Here's chapter 6 of the Caine Mutiny. Disclaimer: This chapter was typed down after taking pain pills and while arbitrating between two feuding cats on the subject of who would be allowed to sit in my lap while I typed. Sabra won, because Sabra always wins at everything, but Calleigh is a determined little thing who thinks the fact that Sabra always wins is unfair, so there was a fierce battle first. I apologize for any errors, but cut me a bit of slack today. Deb

(H/C)

"Data! Data! Data! I can't make bricks without clay."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches"

(H/C)

The next morning, Calleigh came back out to the Hummer after taking Rosalind into daycare. Rosalind was usually quite sunny and even-tempered around people she knew, but she was cranky this morning after last night. She had company, Calleigh thought sourly. At least Rosalind could catch up with some nice naps today. Jean, the cause of the disruption, had still been snoring peacefully when the others left. They hadn't woken her up for breakfast. The revenge wasn't worth the company. Maybe they could take this day back for a refund and start over. Make that this whole two weeks, just restarting the case. Why did her mother have to come early with everything else they had to deal with at the moment? Maybe they could move Jean to a hotel. Maybe they could move themselves to a hotel. Calleigh climbed into the passenger's seat and slammed the door much harder than necessary. Horatio had been staring into space, clenching the steering wheel like he wanted to arrest it and sentence it to life in prison, and he jumped as the door closed. "Sorry," she said.

He smiled faintly across at her. "I feel the same way sometimes."

"You don't actually slam the door, though."

"Believe it or not, I have slammed a few in my life." The light tone was too fragile, too superficial to be maintained. He sighed as the Hummer pulled out of the parking lot. "Cal, what are we going to do about your mother?"

"She'll just have to understand that we have to work."

"I mean about Rosalind. We aren't leaving Rosalind alone with her, and you know that's going to come up at some point."

Calleigh chewed her lip slightly in thought. "I know. I agree, but I haven't had any brainstorms yet. Rosalind having to get to know her is bad enough."

"I wish I could spare her from all of it, but Jean is our family, after all."

Calleigh smiled suddenly at that 'our.' "Are you sure getting involved with me was worth this?"

"Best bargain I've ever made." His velvet voice almost had its old relaxed tone there. Calleigh studied him, wishing the moment could be extended. Her mother had been full of questions, wanting an update on everything and everyone for the entire year, and it had been well after 2:00 before Calleigh and Horatio could escape. Of course, all of Calleigh's work at relaxing him was wasted by that point, and he spent the few hours they had before the clock went off in uneasy dreams, not rest.

Horatio felt her gaze and looked over at her briefly. "You look tired."

She didn't return the comment, not wanting to hear once again that he was fine. She at least had gotten some sleep worth having, between the highlights of his nightmares. "Last night wasn't worth much. Horatio, what were you dreaming about last night?" There, he couldn't possibly answer that question with fine. She was desperate to establish some connection with him in this, to provide some support.

Horatio instantly analyzed each half of her remark, putting two and two together and unfortunately coming up with five. "I'm sorry, Cal. I didn't realize I was disturbing you. You should have said something before this. I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

Calleigh felt like hitting either him for his nature or herself for not realizing how he would take that remark, but she forced her tone into easy humor instead. "I don't think that's a good idea, Handsome. The couch is pretty small for both of us." His lips half quirked at the corners, though his eyes stayed on the road. "You weren't disturbing me, Horatio. I'm tired because of my mother, not you. I'd just like to share what you're going through. All of it."

His hands tightened even more on the wheel, and he didn't respond. The lines of his body were a study in tension. His breathing was even more rapid now. Studying him, Calleigh abruptly realized that staying on this subject was forcing him to relive whatever it was. Experiencing the dreams at night was bad enough, but she suddenly wondered if they were creeping into his daytime thoughts as well. She knew how images could cross from sleep into wakening, especially with Horatio. He'd had almost 30 lonely years of practice at it. Maybe his reluctance to describe the nightmares in detail was an effort to spare himself as well as her. Changing tactics suddenly, she reached across and silently ran her hand up and down his upper arm, a wordless reminder of her presence. He turned his head to meet a look in which all annoyance had faded to anxious love and unquestioning support. He gave her a smile of apologetic gratitude. "I really don't want to talk about it, Calleigh."

