Chapter 12:  A Desperate Plan

Jack wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected, but it wasn't the one he got. He had spoken in a burst of indignant anger, impulsively, now he wished he had spoken wisely instead and held his breath as Williams just stared at him, his face unreadable. There was a long, painful pause, during which Jack felt perspiration soak the roots of his hair and wondered if throwing himself between Steve and the next bout of violence would really help anything.

But when Williams finally spoke, his hands were still hanging by his sides. "I need it," he pointed out sulkily.

Jack drew in a deep mental breath. Phew. Okay. So they were still alive. For now. "You need…?" he ventured tentatively.

"The Prozac." Williams tone was eminently reasonable. "It's part of it. An important part. He doesn't have it on him. I need it."

"Oh. Well…" Jack slid a glance at Steve, itching to examine him more thoroughly and offer some relief. But first he needed to keep Williams from popping off again and doing further damage. He hesitated. Somehow, he didn't think that admitting that the whole thing was just a mix up and that Steve had never ordered through Medi-Quick at all would increase their survival chances. Somehow, he couldn't quite picture Williams apologizing 'my bad' and sending them both home. "Maybe he doesn't take it any more." Williams just stared at him and he continued hastily, "I mean, it's not like insulin or the asthma medication - it's not for a chronic condition. It's just temporary. You take it until you don't need it any more and then you just stop. Maybe Steve stopped."

Williams frown deepened and Jack braced himself for the next onslaught, but after a pause that felt about two weeks long Williams continued seriously, "I didn't know that. What causes it?" Now it was Jack's turn to stare and he elucidated, "I mean, what causes the depression?"

"Oh." Jack reached up to rub at his head, his eyes skittering to Steve again, more urgently this time. "Uh…lots of things…stress…" The world around him seemed to take on a surreal slant - trapped in this airless room, extolling the clinical applications of Prozac to a homicidal maniac while Steve shivered and bled on the bed behind him - but if it kept Williams calm and distracted… "Uh…in times of unusual stress, the body doesn't produce enough serotonin, and, uh…the body responds with…" he gestured nervously, wishing he could sit down - wishing he dared to move at all. "Well, Prozac substitutes…I mean, it stimulates…" he broke off. "What's funny?"

Williams was grinning. "I would have thought I was keeping him plenty stressed enough."

"Oh, heh heh." Jack brayed a short, unconvincing laugh. His fists clenched automatically, but he successfully suppressed the urge to swing. Later, Jack, he promised himself. Right now that won't help anybody. "Well, maybe he just forgot to renew it."

Williams' frown returned. "I need it," he repeated, then sighed, his gaze drifting to the bed where Steve lay, breathing shallowly. Jack braced himself, but Williams seemed calm enough - almost eerily sentimental. "I was going to make this one special, too," he explained. "You know - because he almost figured it out." He smiled.

Jack felt a rush of nausea that had nothing to do with his lingering concussion. He swallowed it down and managed a wavering smile. "Well, maybe you still can, huh? I mean, all you need is the Prozac and a couple of more days, right?"

Williams gave him the indulgent, pitying look people usually reserved for small, slow children. "It has to be right," he pointed out patiently. "I need the medication, and I need it delivered by Medi-Quick. Prescribed to him." He sighed again. "Now I have to start over."

The floor seemed to tilt under Jack's feet; the perspiration at his hairline spread to chill the back of his neck. "No, no you don't - " he insisted rapidly. God, he needed to make sure the guy had a reason to keep them alive!"I mean, why waste all your hard work? All you need is a prescription, right? Well, I'm a doctor. I could write Steve a prescription for Prozac." Williams expression shifted to one of intense interest and he hurried on, "I mean, I don't have my prescription pad with me, but I could phone one in. I could even do it through Medi-Quick - Steve already has an account there, right?"

Williams chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "I don't have much money left…"

"Hey, no problem - " Stalling, stalling…"I could pay for it. Or - say - " He tried to keep his expression bland and pleasant as a new idea arrowed through him. "Or Steve could. He probably has his credit cards on him." The police would be watching for any activity on Steve's cards by now, wouldn't they? And a prescription for Prozac under Steve's name and through Medi-Quick should set off alarms all over the place. "That would be even better, right? If Steve paid for it? That would set everything right again, huh?" He forced a stiff attempt at a bright smile and waited, hardly daring to breathe. With a little luck, Williams would get so caught up in fulfilling his pattern that he'd be a little less careful. Most serial killers made mistakes eventually, didn't they? As the drive got more urgent? He clambered frantically through his brain, trying to remember clearly what Steve had said about that.

