it. My dad told me that it was from hysteria. Alone in that old place, no power, the storm from hell outside. All those gargoyles on the landings and walls. He said I fell and hit my head and imagined the rest."

"But you think different?"

"I...don't know, Danny. It's so real in the dream. Every detail. How could that not be true?"

"Did you ever look into it?"

"No. My mom...it upset her too much. She'd go to pieces. It tore me up. She made me promise to bury it." He paused, his eyes narrowing a bit. "She died when I was seventeen. The nightmares stopped for awhile. I thought maybe she took them with her. But, sometimes, when the right mix comes into play, they come back. When a storm hits around Thanksgiving, I'll have the dream. But usually just the beginning part, with me lost and panicked. Until last week it had been years since I saw him...and the rest."

"Well, it can be checked easily enough." He stood, nodding to the computer. Then he saw a strange light in the blue eyes. "What?"

"What if...I mean...it could be worse. What I find out..."

"Yellow ain't your color, Harvard."

Martin found a small bit of solace in that and stood, took a breath, and went into the would-be study.

"Okay," Danny said, sitting next to the typing agent, "newspapers would have records. See if any of the local papers covered that storm. If you were lost, it might have made the papers."

"Not likely." Martin did a search online. "This was way before Adam Walsh. Back then you could find a lost car faster than a lost kid."

They did find articles on the storm, the damage, and the loss of life to some of the area towns. But no mention of the school. More articles and more frustrations. Then while Martin took a break to go to the bathroom and get some more coffee, Danny called up yet another reference to the storm. He was reading the article, not paying attention to the photo.

"HENRY!"

"What?" Danny turned, as Martin set two mugs down. The other man's finger tapped the screen. "There. Right there. Henry Mason, the caretaker."

"From the school?" The head nodded once. "So he lived nearby?"

"On the grounds."

"Is that him? Is he the guy with the knife?"

"No, Henry's bald and much too small." He eyed the grainy photo and frowned. "That's from the day before. What's he doing with the police?"

"Uh," Danny slid from the chair and let Fitzgerald take the keyboard. "It says," he read over the soft flannel clothed shoulder, "Mister Mason found the car that belonged to Karns, the male nurse who was found dead at Cinaberg."

Martin hit 'page down' and they read the article that went with the photo. The headline caught his attention.

"Police seek deranged killer who escaped from Cinaberg Center for the Criminally Insane," he voiced, his heart pounding.

"There...there," Danny pointed, "the six-foot seven hulk, close to three hundred pounds, was wounded by the security guard as he fled on the night of his escape."

"Where's the hospital?"

"I don't know." Martin printed the article, then did another search. The resulting hits came up quickly.

Danny was still watching the article come up when the choked cry came. The slim body next to him fled the room, hitting the doorframe. He glanced quickly at the screen, wincing at the ugly brute whose image appeared. Then he followed the sounds of retching and found the stunned man over the kitchen trashcan. He got cold towels and provided silent support, then eased the shaken man to a chair.

"It's him," he managed through clenched teeth. "John Harrison is the man I saw in that house," he noted of the name under the photo.

"I guess that shoots your old man's theory to hell."

"He lied!" Martin hissed, taking a drink of water to rid his mouth of the acidic aftertaste, "That son-of-a-bitch! All these years, he knew. What the hell would he lie for?" He saw Danny pick up the phone and hand it over. "No, he's not there yet. He's flying to Orient."

"You look like shit," Danny noted of the yellowish-green healing bruises on the pale skin. The dark circles under the bruised eyes were hard to look at. "Maybe we should call it a night."

"No," Martin stood and padded back to the computer, "I want to know what happened to that monster. I have to find out."

Another hour of effort went down the drain. All other articles they located just indicated that the killer was never found. The articles theorized he'd escaped into Canada.

"Well, that place wasn't on the island, but close enough. If he was running from police and they set up a dragnet on the mainland..." Martin started.

"Maybe he took a ferry or stole a boat and thought he'd hide out over the holidays," Danny concluded, "You think this Mason character is still there?"

"Hell, I don't know." Fitzgerald scratched his chin. "He'd be, oh, seventy five or so. He had an old shack. Maybe."

"One way to find out. He might have some answers."

"It's late."

"Not on the West Coast, it's only eight forty-five," Danny noted, "and you're stalling."

Taylor waited and watched. The lost soul picked up the poem and read it again, his hands trembling. Taylor watched the eyes darting and thinking.

He had to pursue it, hell, it was what he was trained to do, solve mysteries. This was how the other person felt, the victim. Now he knew first hand what that terror was like. He turned his head and nodded once. While his partner dialed a number, he left to get more coffee. Would this be the answer he'd sought? Would the nightmare finally end? Would the missing chunk of time that haunted him finally be resolved?