"All right. I won't ask you again. Just don't forget that I'm here."

A fault line cracked his rich voice for a second, hinting briefly at the emotional earthquake beneath the surface. "I know. Believe me, I know. I couldn't deal with this case alone. You do help, Cal, just by being there and being yourself. I haven't forgotten you."

She gave up wishing she could help more and accepted it for the moment. "Okay. If you need to talk to somebody, though, I won't be hard to find. Just look within two feet of you, if not closer."

He smiled again, a stronger smile than the last one. "Trust me, you're impossible to overlook." His hand came out and touched hers briefly, a world of meaning in the fingertips. He had relaxed a bit now that she had backed off the subject, though he still looked stressed, as well as like he hadn't really slept in over a week. Calleigh was about to start some trivial conversation on Rosalind when she realized that there wasn't time. Ahead of them, the CSI building sprang out of the urban tangle of Miami. Another long day of the manhunt was beginning.

(H/C)

Horatio sat in his office going over what little they had for the hundredth time. He hated sitting in his office instead of being out in the field or down in the lab. To him, the office meant only two things, long-shot computer searches out of pure desperation or paperwork, and at the moment, he would have welcomed the paperwork.

He reread Tyler's report on the video. The perp was apparently right-handed, since he had used that hand reaching across his body to slip the letter into the out basket to his left. He was probably between five feet ten and six feet one. He seemed to have dark hair, although very little of it was visible beneath the ball cap. He was probably average build, although wearing a leather jacket that was too large distorted that assessment. Horatio once again added those elements into the database of their 32 parolees and got possible matches on 20 of them, including two of the missing four. Expanding the window of release to two years, there were 73 candidates with matches on 51. If he included the people sentenced for lesser crimes who might have a grudge out of all proportion to their penalty against Steve Parker and Narcotics, the number jumped to 226, with 149 matching. He had been doing this for days, then going out with Tripp to interview the ones they could catch. It had netted them nine arrests on new drug charges. Nothing more.

The secretary from Narcotics arrived with his daily special delivery from the morning mail. She didn't even open the killer's communications herself anymore. The lettering made them easily identifiable without it. Horatio accepted the envelope and handed her an evidence envelope. She signed across the front. "Maybe I should just keep a few of these at my desk, Lieutenant," she suggested.

Horatio's gloved fingers tightened on his letter. "This case isn't going to last long enough to justify it," he insisted. The secretary glanced at him uneasily as she handed back the evidence envelope. She had never known anyone who could look so dangerous and still keep it perfectly compartmentalized. She wasn't frightened of him for herself, but it still commanded respect. Horatio noticed the uneasiness and misread it. He gave her an attempted smile, trying to be reassuring. "Thank you."

She nodded back. "No problem, sir. You're right. We'll have him any day now." She really believed it with this man on the case. Wherever he was, the killer should be shaking in his shoes. She turned and left Horatio to it, not waiting to see the letter. She had seen too many.

Horatio studied the envelope carefully. The same as always. He slit the edge and withdrew the message. Four words, laughing at him from the page. 'Better luck next time.'

His hands clenched until he was afraid he would tear it, destroying evidence. He put the letter down on his desk then and found himself staring at his fingers as he released the paper. He didn't remember killing Stewart Otis, due to his physical condition at the time, but suddenly, he was seized with a longing to do on this case exactly what he was told he had done, clamp down on the scrawny criminal neck, shutting off the blood supply to a diseased brain, permanently ridding humanity of one of its cancers. He studied the hands that had done it, and they flexed eagerly, reaching for air. His eyes went past them to the nameplate at the edge of the desk, and he turned it around to read it, reminding himself of his position. Lieutenant Horatio Caine. There were rules and procedure that must be followed, even with this one, when they caught him. Of course, they had to catch him first.