Finally Williams interrupted his thoughts. "You'd do that?"

"Sure." Jack was certain his lips would snap under the effort of keeping them pinned in a smile while his heart was all but hammering against his teeth. "Just get me a phone."

Williams nodded, suddenly brisk. "Yeah. That's good. I've got a cell phone. Can't be traced."

Damn it. "Great." 

Williams nodded again, his expression now distant, as though caught in some fantasy of his own. Jack didn't even want to try to imagine what about.

A faint groan from the bed made them both glance that way, and Jack winced as he noted the color of Steve's skin. Enough fun and games. He needed to do something, and soon, or one life would already be forfeit. Okay, Jack. Steady. "Say, look, I need something from you, though…"

Williams' air of pleasant camaraderie evaporated abruptly, replaced by one of grim suspicion. "What?" he grated.

"Hey, hey - easy - " Jack held up his hands. "I just want some water to clean up his wound - hot if you have it - and a blanket. Nothing big."

Williams frown deepened. "I gave him water."

"Yeah, well," Jack struggled to swallow down the indignation that surged into his throat and to keep his smile engaging. "That's great," his voice sounded hollow to his own ears, "but he needs lots of liquids - y'know - blood loss? And I need to wash that wound and pack it to stop the bleeding."

Williams shifted. He didn't look happy. "Okay…" he conceded reluctantly at last. "I'll get water and the phone."

"And a blanket." Jack held up a hand again as Williams' face darkened. "Look, you can see the guy's freezing and it will help ward off shock. C'mon, you want him to last a couple of more days, right? So everything's perfect?"

Williams stared at Steve for a moment, and Jack felt himself tense, but finally Williams just nodded sullenly. "He's turned out to be a lot of trouble," he grumbled. "That first aid kit cost me almost two hundred dollars."

Jack's grin froze in place and he held himself carefully, not quite sure he could keep from slugging the guy this time. "So, it would be a real shame to waste all that, right?" he forced out between his teeth.

Williams stuck out his lip, but he nodded. "There's a blanket in the First aid kit," he conceded. "I'll get the water."

Jack jerked what he hoped was a jaunty nod. Williams gestured him closer to the bed and carefully opened the door and slipped out. Jack heard the lock click into place behind him. He dropped abruptly to the floor and rested his head on his knees.

God, his head was killing him. Who knew that having a conversation could be so exhausting? But it felt more like dancing on a high wire. One false step and he went down and took Steve down with him. And that wasn't going to happen. Not over his dead…okay, scratch that. Bad choice of analogy.

He let his head drop back against the bed and felt it brush against Steve's hand. Steve stirred, but didn't make a sound. Jack reached up automatically and touched the hand, drew in his breath on a hiss at the heat he felt there. All right, Stewart – enough lazing around. You've got a patient who could use a little attention. He sat up straight again, moving carefully to keep the room from doing any of those funny dips and swoops, and reached for the first aid kit. He spotted the sealed bag labeled "thermal blanket" and ripped it open and reached inside.

"Hey, how ya doin', man?" he tossed over his shoulder while he worked. "Look what I got for ya. I know it doesn't look like much but, believe me, it's gonna help." Not surprisingly, there was no answer. He shook out the blanket and carefully unbent his knees. He tucked the blanket over Steve and rested a hand on his face again, grimaced and shook his head. Crap.

He spotted an abandoned water bottle on the floor by the bed with a couple of inches still in the bottom and picked it up, poking through the kit with his other hand. "See what I got here for ya? Aspirin. These are gonna help a lot. Bring your temperature down a little, kill some of the pain…well, take the edge off, anyway…" He tore the envelope containing two aspirin with his teeth and settled on the edge of the bed, tucking his knee under Steve's good shoulder to prop him up a little. Resting Steve's head against his chest, he poked the two pills between his lips and held his jaw closed, massaging his throat lightly. "Come on now, help me out here. No IV, so I need you to swallow. Good boy…" He felt Steve's throat convulse under his fingers and lifted the bottle to Steve's mouth. "Have a little of this to wash it down. That's better. Boy, those looked so good that I think I'll have a couple myself."

