Part 12

"Mister Mason? Henry Mason?" Danny snapped his fingers and moved to the door, taking the cordless phone with him. "Hey!" he whispered urgently, getting the blue-eyed man's attention, "Pick up. I think I got him!"

Martin put the mugs down and picked up the kitchen extension. He got out a pen and pulled the notepad closer.

"Yeah, who's asking?"

"My name is Daniel Taylor, I work for the F.B.I.. Are you the same Henry Mason that worked at the Hawley School?"

"What if I am?"

"You're not in trouble, sir, I am just trying to tie up loose ends in an old case."

"What old case?"

"One that involved a boy named Fitzgerald and a John Harrison who --"

"I can't talk about that!" he barked harshly, "And you could be some phone nut. How do I know you're an F.B.I. agent?"

"I'll give you my work number. You call and wait for the tape to give my extension. You listen for my voice."

Both agents had exchanged a startled look at the excited tone in the older man's voice. Martin was writing, and nodded for Danny to press him.

"Okay," Henry agreed, seeming to take the number down, "I'm gonna check this out."

Danny waited five minutes, then checked his voicemail and Mason was on it. He then redialed and the older man had calmed down.

"You want to talk about that night now?" Taylor pressed, "It's been over twenty years, sir, and we would like to close this case out. You gave statements to the police about finding an abandoned car that Harrison stole."

"That was a long time ago. I don't remember."

"I think you do," Danny's voice got hard, "You can do this easy and answer my questions here. Or I can fly out there. Covering up a felony is a serious crime and --"

"Yeah, yeah. Okay," The old man wheezed, "He promised me nobody would ever find out. He swore I'd never get in trouble, that arrogant bastard."

"Who?"

"The kid's father, Victor Fitzgerald."

Danny jerked his head to the kitchen and saw all the color leave Martin's face. He cradled the phone on his neck and snapped his fingers. He gave the shaken man a stern look.

His father? The last words he'd expected to hear. His father was there? How quickly? How was he involved? Why couldn't Martin remember? Why had the older man buried it all these years? He blinked when he saw Danny gesturing.

"You hold it together, understand!" he whispered and saw the head bob. "Start at the beginning, Mister Mason. Were you there the night of the storm?"

"Yeah, of course I was! I helped get the kids on the boat. Then I locked the place down, just as the power went out. Them boats damn near went down, it was an awful storm."

"So you were in the main house?"

"No, after lockdown I got to my own place."

"Go on."

"Well, I got a call later from the Seattle police. A boy was missing and his father was a big shot with the F.B.I. They had a record of him getting on the boat, but he never got off. It got tossed around pretty good and they thought he fell over. They couldn't do a search until the storm died down. They asked me to check the house."

"This was late on Wednesday night?" Danny asked.

"No, closer to morning, two a.m. maybe, during the night anyhow. I saw the broken windows and the back door busted open. I saw the muddy footprints -- big ones -- and blood stains. There was no power, but the cops had called me on my radio, so I ran back and called them. Told them what I saw. They said they couldn't get a boat out or a chopper up until the winds died down, but they'd be over as soon as they could. So I went back with a flashlight and starting searching. It's a huge mansion and I was alone, no light, it took time. I can't remember how long. Then I heard a child scream. Turned my blood cold. Went right through me. The echo -- it sounded like the scream came from within the walls. I ran and ran, but couldn't find him. I was in the kitchen when I heard the gunshot."

Danny's head shot up and he saw Martin's body jerk backwards, eyes wide with blue confusion. They were darting left and right, trying to find a picture, but the blank stare told him the void existed still.

"What happened then?" Danny urged.

"I ran down the stairs, flashing the light all around. I saw a bigger light, lying on the floor next to the body. There was blood all over."

"Harrison's body?"

"No, Fitzgerald's."

"Martin? The boy?" Danny's voice shot up and he saw his partner shaking his head and swaying. He caught the dazed man's eyes and silently questioned. Martin took a deep breath and nodded, pulling himself together.

"No, his father. That psycho cut him good with the knife."

Martin felt like he'd been gutshot. The new information hit him rapid fire and he wasn't ready for it. He thought hard and came up blank. How long had his dad been there?

"Harrison was there?" Taylor asked, keeping an eye on the dazed body in the kitchen.

"He was dead. Shot between the eyes." He sighed heavily. "That poor kid was shaking all over, the gun was still in his hands. I took it from him and wrapped my coat around him. He couldn't talk; he was like a zombie."

