"Serial killers are suspicious folk, even before police are watching them." Helen Morrison, M.D., My Life among the Serial Killers

(H/C)

Peter stared at the table. What the hell did he think he was doing? Two hours ago, it had made sense.

Horatio let the silence lengthen, then pulled out his cell phone. "Cal, I've found him. Everything's okay. We're going to be a while, though. I think it's time Peter and I had a conversation. Great. Tell Rosalind goodnight for me." He snapped the phone shut, then focused on Peter again. He was still angry, and it showed, but his voice to Calleigh had been perfectly mild. Again, Peter was caught scrambling mentally, trying to fit this into his picture of marriage. His father had always gotten angry like a volcano erupting. No matter what had annoyed him in the first place, the lava burned the entire landscape around him. Horatio spoke again, still icily polite. "Do you really think that getting yourself killed would help?"

Sudden doubt made Peter defensive. "I wouldn't have gotten killed."

"What were you going to do?" Horatio sounded honestly curious. If it weren't for those eyes, they might have been discussing the weather.

"As soon as I knew it was her, I'd slip away, go to the bathroom or something, and call the police."

"And how would you know it was her? What do you think a serial killer looks like?"

"Out of place. Weird. Evil somehow. I don't know, but I think I could spot her."

"Ted Bundy was described as quite charming by several women. John Wayne Gacy did community service and was very popular. It's not like they wear a scarlet K on their chests. The worst one I ever knew was one of the most innocuous-appearing men you could imagine." Horatio shuddered slightly, remembering Stewart Otis, and Peter noticed.

"Was that the one who took you and Cal prisoner?"

"Yes. Believe me, Peter, if you had run into him in the street, you would have never guessed. I agree, there ought to be a visible mark somehow with something that twisted, but most of the time, there isn't." A waitress came over at that point, and Horatio ordered coffee. He turned back to Peter to find him staring at a group of women who had just entered. "Stop that! Trade chairs with me." The force of his will seemed to take control of Peter's legs, pulling him to his feet, and the change in seats was accomplished while Peter was still gathering a protest. Now Horatio was the one facing the door squarely, while Peter was at an angle to it. "You'd make a lousy undercover cop, Peter. You're too keyed up, too obviously watching. If she did walk in here, she'd never approach you while you're staring at the door like that. She'd know something was wrong, and killers are suspicious. They have to be, to stay on the loose." Horatio's coffee arrived, and he took a sip of it, then faced Peter again. Courteous, deadly fire. He was still angry. "You do realize, don't you, that you are the only positive link Calleigh has to her biological family?"

Peter hadn't thought of that. He suddenly realized that a good bit of Horatio's anger with him was at the possibility that Calleigh might have been hurt. "I wasn't thinking about it that way."

"Think about it now. If you got killed, there's just your mother, unless Mark reappears after decades. That's all the family she'd have left, one in a perpetual drunken fantasy world and one MIA."

Peter shuddered at the thought. "Sorry. Really, Horatio." He took another swallow of his beer.

Horatio eyed him, and the anger dimmed a little. "So, do you want to talk about it?"

"About what?" Peter said innocently. Horatio didn't even respond. "No," Peter added finally, bracing for an argument.

"Fine, then I'll talk. You listen. I know what you're trying to do here, but it's still being a coward. Taking stupid risks and still avoiding commitment won't lift you in her eyes, Peter."

Peter jumped. "How did you know about her? Come to think of it, how did you know what I was doing tonight anyway?"

"Because I used to be you. For years, I loved Calleigh, and I was afraid to show it, afraid she'd get hurt. I thought I could never have a successful relationship with any woman."

"Why?" Peter could see no fatal flaws in Horatio. His own hesitations made sense, but this man had everything going for him.

Horatio looked away from him for a moment, staring into his coffee. When he finally spoke, his voice was even softer. The anger had burned out of the eyes, replaced by understanding and remembered pain. "Every person I have ever loved in my life before Calleigh died violently."

Peter stared at him. "All of them?" Horatio nodded. Peter suddenly felt even smaller than he was physically. Compared to that level of repeated experience, mere genetics seemed like nothing. "How did you ever get up the courage to go for Calleigh?"