He took his own dry in case Williams neglected to follow through on the water, wanting to save what little he had for Steve. Of course, that speck wasn't enough to do much good, but he was determined to do everything he could anyway. He patted Steve's good shoulder under the blanket and lowered him flat again. "Now, I'm gonna try and clean out that wound with what I got to work with here and that's probably gonna hurt a little, but believe me, it'll feel better in the long run, okay?" Again, there was silence in answer, but Jack found the sound of his own voice comforting. He rummaged through the kit again and pulled out a pair of scissors, gazing regretfully at the blunted ends. Too bad. Would've made a good weapon. He poked through some more, collecting things – alcohol pads and emergency dressings and wound closing strips – then moved to Steve's injured side and peeled back the blanket. The blood soaking the sleeve and jacket and bed was more than he wanted to think about, considering that he wouldn't be able to replace any of it, so he tried to focus on the broad tear in the sleeve. The fabric stuck to the wound at spots, so he grabbed his scissors and began to cut the sleeves lengthwise, first the jacket, then the shirt. "This might hurt just a little bit more than I said – " He laid both sleeves open, took a deep breath and pulled, closing his eyes tight when Steve jerked with a muted howl of protest. "Yeah, okay, maybe a lot more." He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, one hand instinctively keeping pressure on the wound. "But that was the worst of it. Promise."

He irrigated the wound with the little bit of water he had, clucking his tongue at the threads of cloth he could still see clinging there. When he had picked out everything he could without making things worse, he damped a pad with alcohol and pressed it against the deep, open furrow the wound made across Steve's shoulder. With a faint, inarticulate cry, Steve stiffened, his eyes flying open. Jack made soothing noises, but added a second alcohol-soaked pad on top of the first.  Steve's eyes widened, then slowly rolled back in his head. He went limp.

Jack ran a sleeve over his own face to mop away the perspiration drenching it, then patted at Steve's face with one of the gauze pads. "Yeah, I know – " he muttered apologetically. "The worst being over thing was another lie. Sorry."

There was a rattling at the door and he looked up as Williams pushed it open. He was carrying a couple of bottles of water and a cell phone. Jack was still feeling unnerved by Steve's suffering and what he knew were his wholly inadequate efforts to treat him and burst out impatiently before he could stop himself, "Where's the hot water?"

"I figured that would take too long. This is good enough."

"Too long!" Jack stood, a little more quickly than he should have, he decided, when the walls wavered. "We've got four days! How long does it take to boil a little water?"

The cold, dispassionate look Williams skewered him with made him bite down quickly on his tongue before any more unwise words could escape. "I don't need him healthy, Doc," he pointed out coolly. "I just need him alive."

Jack tried to get his galloping emotions in hand. "Well, you're taking a heck of a chance," he grumbled. Then, sharply, as Williams took a step toward Steve, "What are you doing?"

Williams tossed him a rerun of the pitying, simpleton child look. "Checking for his credit cards."

"Oh," Jack let out a relieved breath. "Better let me do it. I just got him settled." And he's out like a light, but I'll be damned if you're touching him again, you sick creep. Gently, he peeled back the blanket. Steve was left handed, so he probably kept his wallet in the left-hand back pocket of his trousers…he slid his hand underneath Steve, trying to disturb him as little as possible, smiling a little in spite of everything. And it's just as well you're out cold, pal, or I'd be in danger of getting slugged for this. Well, don't worry – you're really not my type. And I never grope and tell. He tugged the wallet carefully free. Before he could even straighten, Williams snatched it from his hand, opening it and studying the contents with rapt attention.

"Look! A gold card!"

Jack forced his eyes firmly back to Steve to stop himself from grabbing the wallet back. He felt violated for his friend, watching this weirdo paw through his personal belongings, but he figured that was something Steve would be able to survive, no matter how galling. The gunshot wound he was less sure about.

"We'll use this one."

Jack glanced up to see Steve's driver's license and Police ID and a couple of other credit cards spread out on the wooden chair, looked quickly away. His stomach roiled again, and he wasn't sure if it was the concussion or the circumstances. He patted the gauze lightly over Steve's forehead, using the direct contact to remind himself that there was a good reason to keep hold of his temper. "If you know the phone number, I'll place the prescription. Adding an antibiotic would be a good idea, too. He could really use it."

"No," Williams sounded cross. "It has to be the same as before. Just the same."

"Maybe under a separate order – "

"No!"

Jack sighed. It had been worth a shot. He heard the faint beeping of a number speed dialing and arranged the thermal blanket around Steve's neck, eyes fixed on his face. Just hang on, man – I'm trying to call the cavalry. A cell phone was thrust under his nose, and he took it, pushing it against his ear.