Danny's eyes went to the kitchen. It was empty. He jogged closer and saw Martin on the floor, staring at his trembling hands and shivering. He juggled the phone on his neck and grabbed the other man's neck, giving it a solid tug. He nodded to the phone and remained nearby until the shocked body rose.

Martin nodded and resumed his work. The words came but there was no picture. He couldn't remember anything. His father? How did that happen? He was dizzy and the room seemed to be moving. He dropped the pen and gripped the table. He heard Danny in the background and tried to concentrate.

"Go on, Mister Mason."

"Well, I grabbed the walkie-talkie the father was wearing to call for help, but he stopped me. He told me it was official F.B.I. business and I was to forget everything I saw. I asked him why? He didn't give an answer, but those icy eyes of his scared the shit out of me. He told me I would be paid well for my silence. That all that mattered was that Harrison was dead. He warned me again about keeping silent and I have, all these years. He told me to take my jacket and bring the boy over to him. Then I was to leave...and forget everything I saw. Why are you dragging this up now? I keep to myself, mind my own business. I don't want trouble."

"Mister Mason?"

"Who are you?" Henry frowned at the new voice, barely audible, "Speak up, I can't hear you."

"My name...I'm Martin...Fitzgerald. I'm that boy." His voice was ragged and raw. "Until now, I never knew what happened. I've been having violent dreams about that night. I needed the answer. Thanks."

"You did good, Mister Mason. We'll be in touch!" Danny promised, leaving the room briefly to hang the phone up. Just as he left the den he heard the sound of the extension drop. He jogged to the kitchen and his partner was passed out, his head on his arms at the table. He silently chastised himself, so caught up in the chase he'd forgotten about Martin's serious head injury.

"Martin? Martin?" He shook the body and got no reply. He shook harder, not liking the angle of the healing ribs. "WAKE UP! HEY!" He pulled the body back a little and tapped the face hard. Sandy brows furrowed and the mouth twitched and then two blue slits appeared.

"I zoned out?"

"Yeah. Time for bed, Harvard. I think you won't be having that dream anymore."

Martin sighed once, long and hard, before nodding slowly. He shook his head as the old man's words returned.

"I can't believe it. My dad was there...all these years, he never said."

"Looks like you won't be short of conversation material when you hook up in a couple weeks," the dark-eyed man noted. Then he frowned when the slim body shot back in the chair, eyes wide and a darting.

"What?" he asked.

"I killed him. Jesus, I shot that bastard."

"It sounds like you didn't have a choice, Martin." He rested his hand on the troubled agent's back. "I'd say you had a damn good reason for those nightmares." He saw a whirlpool of emotion churning in the sky eyes. "You and your dad need to put it all on the table. You need to tell him about that poem, about how disappointed you were."

"He should have told me!" Fitzgerald growled, slapping his palms on the table. He winced as his head and ribs protested simultaneously. "Who the fuck does he think he is!"

"A father," Danny said quietly, "maybe protecting his traumatized child. You harness that temper. You want to end up back in the hospital? I'm not gonna..." he sighed heavily, his own injured body protesting strongly.

"Whoa!" the host rose, grabbing the swaying body, "I'm sorry, Danny. I've let you push too hard."

"Between the two of us, we have maybe two or three working parts!" Danny teased of the pale body before him and the raspy voice, "Call it a night?"

"I'll give you a hand with the bed," Martin decided, following the other aching body to the spare room.

Slowly they got the futon bed pulled out and Martin found some sheets, a blanket and a couple pillows. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to corral all the words flying around in his head.

"Danny?"

"Yeah?" Taylor replied, sitting on the bed and gingerly taking his shoes off. He eyed the bag at his feet and frowned. "Damn."

"You forget your teddy bear?"

"I'll be missing her later," Taylor smiled wickedly, wagging his eyebrows evilly. "No, I put the pills down somewhere. They help me sleep."

"Aw, hell, Danny," the younger man winced, "I'm sorry. You're supposed to be resting. I shouldn't have --"

"Not to worry," the dark-haired man yawned, "I've got my relapse team in the wings."

"Your what?" Martin grinned, then stuck his head through the doorway, eyeing the living room. He spotted the missing prescription. He maneuvered carefully to the kitchen, getting a bottle of water.

"Here," he gave them over, watching the other man slide his body into the bed after taking his pills.

