A/N: The usual disclaimer...I wish I at least owned JOC...but dream on, right? Anyway, I hope you all like this. Sorry the updates are so slow, but I hate to rush because then I mess up my details...I must have edited this about twenty times! Anyway, thank you for your comments. Please keep sending those reviews!
PART X - WHOSE BODY IS IT ANYWAY?
Cal took the towel Jordan offered and began to rub it across his face. "Well?" he waited, watching her face closely.
"Well…I decided to take a little trip. Everyone's always telling me I should get out more!" she quipped, trying to lighten the mood. But the circumstances of her situation swirled around in her mind. On the one hand, she couldn't afford to have Cal ask too many questions. On the other hand, he might actually be able to help her.
Cal shook his head. "Uh-uh…I don't buy it, Jordan. Where are you really going? What's going on?"
Jordan looked at him warily. "On? Who said anything was going on?"
"I've been following - someone - who has been following you all day…Since you ran out of your apartment this morning..."
"What!"
"Yeah…I was waiting across the street from your building when you left this morning…"
"Early bird, are we?" She looked him over, not sure if she could trust him. Woody never had, and anything connected to him in any way was suddenly very important to her. " Why?"
"Huh?" Cal was pacing between the door and the window, and as he turned to face her, he knocked into the table. "Ouch!" he grabbed at his knee.
Jordan walked over to him and bent down, pulling up his pant leg to check the damage. "Why were you waiting for me?" she asked again. Just a small little black-and-blue mark. Nothing to worry about really. Hopefully it won't slow us down, she thought, then paused when she realized she was starting to include Cal in her still-unformed plans.
"I wanted to talk to you about Woody…"he said, rubbing at the sore.
Jordan looked pained. "Woody? Have you seen him? Is he okay? I thought I saw you near the hospital…" she remembered, standing slowly. "Is he getting his surgery? Is he going to be okay?"
"I…I don't know," Cal admitted, looking down at the floor. "I haven't talked to him yet…"
"You haven't talked to him yet! Why the hell not? The man's been shot, Cal! He needs you!" Jordan reprimanded in a loud whisper.
"I think he needs you," Cal whispered back, looking toward the door.
Jordan cut him off. "He doesn't…He told me - he told me to leave him alone…" she barely got out. She could hear Woody's voice, over and over in her mind, his voice hard and unfamiliar. "So that's exactly what I'm doing," she lied.
Cal was only half listening now, peeking through the blinds. He sighed when he saw the now familiar figure of the man with the Boston Red Sox hat. The stranger was back outside, staring at the motel from his spot across the street. "We'll have to finish this later…Right now, we have to get out of here!" He tried to make his voice sound calm yet urgent.
"How? If someone really is following me, it's not like I can walk right out of the door…"
"Hey, I know my brother told you I'm always in trouble…And while I hate to admit that's true, it might just come in handy for once…Follow me!" Cal grabbed Jordan by the arm and herded her toward the tiny bathroom.
-----
Nigel's pager started beeping madly. "Great," he sighed, reaching for the phone. He still had a slight headache from the events of the day, or at least from the few beers he'd downed at The Pogue. Although it had been good to get together with the morgue family - something they hadn't done since a few weeks before Garret had been suspended - the circumstances leading to it were certainly not good. And Jordan's absence had been loud and clear. In fact, he was having a hard time racking his brain to remember whether or not Jordan had said anything that even remotely indicated that she was ready to run. But that didn't add up with Haley's disappearance, or her trashed apartment, and Nigel feared the worst had befallen his good friend. He yawned before answering.
He managed to dial the number displayed in green on his pager. "Townsend," he said into the phone, trying to pretend he was more alert than he felt. He rolled up and dangled his feet over the side of the bed, yawning once again.
"Doctor T…How are we this evening?" It was the voice of Detective Roz Framus, not exactly music to his ears at this time of day.
"Detective Framus…" He looked down at his alarm clock, its red glow lighting up the phone on his nightstand. "I believe it's four thirty in the a.m., which makes it morning - not evening. So, what have we got?" He wasted no more time with chitchat, grabbing a pad of paper and pen from the nightstand and trying to hurry things along. It looked like it had been pouring rain, and while he was in no mood to really venture out for a call, it was better to get things moving so he could try to get back and get a little sleep before he had to report for Slocum's stupid morning meeting. After he got done the initial investigation, the body could wait a few hours in a cool vault at the morgue.