A brisk, professional voice announced, "Medi-Quick." Jack took a deep breath and began his order.

"Go home, Doctor." Captain Blackwell's voice was unyielding, though not unkind. "Believe it or not, we do know what we're doing. Go home and get some rest. I'll be in touch as soon as we know something." He strode purposefully toward the glassed in office, leaving a clear message that the conversation was over in his wake.

Mark had to hustle hard to catch up. "Then maybe you could let me take the files with me? A connection occurred to me that I think could be important. If you'd let me take the files for Denver and St. Louis – " Captain Blackwell didn't even break his stride, but Mark continued doggedly, "I'll keep you apprised of anything I discover. I'm certain I'm right. I just need to see – "

Captain Blackwell did not slow down, but this time he sighed. "You're grasping at straws, Doctor. Go home and let us do our job."

For a second Mark's face sagged, deepening the lines of sorrow and exhaustion. It was more than Amanda could take.

"You aren't even listening," she accused. "Twenty-three people are dead and you're just standing around, waiting for it to become twenty-four! I can't believe that at this point you wouldn't be willing to listen to just about anything that might help! To follow any possible connection and lead, no matter how faint, even if it happens to come from a civilian! Especially when the twenty-fourth is one of your own men!"

The Captain stopped walking so abruptly that it was all Amanda could do to keep from careening into him. The look he pinned her with was so cold and steady that for a second she wished that she had taken Mark and gone home – then she remembered the stakes and set her jaw defiantly, stiffening her shaking knees and staring back.

"I care very much about the fate of all my men, Dr. – Bentley, isn't it?"

Amanda shivered involuntarily at his tone's frigid edge. "That's right." She hated the little tremble that invaded her voice, but stood her ground anyway.

"I take the safety of the men under my protection very seriously. I take the safety of the citizens under my protection very seriously. I do not, even for one second, ever forget that is paramount. And because I take it so seriously, Dr. Bentley, it is vital that I focus; sift through thousands of clues to separate the dross from the gold and to act, without getting distracted by distraught, though well-meaning, amateurs who are too easily led astray by their emotions."

"Now, we are conducting this investigation as quickly and accurately and thoroughly as we can, and believe it or not, we employ a tried and true methodology, backed by the most current technology, that has proven successful time and time again. If you feel that you have any relevant leads or suggestions, you are more than welcome to leave them with the lead investigators for follow up. Be my guest. Then go home."

"But you still haven't caught him yet. And your lead investigator is missing." Even Amanda was shocked at the temerity of her outburst, but she couldn't quite bring herself to back down. She crossed her arms over her chest to hide the way they were shaking and tried to look confident.

The shadow that passed over Captain Blackwell's face told her that she had struck a nerve. The gaze he turned on her this time was one that had frozen many a scarred veteran officer in his tracks, but Amanda didn't drop her stare, praying that he couldn't see how scary she found him.

Blackwell's brows lifted the slightest bit when she didn't budge, then he opened his mouth to retort. Amanda expected a burly police officer to arrive any second to escort them out, and was trying to decide whether or not she should put up a fight, when a voice broke in.

"Captain?"

Frowning at the interruption, Blackwell glanced over his shoulder, scanning the Squad Room. His eyes stopped on a young officer staring intently at his computer screen. "Rutgers?" he prompted, a little impatiently.

Rutgers' eyes never left the screen. "I'm showing activity on one of Sergeant Sloan's credit cards."

Captain Blackwell was across the room and by his side in two strides. "What?" he demanded.

"Where?"

"Captain?" A voice from another part of the Squad Room snagged his attention before Rutgers could answer, and they all swiveled their heads to locate another officer holding a telephone receiver, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. "I have Medi-Quick on the line. They just received an order for a prescription delivery for Sgt. Sloan – for Prozac."

"Well, looks like it's just you and me, pal." Jack stretched out his legs along the dusty floor. His seat on the old boards was relatively comfortable, and he had a feeling that the lone wooden chair was not. He leaned his head back against the bed. "So, how do you usually pass the time in these kinds of situations? I didn't think to grab a deck of cards when I was being abducted, so can't even play solitaire here in captivity. And I already read the warranty for the First aid kit. Twice. Riveting stuff." He was used to his one-sided conversation by now. He figured that even if Steve couldn't respond, in whatever state of unconsciousness he was enjoying he might recognize a familiar voice and find it comforting. Besides, it passed the time. And if he could pass the time and not think too much, then he wouldn't have an opportunity to focus on the fact that he was terrified.