"Thanks!" Danny yawned, his eyes heavy.

"I think that's my line."

The would-be slumberer heard the catch in the other man's ragged voice and looked up. He managed a weak smile at the emotive eyes. He'd once read about a person's eyes being mirrors to their soul. That was so evident in his partner's sky blues.

"We're partners right?" He cocked his head and stuck out his good hand. "You'd do the same for me."

"Yeah," Martin snagged that hand, "I just wanted to say thanks for watching my back. You went above and beyond the call. I'm grateful."

"You won't be when you get my bill," Danny grinned, "I like a line of zeros."

"Get to sleep!" Martin tossed back, making his way to his own room.

Light.

He blinked hard and sat up, eyeing the bright stream of sun pouring through the windows. His healing body was stiff and sore. He eased himself up gingerly, letting his throbbing head settle. Despite that pain and the dull ache in his chest, he felt...rested. He eyed the clock in disbelief.

"Nine thirty?" he croaked, then thought hard. It had been well over a week since he's slept soundly. His body was in desperate need of that rest and he welcomed the healing sleep. He also craved a hot bath to take the edge off the aches, then a cup of black coffee and breakfast.

By the time he dragged his sated body from the tub, the water was chilled. The whole time he was soaking he tried to put the startling words in some kind of order. He tried hard, thinking and pushing, but nothing came back. Just that awful 'thump' and the hand on his neck. He was shaving, when image in the mirror faded and another appeared. Martin Fitzgerald wearing a boy's frightened face. The child's mouth parted in terror, one word piercing the air. "Daddy," he repeated, furrowing his brows. Was he calling to his father because he was scared or for another reason? Had he heard or seen the other man? Why couldn't he remember? He blinked the image away and finished his job.

"I was ready to check for a pulse," Danny greeted warmly, seeing the first signs of healing appear, "You pretty boys need too much work."

"Jealous?" Martin shot back, pouring a cup of coffee and taking his lactase. It helped his lactose intolerant system digest milk and milk products.

"I got some bagels from the place on the corner."

"You eat?" Martin queried.

"Maybe later."

Martin stuck his head in the doorway and saw the shadows under the eyes, on a pasty face.

"Nice face." He paused, watching the dark head recline against the sofa back. "You sick?"

A hand came up and wavered sideways, indicating a rocky stomach. "You heave, you leave."

"I'll try to remember that," he smiled gamely. "Go on and eat. I'm gonna chill here on the couch awhile."

He didn't remember falling asleep. He peeled an eye open, blinking past the afghan that now covered him. He saw a flurry of silver and blue on the television. Football. A game with the sound turned down. Football?

"Damn," he yawned, rubbing his eyes and reluctantly leaving the warm nest. He stood and stretched, glanced at his watch and realized it was nearly three p.m. He heard the soft tones of classical music playing and entered the spare room. He waited a few minutes, curious at the body perched near a workbench. He knew without closely looking that the job would be flawless. Fitzgerald wouldn't tolerate anything less than that. He was a perfectionist and the steady hands needed for this kind of job were akin to that. Danny's chocolate eyes moved to the shelf over the light brown head. He whistled in appreciation at the miniature replicas of famous masted ships that lined the shelves in the room.

"You feeling better?" Martin asked, without taking his eyes from his task.

"Yeah. Sorry about crashing like that."

"Why? You needed it."

Like the man he shared the room with, his thoughts were dominated by the extreme consequences of the night before. He hedged a moment, trying to gauge the profile he saw. He knew before his words left his lips, but he asked anyhow.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No." Martin paused and thought, "I need to sort a lot of shit out in my head and until I talk to him..." he flashed angrily, then buried it. He needed to heal, outside and in. A part of that process would be settled in a cabin in upstate New York. The other part was a few feet away. How do you thank someone for a healing gift? One that mended a long broken heart?

"But when I do..."

"You got it, partner," Danny exuded quietly. "They're beautiful," his dark eyes moved from ship to ship, some large and intricate, others small and sleek and just as fine.

"Thanks, my grandfather taught me," the craftsman nodded to the photo on the wall, "He was a helluva guy, a navy man all his life. He loved the sea." He picked up a piece of rigging and eyed the unfinished project. "He came to live with us when I was about ten. We were close."

"Damn, you needed a good meal even then," he teased of the skinny teenager in the photo. It was clear where the man got his emotive blue eyes. The handsome white-haired gent next to him housed the same orbs.

