A/N: Hey hey you guys slow down - I don't even know if anyone's neck's on the chopping block yet, don't get ahead of yourself. LOL. GoddessofSnark - exactly, they are great to write you can do whatever and laugh at them! I save my 10-feet jumping for when my really loud Hamster Dance ringtone goes off at 2am, but I get your meaning:D Mm yes I wanted to explore Jordan's death but couldn't possibly kill her. Hence...well...this! Thanks to everyone who reviewed...as I keep saying its FUNNERIFIC to read them. Well maybe I haven't said that...okay theres a first for everything.

Chapter 7: A Small Flaw

The two, bound by some silent bond, something that made them alike, sat in silence and stared into nothingness, each thinking their own thoughts. Jordan's eyes had dimmed, as they did when she was thinking. It was fascinating to watch. She would shut down completely; the shutters came down over her eyes and her breathing slowed. The lights were on, and everybody was home. Her mind worked overtime, but still she could think of nothing she could do. The curtains lifted, and Ayres, who was watching her, could see that she was back, so to speak.

"Now are you hungry?"

In response, her stomach screamed eagerly, not caring that she could not possibly accept food from this…person. Not even a slice of pizza.

Oh come on, her middle begged. She sighed and relented, reaching into her wallet and throwing a twenty-dollar note on the table. He looked at it, looked back at her with a look of utter amazement on his face and burst into laughter. Her face remained impassive. She was thinking, maybe when the delivery came she could scream out, ask for help. But when the time came, Ayres looked at her.

"Try it and you die," he said.

"And there's the small flaw in your plan," she said triumphantly. "Death is as far as you can go, and I know you don't want that, not yet."

Instead of fuming, Ayres beamed.

"Finally cottoning on, Doctor!" he said brightly, and bounced out of the room. Jordan sunk back into her seat, knowing she was beaten. There was nothing she could do, or so she thought, until she spotted the phone on the table.

He wouldn't be that stupid, he wants me to ring, was her immediate thought, but she ignored it and reached for the piece of plastic that could very well mean their saviour.

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"What?" Woody said, frantically trying to make a glazed-eyed Garret look at him.

"She's alive," the ME repeated, finally meeting the detective's eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Woody said, voice raised. "She's dead, you saw her!" he was shouting now, eyes wet with grief and a hope that he believed was false.

"She can't be," he said, looking at him.

Woody stepped forward, gripping the man with his shoulders.

"Snap out of it!" he yelled.

Garret shook himself free and looked at the detective. "You don't understand," he said hoarsely. He didn't believe the great weight that had been lifted from him, he felt like jumping up and down and screaming with relief. But he did neither. "She can't be dead, because I spoke to her."

"What do you mean?" Woody said. The confusion blocked the hope that Garret was offering, he couldn't understand, couldn't see how she could be alive when he had seen her, seen her burnt, dead. Garret was too elated to see the absolute look of sorrow that Woody was just too weary to mask. He wanted to sink into the ground, wanted blackness and oblivion, wanted out. He was sick of the pain, sick of the aching in his chest, sick of the feeling that he would never be happy again.

"I spoke to her," Garret said again. "This morning. Telling her to come straight to the train wreck."

"So what, Garret I…" He stopped abruptly and stared at the older man. A great grin was breaking out on the ME's face.

"If she was here she'd tell you to think twice before calling in a corpse to work," Woody said, numb with relief, echoing the grin on his friend's face.

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Frantically she dialled Woody's number. She had wavered slightly when it came to deciding on who she would ring, just punched in his number because it was more likely he'd have his cell with him.

"Pick up," she muttered, eyes straying to the door, hoping beyond hope he would take his precious time.

"Hoyt," a voice barked into the phone, sounding intensely distracted. Jordan didn't particularly want to give him a heart attack, but had to be quick.

"Its me," she said in a low voice.

His shout caused her to have to hold the phone an inch from her ear.

"Shut up," she commanded. "I have limited time…look I'm about twenty minutes out of town…I…"

She jumped as footsteps sounded, hastily whispered a 'goodbye' and slammed the phone back down on the hook, cursing inwardly as the door opened and in walked Ayres, pizza box in hand. He threw it down on the table.

"Super supreme," he said, raising his eyebrow. Jordan looked at him, impassive. His eyes flickered towards the phone, and a small smile played around his lips.

He knows, she thought erratically, but allowed not even a reaction to reach her face or eyes. He flipped the lid open and tore away a slice, pushing the box towards her, and watched as she did the same.

"So," he said. She gave him a strange look and he shrugged. "I've always been one for dinner conversation."

"Well talk away," she said, apathy evident in her tone. He grinned.

"What was your most embarrassing moment?" he asked. She frowned, and decided to play along.

"When I was nine," she said. "My Dad's friends were over, and my mother sent me into them with a tray of juice." She smiled, as if in memory. "I tripped coming in, fell flat on my face and the juice went everywhere. I was mortified."

He laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that saw her grinning in response.

"I was about fifteen," he said. "I was trying to get up the courage to ask a girl to a dance."

"Let me guess, way out of your league?"

He smiled. "Oh yeah. I couldn't do it to her face, so I wrote her a letter. Now my friend, a complete ass, slipped it in with the daily memos and the office lady read it out to the whole school. You could have fried an egg on my face."

She chuckled, that image coming to mind.

"I guess you were a geek?" she asked.

He thought about it. "Not really. It never really bothered me in high school. I was just who I was."

She looked at him. "Yeah," she said. "Me too. Guess I thought the whole 'teenage angst' thing was a little cliché."

"Cynical old nag even when you were a kid, huh?"

"Yeah something like that," she said, and caught herself before she smiled. This man was solely responsible for the tone of her friends voice when he had answered. Intense relief could only mean intense pain had preceded it. She frowned, trying to imagine it in his shoes, trying to determine how she would feel had he died. It would not be pleasant, she conceded with a sigh, knowing she could not possibly begin to understand unless she had been there. And she had been many, many places, just not there. Better buy a ticket, she thought wryly. It does not end here.

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"Trace the last call that came to this cell," Garret demanded, tossing the phone in a dozing Nigel's lap. The criminologist's head came up and Garret saw the anger in his face, and felt a wave of hatred come over him for whoever had done this, whoever had caused such pain for his friends. Woody had gone back to the precinct, hope rekindled, to see if he could suss out who on earth could have pulled of such a feat, and how the hell the dental records had been mixed up.

"How can you even think of…" Nigel began, pain clearly definable in his voice.

"She's not dead," he said. Nigel was on his feet in an instant.

"What?"

Garret snorted. "You heard me," he said. "Do it. We need to find her."

"Why would she…?"

"She wouldn't!" he said, looking at him. He nodded and looked at the phone, walking off and muttering something to himself.

"Spread the news," Garret said softly, watching him go with something of a contemplative look on his face.

Woody had hurried back to the office as soon as they got back into the city. He had spent the last hour frantically trying himself to get access to the dental records, or better, the people who controlled them, and found out that only the people who had special access could tamper with them. And, they assured him, somewhat pompously in his opinion, that there was no was they could have been.

"Yeah?" he asked, voice dangerously low. "Yeah? Then how come I got a phone call from someone who was supposed to be dead?"

"Please don't shout, Mr. Hoyt," the voice said calmly, causing Woody to want to slap its owner.

"Detective," he said through gritted teeth. "They were tampered with. I suggest you up your security. Oh, maybe you should wait until after I get an expert to hack into your system."

He slammed the phone down without even a by-your-leave, and left, in search of the only 'expert' he knew.