Roz was silent for a moment, almost hesitant. "I need you to meet me right away. I'm here around the corner from 227 Pearle Street."
Her tone had expressed some feeling aside from urgency, but Nigel didn't notice. He was busy, staring at his notes. Why did that address sound so familiar? He looked at it again, and it registered. "227? Pearle Street? Are you sure?" he felt an ominous sense of panic. "Wh-what happened?"
Roz was quieter, for a change. "Apparently the police were here earlier today, by request of the Acting CME? I don't know if you were aware of that or not. It seems that…well, they overlooked something. Now I have a woman's body here…"
"It's not…No, can't be!" Nigel yelled back into the phone before hanging up on her. God, had Jordan been dead in her apartment the whole time he and Slocum had been standing in her bloody doorway! It just couldn't be possible…
His mind tried to conjure events of the afternoon. While he'd been a little suspicious of Jordan when he'd first seen her clothes strewn about, seeing the furniture toppled and the contents of her cabinets - though close to bare - scattered about had given him the feeling that something was wrong. Jordan had not fled, as he had feared. He was almost positive. Maybe she had taken Cal to visit Woody at the hospital? Maybe that's why he had found Cal's prints on the door. But Nigel was afraid there was more to the story. He dressed quickly and grabbed his crime scene bag before racing out the door, then jumping on his bike to head toward what he only hoped was the body of a stranger, wondering whether or not Slocum had checked the bedroom and small bath while he'd been lifting Cal's fingerprints off the door. Cal…oh god, was the Albanian mob involved again? He sped to the crime scene, his stomach churning.
-----
"That's how you're going to get us out of here?" Jordan looked dubiously at the small bathroom window.
"Unless you have a better idea," he said. The storm outside was still raging. "We'll try to break the glass when it thunders again," Cal told her. "Then I'll boost you through the window. This guy doesn't know me, and I'm pretty sure he didn't know I was following him, so I can probably walk out the door and maybe he'll think he's been watching the wrong room. At least I hope he does…"
"And what makes you think I'll fit through there?" Jordan asked, trying to move the curtain aside.
Cal looked her over appraisingly, biting back the urge to whistle. "Oh, you'll fit…No doubt about that!" He was rewarded with a quick punch to his bicep. "Hey, just being honest…"
"God, you are so like him!" Jordan groaned, while images of Woody and his daring attempts at chivalry and heroics made her smile. "Well, Cal…let's get out of this crummy place!" She smiled gamely and climbed up on top of the sink's vanity, watching for the lightening to streak across the sky. "Now!" she nodded, as Cal kicked at the original window, grateful it hadn't been replaced with plexiglass by the last few owners. It shattered, a large piece of glass cutting through his pants, as the familiar boom of thunder sounded through the room.
-----
The early morning sun flooded the bed as a nurse threw open the blinds. Woody groaned. Once again, he hadn't slept very well, feeling that Jordan was in trouble somewhere. Between that and the thunder storm that had raged more than half the night, he'd maybe slept all of ten minutes tops, and even in that small window of time he'd been haunted by visions of Jordan.
"Detective Hoyt? I'm Sara and I'll be prepping you for your surgery today." The nurse was leaning over him, shoving a thermometer in his mouth with one hand and pulling a portable blood pressure cuff over toward the bed with another. "So far, so good…" she finally smiled after his temperature reading came back normal. She finished her quick examination, the stethoscope cold on his chest, and finally grabbed his chart, jotting down the results. "Your vitals look real good. I don't see why we can't proceed today. I'll call Doctor Roberts. Someone will be in in a few minutes to wheel you down to surgery." He watched her little white shoes click across the floor and into the hall.