"So, how's that aspirin doing, huh? You seem a little cooler. Not that that's saying anything, I guess. You know, I don't think I'd make much of a battlefield doctor? I'm really missing all the big machines and miracle drugs and handy equipment. Not to mention the cute nurses. And I kind of miss knowing for sure that I'm not introducing some hideous infection every time I touch a patient. I think you're headed for a doozy, by the way. Williams wouldn't let me get you an antibiotic. I did try. Sorry." He was more than sorry, he was sick with anger about it, but he didn't see that explaining that would help anything. "Anyway, nothing to read, nothing to do – not even a pen so I can make some of those prisoner's hash marks on the walls, huh? Williams is off to pick up the Prozac, and we're just sittin' here. Seems like at the very least we should be trying to escape."

"Sounds…good."

The voice was so low and unexpected that for a minute Jack was sure his mind was playing tricks on him. He turned to look at the long figure stretched out on the bed, noticed that he could make out a sliver of blue between the heavy lids. "Steve?" he ventured hesitantly. He watched Steve's Adam's apple bob in a swallow.

"What…exactly did you have in mind?"

"Steve!" Jack crowed. This time there was no mistaking it, even though the voice was faint and feeble. He felt a rush of relief - not only because Steve talking seemed like a good sign, but because someone to share the situation with, hopeless as it was, somehow made it a little less frightening. He picked up the thermometer and swung around on his knees, studying Steve's face more closely. "How do you feel, man? Scratch that, stupid question. Here – take this for a minute –" He slid the slender wand into Steve's mouth and waited, then removed it, tilting it to the meager light to get a better look. He made a face. Still not great. But a little better. At least Steve seemed lucid. "Well, that's more like it!" He smiled with forced cheer.

The look Steve gave him told him that he wasn't fooling anyone. "Williams?" he whispered.

Jack frowned as the word ended on a long, sighing breath. Blood loss. Not good. "He's out fetching the Prozac from Medi-Quick. I don't know where – he did that part of the order himself. I was sort of hoping he'd have them deliver it here, but I guess he's not that dumb."

Steve gave a small nod. "How long…?"

"Don't know. But I think he'd want them as far away from here as possible, don't you?"

Steve shifted his head in a gesture that Jack figured was meant to simulate a shrug, then scraped at the mattress with his heels, struggling for a grip with his left hand.

"No – no – none of that – " Jack was on his feet in an instant. "I'll get you whatever you want, but just lie still, okay? I finally got that bleeding slowed down. You don't need to start it up again." He pushed gently at the center of Steve's chest to keep him in place.

Steve closed his eyes and took another slow breath. He opened them again and looked around him. "So…what's the plan…?"

"Plan? I don't have a plan! I thought you'd have a plan - you're the detective!"

Steve breathed a short laugh. "And you're the one who wanted to…play detective. How…do you like it so far…?"

Jack peered under the blanket at the fresh bandages, checking for new bleeding. "I liked it fine until they started with the guns. I'm not liking the guns."

"Yeah." Steve's eyes dropped closed. "I hear that." Jack thought he was out again, but after a second he murmured, without opening his eyes, "No knob. Hinges on the…other side of the door…"

Jack was arranging the sling he had found in the first aid kit. "I know. I hope you didn't mean that to be good news?" He thought he almost saw Steve smile.

"Hinges on the other side…good for…kicking…door swings out…"

Jack sat back on his haunches, letting his elbows rest on the bed next to Steve. "You guys really do that stuff? I mean, that really works?"

Steve gave a quick grimace of pain, shifting uncomfortably. "On…knob locks. Not…deadbolts."

"Yeah, well, I don't know what kind of lock he's got on it. What do you do for a deadbolt?"

Steve sighed, trying to grab a breath. "Shoot it."

"Oh, great. What, do they actually teach a class in this stuff or something? Television police tactics 101?"

"Something…like that…"

Jack snorted. "That's the problems with you cops. No finesse."

Steve hunched deeper into the thermal blanket. "…Better…ideas…?"

"What, better than kicking? Which neither one of us is really up to right now? Anything would be better. Why, was a time in my life I could've made my way through any lock around with only…" His eyes fell on the wooden chair, which was still covered with Steve's credit cards and ID and the first aid kit scissors. He trailed off, suddenly thoughtful.