"For years, I didn't. I even tried to prove to myself that I wasn't a coward, tried to prove it to her, just like you're doing. We had a sniper once who we knew was targeting an area, and while Calleigh and the SWAT team were going to the top of the building he was on, I made myself bait to keep him occupied. I told myself at the time that someone had to, that the wind conditions from the police helicopter would prevent his shot. I told myself a lot of things. I knew why I did it, though. Along with everything else, I wanted her to notice me, and she did, but Peter, I still felt like a coward. Even though I really thought there was a jinx, part of me wondered if that wasn't just my excuse to avoid pain."

Peter nodded. He understood that perfectly. "So what changed things?"

"Calleigh. She was always there, every day, forcing me to keep looking at what I was afraid to reach for. I finally. . ." Horatio's voice stumbled to a halt for the first time, and he obviously edited his thoughts through several rough drafts before he continued. Peter didn't say anything. The man was surrendering privacy to make a point already. "Finally, I told everything to Calleigh. At least, I told her what she hadn't worked out, and she guessed a good bit on her own."

Peter leaned forward, as intent as if he didn't know the ending. "What did she do?"

"She helped me deal with it." A simple sentence with a world of fond memory and, even now, wonder behind the tone. "Peter, have you talked to . . . what is her name, anyway?"

Peter dropped the charade. Obviously, Horatio knew everything. "Becky." He savored the tone almost unwillingly, and Horatio smiled.

"Tell me about her."

Peter's eyes went distant, conjuring up a well-known face, and he smiled at the thought. "She's beautiful. Physically, but her personality, too. Everything. She makes me feel alive. It's almost like drinking, but it's better. No hangovers." He grinned at his brother-in-law. "She's the most caring person I've ever known, but she's determined, too. She called me today and told me that unless I was ready to stop beating around the bush and make a commitment, she didn't want to see me again."

Horatio gave him a sympathetic smile. "And that's why you came down to this bar tonight. It wouldn't work, Peter. Even if everything went perfectly, if you caught the killer, the shock would wear off on her end, and you'd still feel like a fraud on yours. Risking death is easy, Peter. It doesn't take half as much courage as risking your heart does. Have you ever told Becky about your family? In detail, I mean."

Peter shook his head. "I avoid the subject."

"Let me ask you this. Suppose it was possible, that you aren't genetically doomed to failed relationships. If there was a chance that it could work out for the two of you, could you ever forgive yourself for letting that opportunity slip away?"

It was Peter's turn to study his drink. He still wasn't sure it was possible. But if it was . . . He looked back up to Horatio. "No," he said, his voice suddenly firm. "But what if she deserves more than me?"

"Why don't you let her be the judge of that? I'm still amazed Calleigh picked me. Loving her was easy, but for her to love me back is incredible."

Peter's smile faded abruptly. "But she hung up on me this afternoon. She doesn't want to see me."

"You're wrong. She just doesn't want to see half of you. All or nothing. You know what I'd do if I were you, Peter?"

"What?"

"I'd catch the next plane out of Miami and cancel the rest of vacation. Show up on her doorstep at whatever hour you get in, even if it's the middle of the night. Flowers might help if you could find some quickly, but show up there, unexpectedly, and tell her you want to talk about your family. I guarantee she won't kick you out."

Peter considered it, then slowly started to smile at the thought. "If she does and wants me totally out of her life, can I move down to Miami?"

"I'll help you find a job. You have to go back and try first, though."

Peter suddenly felt more relaxed than he had in six months. "Thank you, Horatio. I think Calleigh has it made."

Horatio smiled at him. "I know I do." His eyes suddenly shifted gears so fast that Peter was startled, and while he was still opening his mouth to ask, Horatio darted out of the chair with the speed of a striking cobra, swept through the crowd, and was gone out the bar door.

