A/N: Okay glad you know what blue tack is. Just good to make sure. lol. Okay well if you're ready for super psychotic people here it is! Ayres is a complete bastard I'm just about ready to do him in, I think. Suffer, Ayres! lol. Okay well thanks for reading and of course reviewing. And yes, daynaa, it DOES suck! But I think we will appreciate it more...having to wait. Either that or it will feel super-trippy - like the LV/CJ crossover that ONLY JUST aired over here. Great ep, by the way. Okay...read on.

Chapter 11: To Kill Three Birds with Half a Stone

In the morning, Garret awoke easily. He took it slowly, got out of bed, showered, and then dressed. He threw some bread in the toaster and turned the kettle on. He opened his door and picked up the paper waiting there, and sat down at the kitchen table with paper, toast and coffee, delighting in the cliché ritual. It was normal, it was right. Something that stood out from his otherwise ridiculously abnormal lifestyle.When he was satisfied that he had done all he could to relax as much as he could, the key to getting started in the morning, he picked up his case and keys and walked out of his apartment, planting himself in his car and driving slowly towards the precinct. He would pick up Woody, knowing he would probably have to wake the man, then they would go to the morgue and…that was where his plan stopped. He had no idea what they could do, there really were no other avenues they could pursue.

He did not have to wake the detective, and suspected when he caught sight of him, that he hadn't been asleep to begin with.

"You look well rested," the detective said, effectively cutting off any comment the ME may have had for him. He had just come from the bathroom where he had thrown another shirt on and splashed water on his face, trying to remove the signs of mild sleep deprivation, but failing.

"Ready to go?" Garret asked as Woody pushed the door open to his office. Garret frowned when he saw the pile of albums all over the floor, and realised that Woody had pulled probably five or so years of mug shots from the archives. There was a cup half full of coffee on the floor next to where the detective had probably sat all night, and Garret guessed that it had been filled and refilled many times in the duration of the night.

"No," the detective said. "I found something."

Garret frowned. "What?"

Woody studied him then beckoned him over to his desk. He pointed wordlessly at one of the pictures on a page.

"Jeremy Ayres," Garret read, and looked at Woody questioningly.

Woody handed over a manilla file and the ME rifled through it.

"Arrested in 2001 for the murder of his wife and child. Detective…" he paused and looked at Woody. "Hoyt, officer on the case."

Woody raised an eyebrow, as if to say. "Take a look at the death certificates."

Garret frowned and did as he was bidden.

"Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh, MD, on the girl, and…."

"You, on the wife."

A wave of something indefinable rippled through the ME. "So?" he asked, managing to look calm. What was he angling at?

"So?" Woody asked. "Doesn't he look familiar?"

Garret looked at him again, frowning. "Yes, but it's not surprising, 2001 wasn't really that long ago."

"No. Neither was yesterday."

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"I was thinking," Ayres said, after he had established that she was not hungry. "Maybe I should let you ring them."

She did not answer, merely looked at him.

"Yeah," he continued. "Because they don't seem to be as intelligent as I first thought."

"You mean, they didn't recognise you. Which translates your previous sentence as 'their lives don't seem to revolve around me like I first thought'."

"Wonderful, you definitely should start a business," he said, refusing to become angry. "The Jordan Cavanaugh Smart Ass Society."

"Dude that's been going for years," she said, shrugging.

"Don't change the subject," he said. "Go on. Ring them."

"Bite me," she said, half-jokingly. She was stalling, as she had finally come to a concrete decision. This son of a bitch had hinted that he wasn't going to kill her, but rather that his real targets were the two who were searching for her, and she'd be damned if she'd help him kill them. There was no way she would ring them, no way she could bring herself to lead them to their deaths. It would be better if she died, for she would not be able to live with herself if she was responsible for their deaths.

"Sadly, not on today's agenda. Here." He held out the phone to her, and she took it reluctantly.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever you like. You can chat about the weather or rattle off the address. I'm over pizza."

"Makes two of us," she said, looking at the multiple empty boxes that littered the otherwise clean floor. She dialled a number.

"Hello?" she said, after what she thought was a decent interval had passed. "Yeah, I'm okay. Look, I'll tell you where I am…"

She was stopped in her tracks when Ayres plucked the phone out of her hands and put it to his ear. He looked at her.

"Nice try," he said, the vein flickering at his temple the only indication that he was unsettled, and threw the phone down on the floor. "I don't think you understand what I'm capable of. This is just a big joke to you, isn't it? Well I give you my murderers honour that I will kill them. No matter what. Even if you get out of this, I will follow you all."

"Yeah, like I haven't heard that before," she said, rolling her eyes. Her anger had been ignited and she would be damned if she'd tiptoe around him any longer. She was scared, she was worried, but she would goad him until he ended it or gave her the information she craved.

If looks could kill she would be dead already. He was staring at her with such loathing it was barely tolerable. She returned the look in kind, challenging him. He was too angry to continue to be elusive, so he told her everything.

"They'll be here," he said in a voice that was almost a whisper. "And you'll have your little reunion. I'll let you talk to each other, tell each other how much you mean to the other. Whatever tickles your sickening fancy. Then I will shoot them, the young one first, then the old one. They will be gone, their troubles over. But, they aren't my targets, not really. Merely the secondary ones." His eyes were glazed and she wasn't sure he was even aware she was still in the room with him. "Then I will press my gun into your back and sever your stupid spine. You can live your whole life, in purgatory, not really living, but living enough to feel the pain. You wont be able to kill yourself, there will be no escaping the nightmares, no escaping the pain, no escaping the overwhelming guilt of knowing it was your fault they died, your fault they suffered. Because they will suffer. Remember my wife's body? She will have been nothing, nothing compared to them!" He was shouting now, sitting forward in his seat and locking eyes with hers. She saw right through them, into his mind, into him. Her eyes were wet; she was only just containing the tears. The picture he had painted was so vivid, so real. He was not joking, so far from it, it was terrifying. He meant every single word. They would die, and it would have been all her fault. He was shaking as he held out the phone again.

"Now call them."