The silence went on for so long that Steve opened his eyes and turned his head toward him. "…Jack…?"

Jack absentmindedly patted the closest knee under the blanket, still studying the paraphernalia on the chair. "You know what, my friend? I think we may be about to benefit from the ill gotten knowledge of my misspent youth."

A silence followed the officer's announcement, then Captain Blackwell snapped to attention. "Briefing in five! And I'll need a volunteer to be the Medi-Quick delivery man!"

"I'll do it, sir."

Captain Blackwell identified the voice of Officer Fischer and nodded approvingly. "Well, you'd be perfect, Fischer, except for one thing."

Officer Fischer's face fell. "Sir?"

The Captain looked sympathetic. "He's seen you, Fischer. He's knows you're a cop. Maybe he wouldn't recognize you, but that's a chance we can't afford to take. I'm sorry."

Fischer nodded, crestfallen.

"What about me?"

Blackwell's eyes traveled to Saul Elliot, his brows lifted slightly in surprise. "A little long in the tooth to be a delivery boy, aren't you, Elliot?"

Saul stood up straight. "The mean age of the average Medi-Quick delivery person is thirty-two, Captain, with the youngest being eighteen and the oldest fifty-four. Sixty-seven percent are male. Thirty-three percent are female. While the largest percentage are of Latino descent, a significant portion are also Caucasian or African American."

Blackwell's brows rose the tiniest bit further. "Been doing your homework."

"Yes, sir. I think I'm well prepared for the job."

Blackwell studied him. "You understand how crucial this assignment is, Elliot. It has to be done clean, without any guilt or need for redemption clogging up the works. If you can't keep your head, tell me now. Sloan shouldn't be sacrificed as a sop to your conscience."

Saul reddened, but met the captain's eyes steadily. "No, sir. I just think I'm the best choice for the job."

"You haven't appeared at any of the crime scenes? Remember, Williams was taking pictures. If he could have seen you then I can't risk it."

Elliot shook his head. "No, sir. I haven't."

Blackwell nodded slowly. "Then you have an assignment. I want everyone in the briefing room, please." He turned, suddenly remembering his two guests. "Dr. Sloan, as you heard, we have a significant lead. I promise you, I'll be in touch."

Mark had been staring straight ahead with his mouth slightly ajar, thoughts racing behind his eyes, trying to organize them into coherent, useful order, but now he blinked and faced the Captain squarely.

"Yes," he agreed calmly, but definitely. "You will. Because I'm going with you."

"Admit it. You're impressed."

"Dazzled… B&Es always…impress me."

"You're just jealous cause I did it without any of those He-man tactics." Jack's smile grew to a grin as he gently swung the door to and fro. "Slick as a whistle. No kicking, no shooting. You cops could learn something from felons." He put down the scissors and credit card and moved to the bed quickly despite his joking tone, sliding a supporting arm behind Steve, who was struggling to sit up.

Steve leaned into him, panting. "Very smooth," he conceded breathlessly. "Worth at least…two to five."

Jack eased him upright, helping him shift his legs so that they hung over the side of the bed. "You think that's good? You should see me jack a car."

"Don't ever…show me that," Steve clung to Jack's shirt with his good hand, digging his teeth into his lower lip as he rose slowly to his feet. Once he was standing, he paused again to find his balance. "I'd hate…to have to arrest you."

"Oh, it would only be a demonstration…" Jack kept his tone light as he guided him toward the door, trying not to think about how grey Steve's face had gone. "Don't suppose we'll be able to hail a cab? Or, it's gotta be getting close to dark by now. Maybe we can just hide out."

Steve didn't answer this time, grabbing the door lintel for support, and Jack glanced at his face once more, then at the bright new red blotch blossoming on the white bandage. He frowned. They may have the door open, but they were still a long way from freedom. And this didn't look too promising. "Come on," he coaxed encouragingly, "Just a couple of steps." Okay, a lot of steps, but let's think positive. Steve was sagging heavily against him and Jack tightened his grip on his waist, trying not to wince. It didn't help that he wasn't in the best condition himself. He shook his head. Hell of an escape. The gimp leading the gimp.