Horatio had been sitting there talking to Peter, his mind automatically on some level assessing the people who entered the bar. It wasn't that he had assumed Peter's self-assigned task of the evening, just the unconscious reaction of a cop to any public situation, always keeping one eye patrolling for any possible trouble. The woman who entered hadn't caught his eye specifically at first. She had paused inside the door, sweeping the bar with a casual glance like someone looking for a friend. When her eyes met Peter's profile, she had tightened up ever so slightly, the casualness giving way to clinical assessment, and that was what had caught Horatio's attention. Unfortunately, the woman had felt the intensity coming to bear on her. She looked past Peter's profile to meet Horatio's eyes directly, and she had visibly jumped, then whirled, no longer casual, and bolted. Horatio reacted as quickly, but she had a 30-foot start on him, and there were people between him and the door. As he bolted into the parking lot, her car was peeling rubber on its way out. He pulled out his gun while mentally scanning the area. No pedestrians at the moment, a clear sight-line to his target, even if the lighting was bad. He aimed and fired.

The woman's inexperience with getaway driving saved her. She turned out of the parking lot too quickly, and the car skidded, causing Horatio's shot to skip off the trunk in a shower of sparks instead of hit the vehicle squarely. He had allowed for evasive action but not for incompetence. She jerked the wheel, and the car reluctantly came back under control, leaping down the street as she slammed the accelerator to the floor. Horatio raised his gun for another shot, then brought it down unfired as a group of drunks lurched along the sidewalk beside the fleeing car. Too risky a shot in the dark, and she hadn't turned her lights on. His mind replayed that shower of sparks. Maybe the bullet could still reach its target by way of the CSI labs. He fetched the flashlight and tweezers from the Hummer and turned back to find Peter standing in the lot uncertainly. "What happened? I heard a shot."

"Your bait worked, actually. That was her. Unfortunately, she recognized me. Probably comes from watching Travis Fox with his interviews." He crossed the street to the wall of the building on the other side. "I've got to find that bullet. It could be important."

"Did it hit the car?"

"Skipped off it. She lost control and ruined the shot, but it definitely hit metal. If it picked up paint, we can narrow down cars from that. I only got a glimpse, and she didn't turn her lights on, but it was some kind of a small sedan. An Escort, maybe." He played the flashlight over the building wall, then gave a soft sound of triumph. "There it is." He snapped on latex gloves and carefully worked the bullet back out of the wall. He held it out under the circle of the flashlight, and he and Peter both stared at the paint burned into the side of the bullet. Blue paint. "Got you," Horatio said softly.

(H/C)

Calleigh was curled up on the couch, reading a book or at least holding one. The Hummer finally swung into the driveway, but before she could reach the door, it pulled out again. She opened the door to find only Peter, not Horatio. Her brother's eyes were alive with excitement, but he was also more relaxed than he had been yet at any point of the visit. "Horatio went down to CSI. He had a bullet to log, but he said you can process it in the morning. He also called the police artist, and he's meeting her tonight. He wants that sketch out as soon as possible. Could you take me to the airport, Cal? I know it's the middle of the night, but I've got to catch the next flight back to Virginia."

Calleigh sifted through all of that, remarkably fitting it together. "Horatio got a shot at the killer?"

"At her car, but it skipped. Picked up some paint, though." Calleigh's fingers twitched, reaching for the bullet already, but of course, she couldn't do it tonight. There was Rosalind, after all.

"He got a look at her?"

"Yes. Only for a split second, but he was looking straight at her. She recognized him, and she ran."

"Damn Travis Fox," Calleigh muttered.

"Yeah, that's about what he said. He says he can give a good description of her, though. I sure couldn't. It all happened so fast."

"If Horatio saw her clearly, even for half a second, he's got a solid mental picture. Did you say you were leaving?"

"Yes. I've got to get back to Norfolk to talk to someone. Is Rosalind already asleep?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll get her up while you grab your suitcase. We can't make you late to show up on her doorstep."

"How did you . . ."

"Where else would you go first thing after catching a flight back in the middle of the night?" Calleigh went back to the nursery, and Peter started gathering his things and shoving them any which way into his suitcase. "What's her name, Peter?" Calleigh called to him as she picked up Rosalind.

"Becky."

"I hope I get to meet her someday."

Peter emerged with his suitcase. "I hope you do, too. You and Horatio both. Calleigh, I'm so happy for you. Horatio is incredible."