Surgery. While Woody had never forgotten the scent of a hospital after his father's death, he had forgotten how scary a hospital could be. Doctors, nurses - none of them God - did what they could do to make a person better. But there was always the chance that the Grim Reaper was waiting near the door. He felt, maybe for the first time since his accident, the fear of death…
Doctor Macy had informed him that there were risks. And one of those risks was, of course, death. He had worked for the Boston PD as a homicide detective and with the ME's office for several years, but he had never really considered his own mortality. Not even when he'd been shot. He'd been more worried about his legs…a lot of good they would do him if he didn't make it through the surgery, he thought wryly. And because he'd been so torn by what could happen in his future - by what might be the end of the future he'd planned - he'd turned Jordan away. He might not ever get the chance to tell her that he loved her, that what he'd said had been out of anger and even pity for himself. And now he was staring down death, very alone and very afraid.
-----
Roz saw Nigel's bike come to a screeching halt and walked briskly toward the end of the block where yellow crime-scene tape roped off a fairly large section of Pearle Street. "It's okay, let him in," she waved off one of the officers who was asking Nigel for some type of identification. "This way," she said, dispensing with the small talk.
"Well…?" Nigel was hesitant, almost afraid to ask.
"It's the body of a young woman, probably in her thirties…"
"Is it…?" he interrupted, not able to say her name.
Roz shrugged, trying to keep Nigel as calm as possible. When she spoke, her voice was soft and low. "Can't say for sure right now…It's a burn victim. But - you're not going to like this…The victim was sitting in a vehicle that was obviously torched…With the storm, we figure it's just been smoldering for hours. That's why no one called it in until a patrol car drove by and saw signs of smoke. They stopped to check the vehicle and found the body…And the vehicle was registered to Doctor Jor-"
They had been fast-approaching what was left of the El Camino, and Nigel slowed down in shock. "Oh my God, oh my God!" Nigel's voice interrupted, his hands shaking. "I was just here earlier…The El Caminio wasn't…I didn't think to look around the corner…I…I can't do this…I really can't do this!"
"Look, I understand. But we have to make a positive identification. We'll probably need to match her dental records - Her hands are so burnt I doubt you'll find any prints…And the storm we had probably washed away whatever trace was there…" Roz trailed off, looking at the ground, sorry for the loss of such an outstanding medical examiner. "How soon can you…?"
"I can't, I can't," Nigel started to sob, backing away toward his motorcycle. "Call someone else…I can't!"
Roz nodded in understanding and flipped open her cell phone, watching Nigel stumble back toward the end of Pearle Street. She wondered if there was anyone down at the morgue who would be willing to do the autopsy knowing that it could be one of their own. She gritted her teeth when she remembered the one person there who would be likely to help, just as his voice answered her call.
-----
Miranda Sweeney had just gotten off the phone with her contact, Justin Page. He'd apparently tailed Jordan Cavanaugh to some dive motel off Route 495, heading directly toward their hideout. She wondered what Drew had told the ME. Even after a severe beating, Drew was not ready to betray the Boston medical examiner. Miranda was still slightly jealous. "Hey -- it's me…" she spoke into the phone.
"I told you to wait for me to call you…This better be important!" came a husky male voice.
"It is," Miranda assured, looking down the hall where Drew was still tied and slumped in the chair. "He's not telling us anything. The Feds have the bodies, and I can't be sure they won't be able to trace that gun to me…" Miranda was slightly afraid. More of losing her life than getting caught. Killing two agents would get her the death penalty, and flipping sides to help Drew at this late point wouldn't keep her mother safe. Miranda thought back to the small cottage in New Jersey where she'd grown up. And where two of her colleagues - traitor agents as well - waited as guests in her mother's home until her job in Boston was completed to satisfaction. If not, well…Miranda shook her head and tried to focus on the matter at hand.
"You'll just have to make sure you get them back -- the bodies and the gun. What of the medical examiner?"
Miranda swallowed. "Page has been tailing her. I don't know if she suspected something or not. She left her apartment yesterday morning, carrying only a suitcase. He found her cell phone and credit cards and keys still on her counter. It isn't likely she'll run back. But…" She paused, not really wanting to continue.
"But what?"
"I don't know what Haley told her about us and our little operation. I couldn't find his file…"
"Then you look harder…Make him talk…And -- you bring her in. Dead or alive, Ms. Sweeney. That's the new arrangement then. Nothing can jeopardize this mission, understand?"