"He died about a year after that was taken. Losin' my mom took his fight away; the cancer took over."

"I'm sorry, brother, that had to be rough."

"Yeah."

Danny turned and watched the steady tool guide a piece of rigging into place. Then the body rose, winced and moved away from the bench.

"I learned a lot from that old man. I still hear his voice..."

Martin broke off his thought then and moved to a small shelf under the photo. It housed a single craft, and a familiar one. Danny watched how gingerly Martin handled the ship, not missing the raw emotion in his eyes. He followed the other man to the now folded up green futon and sat next to him. The slim fingers caressed the fine wood and the Seattle native's Adam's apple bobbed furiously.

"The Bounty," Danny read the name on the side of the ship. "Great flick, Mel Gibson and Anthony Hopkins."

"Helluva book," Fitzgerald agreed. "Ever read the transcripts of the trial?" he asked of the true story of Fletcher Christian and Captain Bligh.

"No."

"You should sometime." He smiled then, his mind wandering back in time. "It helps me to relax. Whenever I get upset or anxious, I work on 'em. He taught me that, he had such strong hands, such a rich voice." He eyed the shine on the deck of the famous craft and fingered the name on the side. "It was the first thing we did together, right after he came to stay."

"You did a helluva job," Danny complimented, then backed up a bit, when the fine treasure was placed on his knees. "Hey, don't. I could break it." He eased his hand behind it, just as the slow fought words came out.

"It's the most precious thing I own," Martin managed, still feeling his grandfather's proud smile. "He wasn't afraid to hug or ruffle your hair or just walk on the beach watching the tide. He told hundreds of stories about his adventures. He was funny as hell, too." He smiled then, recalling the booming laugh. "I still miss him," he sucked in a hard breath, "He was so damn proud of me. You have no idea how much that helped."

"Yeah, I do," Danny smiled. "Them eyes of yours never lie, partner!" He nodded thoughtfully, thinking on the words, "Thanks for sharing that. I'd love to have hoisted a pint with him."

"Well," Martin turned, locking eyes with the man he owed so much, "I think he'd like that too. So from me and Blackjack Martin..."

"Blackjack?" Danny laughed, "Gambler?"

"John Thomas Martin," Fitzgerald's voice rose in unequaled admiration, "Finest Captain on the seven seas...and he had just a little bit of a temper."

"Oh," Taylor nodded, his grin wide, "so you inherited more than those eyes from that old man?"

"I've been known to have flashes of the Martin temper on occasion."

"Yeah," Taylor drolled, "I think so!"

"I want you to have it," Martin ducked his head, "Sometimes thank you is just two skinny words."

"NO!" Danny nearly dropped the beautiful ship. "I couldn't take this! Martin, what you and that old man had was special. A lot of people live their whole lives without someone touching them like that. This is a part of him...of you...of that time." He handed it back, then rested a hand on the slumped shoulder. "Hey, the fact that you offered it..." he fisted his hand and tapped his heart, then nodded. He waited for the deep sigh to escape the other and chuckled. "Besides, you need to save that for little Harvard. It will look real nice in his bedroom next to his football trophies."

"Football?" Martin stood, laughed and put the ship back, "Not if takes after me."

"Not to worry, Uncle Danny has it all worked out. First we find you an Amazon goddess, six three, long legs and --"

"Uncle Danny?" Martin scowled, "Gettin' kind of familiar, aren't you?"

"Somebody has to show little Harvard the ropes," he winked, then pondered. "I don't see it."

"What?" Martin followed the curious gaze over the ships displayed.

"Well you've got some of history's finest sailing vessels," he smirked, "It should be right up there with the rest." He cocked his head and saw the half-smirk forming on the other man's lips.

"The S.S. Minnow." He quickly defended against the derisive snort. "Now that was a crew. Of course, I would have nearly drowned saving the women. CPR would have been necessary. First Maryanne, then Ginger..."

"You need some serious help. Olive Oyl, Wilma and Ginger." Martin shook his pained head.

"Me and Ginger would have made sweet music together," Taylor predicted, "I'd have her popping the sequins off that gown like nobody's business." He sighed, then thought again. "Of course, Maryanne could cook and I bet all that pie crust making gave her strong fingers. Be real handy for a massage in the moonlight." He turned at the snortlike chuckle and smacked the leg. "I didn't forget you partner, you and Mrs. Howell can talk shop. Lovey digs Ivy League dudes."