"Believe me, I've noticed." She gave him a one-armed hug as they stood in the hall. "Good luck, Peter."

"Thanks, Cal." Rosalind squirmed, trapped between them, and Peter reached out to touch her. "Bye, Rosalind. I hope you realize how lucky you are."

Calleigh shook her head. "I hope it's several years before she has to."

(H/C)

Horatio entered Ballistics, and Calleigh turned from the computer. "This paint was used on Ford Escorts and Tauruses between 1999 and 2003."

"I thought it might be an Escort, but it was dark." He held out a copy of the police artist's drawing. "This, now, I'm sure of. We've distributed it everywhere. It's only a matter of time, now." He frowned slightly. "She's definitely still hunting, though. It was her reaction to Peter that made me notice her. I hope no one else has to die."

Calleigh gave him an encouraging smile. "Hey, we're making progress. Last night moved us way up on this case. We've even got a witness to describe her who isn't going to change his story five times or forget details." Horatio relaxed a bit and returned the smile. "So what do we do while we're waiting, Handsome?" Simply waiting on a case was never an option with Horatio. He always had to be trying for progress.

"Since we have a description now, plus a make on the car, you and I are going to try the DMV database. We're looking for Escorts or Tauruses registered to women, and then we can pull the driver's license info to check the descriptions. You start at A, and I'll start at N. Of course, her last name probably begins with Z. Still, it's trying something new."

"I won't think of it as tedious, believe me," Calleigh remarked. "After all, we could be watching Travis Fox."

(H/C)

"If he weren't dead, I'd kill him myself," Speed muttered, staring at Fox's frozen but still smiling image on the screen.

"I'd join you," said Eric. "Maybe we could each hold one end of a rope and strangle him. No, too easy." He thought for a minute. "Got it. We could tie him up so he couldn't move, then let him slowly starve to death in a room that had his own broadcasts piped into it 24/7. He could die watching himself, and he could never turn it off."

Speed nodded. "That sounds about right." The computer beeped, and they both grew instantly serious. "Nope, this one moved to Minnesota last year." He crossed off the name, and they both turned back to the screen, then hesitated, prolonging the inevitable. It was Eric who finally reached for the control, releasing the frozen reporter on the screen into action.

"This is Travis Fox with KMIA." Eric and Speed sighed in unison. "This afternoon, an 8-year-old girl was killed during a gang chase. Apparently, one gang was fleeing from another, with shots being fired, and the child abruptly ran out into the street and was hit by one of the cars. And so, another young life is tragically snuffed out before its time. Unfortunately, to gangs, a child is expendable. One must wonder, though, why an 8-year-old girl ran out into the street in the first place, especially with shots sounding. Perhaps her mother had not taught her the dangers of that. Why she ran out makes no difference anymore, though. Rest in peace, Angie Carpenter. Ah, and here comes a neighbor to comfort the grief-stricken mother. Before you go inside, can we get a statement, please?"

Eric hit pause, and Fox froze again. He wished the reporter had come with a remote control in real life.

Speed shook his head. "What a jerk."

Eric nodded. "Can you imagine calling a kid expendable? Or wondering whether her mother was at fault, either. It wasn't her mother's fault that a gang chase ran down her street." He turned to the computer. "Angie Carpenter, let's see. That broadcast was from 14 months ago." He entered the date and quickly found the police report. "Okay, it doesn't mention a father. Mother is Sylvia Carpenter. She could be single. Here's the address." He jotted it down.

Speed was on the DMV database. "Sylvia Carpenter. There's six of them in Miami, but none with that address. Nope, first one is in her 60s. Second one is 19. Third one. . ." Speed stuttered to a stop as the copy of her driver's license info came up. "Gimme H's drawing, Eric." Eric quickly found it and handed it over, and they both looked from it to the screen and back. Speed found his voice. "33 years old. Five feet three inches tall. Address on the license is a post office box." He held the drawing up beside the computer screen, and they checked it again, then looked at each other in triumph. "We've got her."

Eric reached out and snapped the video equipment off, and Fox faded into a blank, black screen. "We've got her. Let's go find H."