But he wished suddenly that he remembered killing Otis. He wanted to know firsthand if he had acted purely out of necessity, had only been fighting for Calleigh and Rosalind with no options left, or if some small part of his soul buried deeply within had privately enjoyed it. Calleigh could fill in the gaps in his memories for the last few days of their captivity, but she could never answer that one for him.

Firmly gathering his thoughts and suppressing his feelings, he stood, turned the nameplate back around neatly into its appointed place, picked up the letter, and headed for the lab.

(H/C)

The man stopped at the front desk in the homicide division. The receptionist looked up. "May I help you?"

"I need to see someone about that case where the officer was killed. I might have some information for you."

She studied him. People came in all the time to confess to crimes, a few of them even legitimately, but he looked neither criminal nor crazy. Probably an informant, like he said. She hoped he was a useful one. They could use it on this case. "Sit down over there for a minute. Someone will be right with you."

The man sat down. Not five minutes later, a large-framed man arrived. "Detective Tripp. You are?"

"Joshua Sampson. I'm a wildlife photographer."

Tripp sized him up. "How do you think you can help me, Mr. Sampson?"

"The newspaper says the officer was found on Wednesday afternoon in Hell's Bay. I was in Hell's Bay early Wednesday morning."

Tripp's interest jumped from polite to intense. "And?"

"There was nothing there that I saw. I don't think the man was there yet. I would have noticed, unless he was really hidden."

Tripp shook his head. "About five feet off the road, right by the bay."

"I went right up to the bay. I wanted to get sunrise pictures, hopefully with some local wildlife in the shot. I never saw anybody. I read, though, that you were looking for an SUV, maybe an Explorer, that had been there recently. I have an Explorer."

"And why are you just telling us this after all these days?"

"I didn't know. I left Wednesday at noon to go to a conference in New York. I just got back last night and was catching up on papers this morning."

Tripp accepted it. "You mind if we have some people look at your vehicle? To rule it out, of course." And to double check the story, but Tripp believed him.

"Not at all. Anything I can do to help. It's parked out front of the building." He handed Tripp the keys, and Tripp seized them one-handed, dialing his cell phone with the other.

(H/C)

Calleigh closed the rear hatch of the Explorer and walked around the side to where Horatio was standing, hands on hips, just studying the vehicle as if his eyes might pick up something that processing hadn't. "Nothing at all to indicate a body. No dirt to match the dirt on the drag marks on Steve's clothing. No hairs. Nothing."

"Mmm," he replied thoughtfully. "Story of this case." His eyes sharpened up. "So far, that is."

"It does explain the irregular and doubled tracks. We thought there were multiple trips in, but it must have been two Explorers, both with almost new tires. The killer had to be driving one, too. Nobody is going to carry a body into Hell's Bay, and we didn't find any evidence on the dock that he came in by water."

"He probably drove one that day, at least," Horatio said. "We've already checked with all the car rental companies. He must have borrowed one from a friend. I'd think he might have wanted a different car than his usual, just in case it was seen. We've only got two personal hits on Explorers with the 32 parolees, and both of those vehicles check out clean. This gives us a better timeline, too. Sampson left Hell's Bay about 7:00. The killer was scouting there Tuesday afternoon, which is when he picked up the tree sap before mailing the letter on the way back. I hate to ask it, Cal, but can you go over those tracks one more time? We've got the killer coming in Tuesday, Sampson Wednesday morning, then the killer later Wednesday morning. Maybe now that you have these tires to compare to, you can isolate the others and find some difference that would help us." He came to attention as Speed entered the processing garage. "Speed, what have you got?"

Speed reluctantly faced him. He hated to even call this a report, but he had to make it. "I found something else on passive transfer from the stencil, H." He hurried on before Horatio could start getting hopeful. "Three Musketeers ingredients. The killer eats Three Musketeers bars. Like probably a few million other people in Florida."

