A/N: Hello guys! Sorry for the delay - pet crisis - mummy mice making meals out of baby mice...not very pleasant. Well there's your dinner spoiled:D Apologies. Uhm...a little Ayres POV thrown in here - tell me if you like/dislike psycho killer weirdo's POV and I will continue/discontinue putting it in there:D Thaaanks to daynaa, KittyDoggyLover, Jinubean, jtbwriter, Orlando-crazy and TPC - all your reviews are invaluable and very much appreciated!

Chapter 8: Musing On Death – A Rare Thing For An ME

"Doorknocking?" Garret queried from the passengers seat of Woody's car. The detective looked ahead. His hope had been rekindled, but he was not under the illusion that just because she had not died in the train wreck she hadn't been killed in some other way. Or wasn't about to be. They couldn't let anything get in their way.

"Got a better idea?"

Garret smiled dryly. "Somehow, I just knew you were going to say that."

"Then why ask?"

Garret shrugged. "Question everything," he murmured.

"Pity we didn't apply that philosophy this morning, huh?" he said grimly, and Garret shot him a look.

"Oh come on. How rare it is? The chance of the records being swapped was a million to one!"

"We should know by now," he replied. "People are nuts."

"Oh they are completely around the twist. So much so they manage to pull off normal things once in a while," Garret said sardonically.

"Like blowing trains up."

Garret nodded. "Point taken. Hey this is the place."

Nigel had been able to trace the call to Woody's cell down to about a square kilometre, a neighbourhood right on the outskirts of Boston. Woody slowed and they both stared around, looking for any sign of her car.

"We'll do a few houses per street."

"Its going to get dark soon," Garret warned.

Woody ignored him and continued looking.

"Nothing," he said after they had driven up and down all the streets in the neighbourhood. He pulled over and they got out.

"Okay, this street first."

Garret sent him a dubious look, but shrugged and followed anyway. What did he know?

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Ayres dozed, much to Jordan's surprise. She watched his chest rise and fall slowly, and the tell-tale flicker of the eyelids that would suggest he was faking was absent, so either he was asleep, or a wonderful actor.

She stood and walked to the window. The sun was readying itself to drop out of her view and break the night for the Southern Hemisphere. It was amazing, she mused., that the world could work so well on one level, and be completely screwed on another. It just happened that humans were the ones responsible for the screwed part – while they can take credit for most of the suffering and pain that took place, they paled in comparison to natures miracles, something as simple as the sun rising and falling to light people's day. Jordan wondered if it was worth it, the pain, the grief that people dealt with every day. Animals did not feel mental pain, they knew only life and death, and that one was to be avoided. But, she reasoned, animals cold not love as they did. Not with their entire beings, not enough to die for those that they loved. And love was something she would not lightly give up, with all its unrewarding frustrations.

She wondered at her own beliefs, something she did perhaps too rarely. Raised a Catholic it had been difficult for her to shake her teaching, but once she accepted the ME's job nearly a decade ago, it had become increasingly clearer to her of the obvious absence of a god, a higher 'power' watching over them. How could anything conscious allow such atrocities to happen? How could whoever it was live with themselves? She also though it ironically convenient that religion allayed people's fear of death. Weak, she spat into her mind. Death was not something to be feared, not in itself. She knew it was the unknown that they, and she herself, feared. But the difference was, she did not rely on some mythical being to save her from it. She feared it, wanted to avoid it, oh yes. But when the time came she knew she would accept it with open arms. But the rest of the human race? It was unknown, and unknowable, and humans would continue to fear it, until they drove the entire species from the world, or blow it up in the process.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a muffled knock that had come from the front door. Ayres had also woken up, and had jumped to his feet, unable to hide the flash of worry that crossed his face. Who could be calling? He looked at Jordan.

"Move and you will regret it," he said in a low voice. She sneered at him, but it was not backed up, and he knew it. He sent her another warning glance and whisked reluctantly out of the room, picking up the phone on the way out, much to the doctors disappointment.

Ayres got to the front door in record time. He breathed deeply and opened the door a sliver. Who it was rocked the man to his core.

"Boston PD," the taller of the two said gruffly. He was horribly familiar to Ayres, but apparently the detective did not remember him, which only angered the unstable man further. The older man glared at him through hooded eyes as well, not recognising him.

Fools, he screamed into his mind.

"How can I help you, detective?"

The dark-haired man narrowed his eyes, but did not comment. "I need to know if you saw a car already," he said.

"I saw cars aplenty, sir," Ayres said, in a terribly sarcastic tone. Garret cleared his throat.

"One car in particular," the detective said, and described it.

They know, he said, a thrill going through his body. These were the two, along with the woman inside, who were solely responsible for the mess that was his life. He itched to grab them by their stupid coats and drag them into his house, hack them to bits and finish the whole thing. But he stopped himself, only just, noting Macy's eyes flicker to the hand that had just twitched. All in good time, Ayres repeated over and over to himself.

"No I haven't seen anything like that."

The detective shot Macy a dark look, and he sighed.

"Okay," Macy said heavily. "Give us a call if you see it."

The detective handed him a white card, which Ayres clutched in one fist as he watched the two walk down his drive, out of his reach. He shut the door calmly and walked deliberately back into the room they had sat in all day.

"You might want to look out the window," he said mildly to Jordan, who had sat down on the lounge and was staring at the floor. She frowned, got up and walked over. He grinned, good humour returning, when a look of horror crossed her face.

"No!" she screamed, rattling the windows, and bashed on the window in her frustration as she watched her friends drive away. She leaned her head on the window, its coolness calming her. She turned back to Ayres, and surprisingly, smiled genuinely.

"Thank you," she said, in all seriousness. "Now I know they know I'm not dead."

For the second time that day, Ayres was unseated. Unexpected, he mused. She is getting the hang of the game.

To suffer or not to suffer? she was thinking, watching and gauging his reaction. It is amusing, when you turn it around and switch your perspectives. And that was the trick to the whole thing, she suddenly realised. He would do something, and she could choose either to accept it or reject it. By accepting, she lost the round, but it was difficult to find a way to reject the offer. By finding the lighter side of his latest hurdle, she had won the round. She grinned inwardly. She might get them out of this mess yet.

She sobered down and wondered; was this game a symbol of life in general? Was optimism the key? But before she could explore the idea, her had-won cynicism kicked in and she dismissed the idea as ridiculous.

---------------

"Do you know that guy?" Woody asked as they drove away from the house. Garret looked at him.

"No," he said slowly. "Why?"

"Looks familiar," Woody said, and shrugged.

"Probably has a criminal brother or something," Garret said off-handedly. "Where do we go from here?"

"I have no idea," he said quietly. "Back to the morgue I guess."

"How about we go home?" Garret said gently.

Woody glared at him. "Are you crazy?"
"Quite probably," Garret said.

Woody ignored him and breathed. Truth be told, he was weary. It had been possibly the longest day in his memory, and it felt like it had spanned weeks rather than hours, and part of him would like nothing more than to go home, shower, and sit on his balcony with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and a glass of cold whisky in his hand.

But he could no more bring himself to do that than he could to kill her himself. Because he sensed that every second was precious, every small mistake they meant cost her more and more, until she had no more left to give. They needed information; they needed to know what was going on, and what the stakes were. And he would not give in to fancy until she was safe and could enjoy a cold drink of her own right beside him.

A/N: Had to chuck a shirtless Woody in there. Just had to. :P