Miranda's head bobbed in agreement, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Yes, sir. I'll take care of it."
The voice on the other end of the line was cold. "No mistakes, Ms. Sweeney. Kill if you must, but no more loose ends." The phone clicked softly, followed by a dial tone. He'd hung up. Miranda set the phone down and went back down the hall toward Haley. She needed to find out exactly how much Doctor Cavanaugh knew before the ME was able to contact the authorities…
-----
Lily went in search of Bug, her face tired and worried. "Now Nigel has called out sick!" she exclaimed. Bug was standing in Autopsy One, poised to cut into the body of a forty year-old man. He set the scalpel back down on the nearby tray and threw off his gloves as he headed for Nigel's desk, Lily close on his heels.
"See!" she pointed to Nigel's empty chair, his computer screen black and empty.
Bug shook his head vehemently. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this…" he tried, but it sounded hollow even to him.
"Hey, what's going on?" Sidney barged in. "Slocum's meeting is in five minutes and no one's heard from him since yesterday…"
"What the hell!…This is starting to sound like something from the Twilight Zone!" Lily cried out.
"Easy," Bug put his arm around her shoulders, trying to calm her down. He steered her toward the brake room when he suddenly remembered where the Brit could be. "Nigel was on call…Maybe something came in."
"Then why would he call out sick! That just does not make any sense!"
Emmy came down the hall, rushing toward them. "I have a message for you, Bug…It's from Doctor Slocum. He needs you to meet him in Autopsy Three in five minutes…"
"What about the meeting?" Sidney asked her.
"Apparently this is more pressing…Meeting's been canceled," she said, handing him a note to post on the conference room door. Sidney's mouth fell open.
Lily shook her head. "I don't like this. It seems like this office is falling apart. Stuff's been getting weirder and weirder since Garret's been gone…" Her hands were trembling.
Bug led her into the break room and helped her to sit. "Let me get you a cup of tea…" he offered. She smiled at him and nodded. "Sidney, can you take my body in Autopsy One? It's for an insurance claim, and I haven't cut the body open yet. You'll find my notes on the counter."
Sidney stepped toward the door. "Right, man. No problem...At least we don't have to go through the whole meeting thing." He whistled down the hall, stopping to slam the taped sign against the conference room door.
Bug walked over to Lily and handed her a steaming cup fresh out of the microwave. "Sorry, it's the best we have…" he apologized.
But Lily was lost in her own thoughts. "I wonder what's more pressing than the morning meeting?" Lily mused, sipping her tea.
"Well, I guess I'm about to find out…" Bug said, hearing Slocum's loud voice instructing where to wheel the body. He jumped off and hurried toward Autopsy Three, but not before he bent, quickly but shyly, and kissed Lily on the cheek. "Have a good day, Lily!"
Lily looked up in surprise, ready to say something in return, but Bug was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
-----
Nigel had sped around the city mindlessly, trying to focus on whatever detail he was missing from this complicated puzzle. He was certain the woman could not be Jordan…His mind just would not allow that even as a remote possibility. But still, there was something he was missing. Finally, he replayed the conversation from the previous evening in his head. Garret had mentioned - something - about a letter to Woodrow? He needed to see it for himself.
He walked up to the nurses' station, his face a mask of what he hoped was more concern than confusion, and asked for Detective Hoyt. "Honey, he's in Recovery by now. They won't be wheeling him up for another hour or so…Why don't you go get yourself some coffee and come back then. I can't promise he'll be good company, but you never know. It sounds like the surgery was successful, so don't fret about your friend." The nurse was friendly, but she practically shooed him away. Not knowing what else to do, he wandered down to the cafeteria and took her advice. He was back promptly in an hour. But Woody still hadn't been brought up from recovery…
-----
"That's it, just let it all out…" a nurse cooed, holding a bucket up for Woody. He ached so badly, but it wasn't the aches and pains that were bothering him just now. It was the motion. He felt the urge to be sick and tried to lean toward the bucket. The nurse was swabbing his face with a cool cloth.
He literally felt as though he couldn't -- or shouldn't -- move. Every time he moved his head even a fraction of an inch, he threw up. It felt like an amusement park ride, where you were stuck against a wall by force and any little movement made you sick. Like some sort of gravitational pull.