They reached the top of the stairs and Jack stared down them. He didn't remember them looking quite so long when he had come up with Williams…he cleared his throat. "Watch your step - these are a little steep…" Steve stumbled on the first step, but seemed to make the second all right. Jack glanced at him again and tried to take more of his weight. God, it looked like he was about ready to pass out. Don't pass out here, Steve, this would be a really bad place…He jerked unexpectedly as Steve missed a step and clutched at him for balance. For a horrible second Jack was sure they were going to tumble down the stairs together in a tangle of arms and legs, then he managed to dig his shoulder into the wall and his elbow into the stair rail and stood, steadying them and rediscovering his equilibrium. His arm and shoulder were drenched with Steve's sweat and he could feel him trembling violently against him. "Okay, okay, let's take a second…" He gingerly lowered Steve to a stair and sat down beside him, trying to get a better look. Steve had his hand over his face and was rubbing it back and forth as though that could somehow bring him a higher level of alertness. When he looked up, Jack didn't like what he saw in his eyes. "You okay?" he asked uneasily.

Steve watched him steadily, measuringly, and Jack pulled out one of the water bottles he had stuck in his jacket pocket. "Here - take a swallow of this - it'll help."

Steve obediently took a drink, then let the bottle dangle from his hand. He had a thoughtful, peculiar expression that Jack couldn't quite read. "I can't do it, Jack," he said quietly at last.

Jack gritted his teeth. "Sure you can," he insisted with forced cheer, slipping his arm around his waist again and preparing to rise. "You just needed a little rest. Now come on." Steve didn't budge, and Jack had to admit to himself that for such a lean man, he sure was hard to lift. "Come on, Steve - " his voice grew more urgent. "Don't be a baby. We gotta move."

Steve rubbed a hand across his forehead, but his eyes were surprisingly calm, if a little unfocused. "You have to. You have to…get help."

Jack ignored him, hooking a hand through his belt and trying to heft him upright without hurting him. "Uh uh. No way. We go together. Now come on. We can't waste time."

"Right. So…go."

Jack wanted to shake him. "I'm not leaving you, so don't even think about it. Come on - you can do this. Let's move it." Steve slumped into the wall, shook his head. Jack's hands clenched into fists.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his good hand cradling his injured arm, and Jack felt a frisson of alarm. "Hey, come on man, don't pass out - you still with me? We gotta get going."

"…know…I'm right…"

Jack turned his head away, staring down the steep bank of stairs. He did know it - had seen all the signs that Steve's trying to press on would be every bit as deadly to him as staying, knew that he couldn't possibly manage the length of the attic stairs, followed by the house stairs, then the street, for God knew how long. And Jack probably couldn't manage carrying him, even if he'd been a hundred percent. He wasn't. He ground his teeth against each other. "I'm not leaving you," he croaked stubbornly.

Steve eyes fluttered for a second, then he took a deep breath and forced them open again. "Jack, I'm not…trying to be a hero here. I'd like to live. Figure…you're the best shot for both of us." He squinted at him through fever-clouded irises.

Jack hesitated. He was keenly aware of the fleeting time, but he couldn't seem to make himself move. His heart beat a frantic tattoo. Don't make me do this, don't make me, don't make me…

Steve sighed and touched his arm. "Here's…what I'm thinking…" he whispered slowly, "…one of these rooms…a bathroom maybe…must have an inside…door lock. I can…bunker inside…locked…maybe he won't even realize I'm not gone. If he does, it will still take him some time to break…in. Give you time to ride to …the rescue…" Steve broke off abruptly, panting and spent from his long speech.

Jack reached up automatically to blot his face. "That's not bad," he admitted reluctantly. Steve smiled a little. Jack pressed his fingers lightly against the pulse in Steve's neck and counted, then swore. He kicked the wall, immediately regretted it. He glared at the stairs under his feet. "You'll lock yourself in?"

Steve nodded.

Jack squirmed. "And if I leave you the water, you'll drink it? Every time you think of it. Even if you think you don't need it."

Steve took a deep breath. "I'll - do whatever. Now go. You're…wasting time."

"Let me get you settled first."

"Jack - "

"Then promise me you'll really lock yourself in! There has to be a bathroom on the next floor…" He could feel that Steve's temperature was on the rise again and wished he'd had the forethought to pocket more of the aspirin.

Steve nodded wearily. "…go…"

Jack rose shakily to his feet. "You promise?"

Steve nodded again.

Jack swore again, his stomach burning as though something was tearing at his insides. He took a step, felt a faint tug on his sleeve and looked down. Steve was grasping it lightly in his fingers.

"Jack - my Dad - "

"Oh, no - " Jack jerked his sleeve away. "Oh, no, you don't. Don't you dare ask me to give him a message or to look out for him or whatever you have in mind, because the answer is no."