Horatio tried not to look disappointed. He had to keep spirits up with the team. "Nice work, Speed. Every little bit helps." In theory, anyway.

"Look at it this way, H. This is the second time we've gotten something from the stencil. This guy is starting to make a few mistakes."

Horatio looked back past them toward the door, toward the city. "He already made his biggest one."

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh arrived home that night with Rosalind to find Jean refreshed after sleeping in and ready for conversation. She carried most of the burden at the meal, although she didn't notice it. Horatio stared at his plate, having finished first, Rosalind stared at Horatio, and Calleigh tried not to watch her husband too obviously. Jean prattled happily on, oblivious to the atmosphere.

After the meal, Jean meandered around the living room, studying the pictures and commenting on her own family members, many of her comments rooted in her imagination, not reality. She paused at the piano and pulled the bench back, sitting down. "Did you know I used to take piano lessons when I was a kid? I was even in a few recitals. Tried to get Calleigh interested in it, but she was always more interested in the boys, you know." Calleigh shook her head silently, never having had piano lessons or heard her mother play, and Horatio gave her a sympathetic smile. Jean ran a cumbersome scale up the keys. "I was fiddling around with this thing earlier today while you were at work. I even remember a couple of things. Amazing how the mind holds onto little bits." She started playing Chopsticks, not even playing it well.

Horatio looked absolutely pained, but he forced himself not to say anything. His mother's piano had probably never been insulted with Chopsticks in its existence before today, but he couldn't keep Jean away from it, especially while they were at work. Rosalind, in Horatio's lap, cocked her head, staring at the instrument. "Pano?" she asked, puzzled. It was as close as she could come to the word piano.

"Sorry, Angel," Horatio said softly, answering the meaning, not the word.

Jean turned around on the bench to face her granddaughter. "That's right. It's a piano. Piano." She dragged out the three syllables, almost making them five. "Such a smart girl, you are. You like it when Memaw plays for you, don't you? Come here." She climbed off the bench and went over to pick up Rosalind, who squealed and clung more tightly to Horatio.

Horatio took pity on her. "Actually, Jean, it's just about bedtime for her. I'd better get her to sleep. She was up late last night." He stood and headed back for the nursery, and Calleigh launched into what she knew would be a futile protest.

"Mother, that piano is very special to Horatio. It's a memento. Please don't make a toy out of it."

Jean gave her a look of wounded confusion. "I'm not making a toy out of it. Pianos are meant to be played. And I did take lessons once." She turned back and launched into Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, gradually starting to sing along with it, ignoring the missed notes sprinkled liberally throughout.

Calleigh sighed and came to her feet. "Mother, would you like a glass of wine? I think sharing a bottle would be the perfect end to this day." That much was true. It was wrong of her, she knew, but she suddenly didn't care. Once her mother started drinking, she would not stop, but Calleigh knew that they would be up talking until 2:00. otherwise, just like last night. Her mother had slept late this morning and wasn't tired yet, and since she wasn't, it never occurred to her that others might be. Horatio looked like death warmed over, and he would never be able to get any rest while her mother was awake. Calleigh unlocked the liquor cabinet – many things in the house now had locks because of Rosalind – and selected a bottle.

"What a wonderful idea," Jean stated. "Just a nice family evening together." She left the piano and came back to the couch where Horatio had been sitting. Calleigh brought the bottle with three glasses back to the coffee table and poured them each a drink, setting Horatio's to one side. She started sipping her own, and her mother drank as if she were thirsty, polishing off the glass in just a few swallows. Calleigh refilled it.

Calleigh had just fetched a second bottle, though she was only on her second glass herself, when Horatio came back. He took in the scene at a glance and frowned at Calleigh, who shot him a look of challenging determination. "Is Rosalind asleep?" she asked sweetly.