"Some partner," Fitzgerald laughed, and realized how good that felt. To be able to share memories and open up to a friend. He patted his grumbling stomach, "Your stomach up to food?"

Taylor stood up and eyed the clock. "We've got time for a quick snack before the girls come."

"Girls?" Martin's face screwed up.

"Yeah, you remember them. Soft and curvy, pliant in the right places and smelling fine!"

"What girls?"

"Then I'll take a quick shower and toss some clean clothes on. I'll work up a good flush, chicks love that."

"What girls?"

"Hey, you got any wine? Then again beer might be better with Chinese food."

"What girls?"

"These'll do." Danny took first salsa then nacho chips out from a cabinet. He thrust the bag at his perplexed host. "Hey, don't lose that!" he noted of the pale face and bruised eyes. "See, you got a scar too," he eyed the jagged cut in the hairline. "You dog, you. Nurse city!"

"What girls?"

The doorbell caused both to freeze in the foyer.

"Damn, it's later than I thought." Danny peered through the peephole into the hallway outside. "You keep them busy, while I'll take a quick shower," he relayed as he opened the door.

"No. Dammit to hell, Danny, WHAT GIR --"

"Ladies!" Taylor greeted warmly, then 'grimaced' rubbing his sling-coated shoulder.

"Danny you should be in bed!"

"Uh...uh..." Martin stammered as a tall, stunning, long-legged brunette entered and nearly engulfed his friend.

"I'm gonna hold you to that, later," Taylor murmured, accepting her kiss. He eyed the two large bags and inhaled the wonderful aroma. "Man, I'm starved."

"We weren't sure what you wanted, so we got plenty of everything."

Martin backed up a little when the second woman entered, her fine form filling out black boots, stockings, a black leather mini-skirt and a short leather jacket. His eyes went from one woman to the other, their features and bodies identical, save the hair. The lovely entangled with Danny had long tresses, her sister had a short, spiky haircut that framed her pretty face.

"You look just like her," he squeaked, "twins?"

"The lovely Denise," Danny cooed of his date, then nodded. "and the delicious Dominique."

"You can call me Nicki," she sighed, cupping the stammering man's chin. "Honey, I think we're gonna be good friends," she pressed, "real close."

"Uh...I...didn't know..." he fumbled noting his sweat pants and loose flannel shirt, suddenly aware of his bare feet. "I would have...Danny...Chinese?" He felt his face flush when the combination of the aroma of the food and the perfumed woman invaded him. His knees buckled a bit and he felt his mouth go dry.

"Head injury!" Danny whispered loudly, tapping his own head, "A bullet wound, bad one. He needs lots of tender care. He should be in bed. The doctor said he could pass out at any time."

"Oh, don't you worry, Honey," Nicki slipped her arm around his waist and propelled them into the living room. She sat him down on the sofa and took her jacket off. "I know CPR. The instructor said I had great lungs."

"Yes Ma'am," Martin croaked, eyes wide at the 'lung' swell encased in a tight red sweater, "I can see that."

"You girls keep my man Martin busy while I take a shower."

"How about we eat first and I give you a bath later when we get home?" Denise advised, whispering in the now flushed agent's ear.

"Aw, hell," Martin sucked in air noisily. "I, uh, need to get changed. I'll be," he stood and hoped his legs wouldn't give out, "right back. There's soda, wine...make yourself at home." He got to the foyer and glared, "Danny, can I talk to you!"

"Hey, she's great, huh?"

"How 'bout a little warning!" Martin spat back, pulling his closet open and taking out a pair of jeans.

"It was a surprise!"

He heard water running and realized Danny was washing up in the bathroom. He got changed quickly, ignoring the protests of his aching body.

"You can't go out there like that!" Fitzgerald eyed the semi-naked form, clad only in his sling and a pair of black boxers. His eyes narrowed on the hem. "Home of the whopper? Modest too!"

"My bag's in the other room," he paused, his brows wrinkling. One hand came out, feeling Martin's sweatshirt. "Did you iron that?" He saw the chagrined face and howled. "You did! It's a sweatshirt. You don't iron that." He clapped the now grinning man on the back lightly. "Man, you're gonna wear me out. Fish on pizza and puttin' metal to sweatshirts. I've got a lot of work to do on you."

"I guess we have plenty of time," Martin paused with a soft smile, "partner."

"Now, you're cooking with gas!" Danny exuded.