Steve dropped his hand. "Just…in case…"

Jack shook his head fiercely. "Uh uh. I'm not gonna do it, Steve. I'm not. If you want to tell Mark something or want someone to look after him, then you'd just better make up your mind to live through this thing, cause I'm not gonna do it for you. Think about that if you get any ideas about cashing in your chips before I can get back to you." He felt Steve's forehead and forced the water bottle into his hand. "Don't wait too long to hide yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can. I mean it, Steve - I'm comin' back - and if I find you dead, I'll never forgive you."

A suggestion of a smile slid over Steve's face.

Jack smiled reluctantly in return. "You want help getting to your feet?"

Steve nodded.

Jack cautiously guided him to his feet, helping him use the wall for support. He squeezed his uninjured arm. "You take care, man."

Steve gave him a weak thumb's up. Jack started down the stairs, turned at the bottom, his heart savaged by the sight of the lone figure stumbling uncertainly in slow motion down the staircase, pushing heavily against the wall. He dug his nails into his palms. Steve is right. It's his only chance. It's your only chance. So do it.

"I'll be back," he insisted, then headed down the hall to the next set of stairs. "I'll be back," he repeated under his breath. "I promise."

Mark leaned against the ambulance, his eyes watching the smudge of smoke still mushrooming over the building. Fire engines, ambulances, paramedic vans, criss-crossed the asphalt and lapped onto the sidewalk, straddling pools of puddling water, making the street virtually impassable. Everything seemed under control now. Well. Almost everything. He hung his head.

"I'm sorry, Doctor." He didn't bother to look up at the sound of Captain Blackwell's voice, just nodded numbly. He knew he was sorry - knew they were all sorry. It just didn't change anything. "He was ready for us, that's for sure. Whole thing was just a distraction. His playing field. Again."

"But the potential loss of life was still real," Mark murmured. He remembered the sight of the sudden fireball on the roof of the bustling Jewish Community Center at one end of the block, the almost simultaneous burst of flame from the 24 hour copy store at the other end, the one that was always crowded with college students pulling late nights to finish their papers, shuddered. This man truly did not care who he killed, or how many.

"We're sending an investigator in, but we're pretty sure it's arson. Time delayed, maybe."

Mark nodded tiredly. "Not hard to do. Plenty of homemade options." Brilliant, really. Police were emergency personnel and had immediately left their posts to respond. Other emergency vehicles had poured into the area. By the time the crisis was over and the confusion somewhat settled, Detective Elliot had been found, unconscious, his package gone. Mark glanced at him, seated in the open ambulance door while someone treated the gash on the back of his head. He looked despondent, humiliated. Despite everything, Mark's heart went out to him. "It wasn't your fault," he offered quietly. "There was nothing you could have done. You're lucky to be alive."

Elliot's face told him that he felt anything but lucky as he stared at the hands dangling limply between his knees. "I never even saw him," he confessed. "I couldn't even tell you what happened. One minute I was on my way to deliver, and the next…" he trailed off unhappily. "He's sure playing us for chumps."

Mark watched the crowds of survivors that had been evacuated from the burning buildings - families and young children and senior citizens who had gathered for innocent entertainment - and tried to conceive of such a wanton disregard for human life. He failed. He sucked in his breath.

"There is some good news," he insisted determinedly. Elliot met his eyes doubtfully, and he explained, "We know he's still alive. He wouldn't be bothering with the Prozac if he weren't. There'd be no point."

Elliot seemed to digest this, then nodded slowly, his expression lightening the tiniest bit. Mark felt Amanda squeeze his arm reassuringly, and patted her hand lightly in return. He frowned suddenly. "Detective Elliot."

"Saul. Please."

"Saul." Mark screwed up his face, thinking. "Are you still taking Prozac?"

Elliot started to shake his head, was stopped by the firm hands of the ambulance attendant and instead said, "No. Not for a while. My doctor told me I'd wake up one morning and decide that I just didn't need it any more, and that's what happened. Finished it not too long ago. They like you to come off of it gradually."

Mark furrowed his brow. "So your prescription lapsed."

Captain Blackwell was watching him, trying to follow his train of thought. "What are you getting at, Doctor?"

Mark looked at him directly for the first time, his face filling with growing dread. "Steve doesn't take Prozac," he pointed out. "And Saul doesn't have a prescription being delivered in his name. So the question is - where did the order come from? Who gave Williams a Prozac prescription for Steve?"