"Finally. It took a little while, though." He accepted the glass that Calleigh handed him and started sipping the wine. Instead of joining her mother on the couch, he sat down in the recliner along with Calleigh, making a snugly comfortable fit.

"She doesn't want to miss anything," Jean stated, her voice getting thick.

"You're right there," Horatio said. "The world just fascinates her."

"Why does this sound familiar?" Calleigh ran a hand lightly down the inside of his leg, a purely private gesture that her mother was too far gone by now to notice. Horatio glanced over at her, then leaned forward to refill Jean's glass himself.

"So nice to be here with family," Jean said carefully. "Remember all those wonderful Christmases when you were growing up, Calleigh?" Actually, no, Calleigh thought. "Back when your dear father was alive and before your brothers . . ." Her voice trailed off, confused, trying to recapture her own version of what had happened to Calleigh's brothers. Her mind would never let her admit the reality. It wasn't even a lie she believed, because she honestly did not realize she had created it. As always when stuck at the possibility of an unpleasant fact about herself, she simply diverted. "Did you have nice holidays growing up, Horatio?" She stumbled badly over his name. "All your family with you. Nothing like being all together, is there?"

Horatio hesitated, trying to pick a response that would be true, then captured one. "My mother always did her best to make Christmas special for us."

Jean finished her glass, and Calleigh refilled it. "That's what mothers do," Jean stated. "Look after their kids. Take care of them. Always loved taking care of kids. Nothing like them." Her voice was running down like a dying music box. She tossed off the wine in a few gulps and then looked confused at the empty glass, wondering how it got that way. Calleigh stood up, pushing Horatio firmly back down into the chair.

"Why don't you get to bed, Mother? It's been a long day."

"Tired," she said, stumbling to her feet. "Nice family time, though. So glad to be here, Calleigh."

Calleigh dragged her mother's arm around her shoulders and looked back at Horatio. "Stay put," she commanded, her tone freezing him again halfway out of the chair. "I'll deal with it." She navigated her mother down the hall to the guest room, then helped her undress and tucked her in. Jean was already snoring by the time Calleigh reached the door.

Horatio had moved after all. He was on his feet in the middle of the living room, looking toward the hall, trapped between her veto and his nature. "I could have helped you."

"Call it punishment for me for getting her drunk." She launched herself at him, shutting his mouth with hers, her hands exploring urgently. Time to begin stage two of Operation Peaceful Night. This part, at least, would be a lot more enjoyable. She broke the kiss long enough to state, "Horatio, do you realize that every other person in this house is asleep except us?"

His eyes sparkled as they drank her in. "Can't waste that opportunity, can we?" He scooped her up suddenly, starting down the hall with her in his arms. Calleigh thought briefly of resisting, solely out of concern for him, then settled back into his arms. Reminding him how worn out he was and the reasons for it wouldn't help her plan. She was determined that he would sail into sleep tonight thinking about something besides the investigation or 30 lost minutes.

They arrived at the bedroom and landed together on the bed, struggling to remove their clothes without completely breaking contact. Calleigh was lost once again in love and passion for this man. Making love, indeed. Every time, her love for him swelled even more, totally consuming her. Tonight, she lost track of her scheme fairly quickly, but her body must have carried it out pretty well without benefit of thought, because Horatio did end up asleep eventually, deeply, soundly asleep, and his last thoughts definitely had not been of Steve Parker. Calleigh watched him in the moonlight from the window as long as she could keep her eyes open, then joined him in rest. The house was quiet.

The sharp, urgent ring of the phone shattered the still night. Calleigh lunged for it as she woke up, but it was on Horatio's side of the bed, and he already had it, waking up instantly, his phone instinct deeply ingrained. Damn, she thought. She glanced at the clock. It was 1:30. They had been asleep for about four hours. She heard Horatio's voice tighten and felt his body come alert with sudden worry. "I'll be right there," he replied. He hung up the phone, switched on the lamp, and turned to face her. "That was Monica Weaver. Bill never came home tonight, but Argo, his dog, just got there alone. He's been shot."