"You're just having a bad reaction to the anesthesia," the nurse explained. "I've called Doctor Roberts and the anesthesiologist on duty. Don't worry, it'll be okay. Aim for the bucket…We can't take you back upstairs until you stop vomiting." She kept mopping at his head, trying to steady the bucket under his chin. He'd never felt so sick in his life, he thought again, as he tried unsuccessfully to reach for the bucket. The nurse dropped his chart with a loud bang, and he jumped. Damn, he was scared...of a stupid loud noise. He wondered if he was ever going to feel alright again.
-----
Jordan felt a hand clap down over her mouth and tried to scream. She was jerked back into a van, the doors shutting with a loud bang. She wasn't about to go down easy, she thought, so she started to kick and flail as best as possible, trying to bite her attacker.
"Easy, easy…it's me," a familiar voice came from behind her. She let her arms fall limply to her sides and turned toward the voice…Cal's voice.
"Where did you disappear to!" she demanded when he let go of her.
He put his finger to his lips. "Quiet…I don't want anyone to know you're in here…" he began.
"Convenient for you…No one will suspect a thing when you kill me off." She looked at him with distrust. She had been waiting at the back of the motel in the pouring rain, for at least an hour. Her hair was plastered to her head, her shirt clinging, her jeans sloshy and uncomfortable. Finally, hoping to at least get somewhere dry, she had started to snake around the building, regretful that she hadn't thought to take a gun along. Cal had disappeared, she'd thought, and she wondered if maybe he was working for the other side again...the Albanians.She hadn't wanted to think the worst of him, but she could almost hear Woody's voice, warning her to be cautious.
"Jordan," Cal whispered with frustration. "Shut up a minute! They'll hear you…I'll answer all of your questions later. We have to get out of here before anyone realizes that you got away!" He climbed into the driver's seat and motioned for her to lay low in the back of the van. She crouched down, her eyes filled with doubt. "I promise…" he whispered. He turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking lot. "This was the only thing I could think of after I got you out of the room…And I know that guy was more than suspicious when I walked out. He kept watching me. So I hung out for a little while before I hustled some guy at pool and got him drunk enough to give me the keys to this crappy van...You just have to trust me, okay?"
Jordan nodded, hoping that Cal would not betray her. "Where to, then?"
Cal shrugged. "I thought we would head back toward Boston...I doubt anyone tailing you way out here would look way back there..."
"Well, well...Boston it is..." she said, settling back against the side of the van, her thoughts full of what could await her back home.
-----
Nigel tried to smile at Woody, but his words sounded hollow. "I hear the surgery was successful…" he tried.
Although fresh from surgery and his hellish wait in the recovery room, Woody wasn't about to be fooled by a little small talk. "Nigel, what's on your mind? You've been pacing around the room for the last twenty minutes…"
"Sorry, thought you were still asleep…"
"Still a little sick," Woody admitted, his face cringing with the remembrance. "Can you hand me my toothbrush? It's over there…" he pointed toward the tray.
"What? Oh, sure," Nigel was distracted. He could see the letter from Jordan, resting between a pink pitcher dripping with condensation and the requested toothbrush. "Toothpaste too?" he asked, wheeling the tray over to Woody.
Woody nodded, eager to rid himself of the taste of vomit. "So...what's wrong?" he asked again.
Nigel held up the letter from Jordan. "Aren't you going to read it?" Nigel asked.
Woody shook his head. "No. Whatever she wants to say is probably just out of pity." He frowned, thinking of how he had turned Jordan away, wondering if the damage was irreparable. His behavior had been unforgiveable, he thought, even though Doctor Macy and Lily had tried to convince him otherwise. He just was not sure what he needed and what he wanted anyway. Woody closed his eyes, wondering if it was indeed over between them...Not that it had really ever been on, he told himself. "I don't need that right now. Maybe when I know for sure that I can walk again…" Woody was still uncertain about the success of the surgery. He still couldn't feel his legs, and after spending several hours in Recovery, he just knew that there was something wrong, that something hadn't gone right. He groaned and reached for the bucket as his stomach lurched, then smiled slightly when he didn't get sick.
"Aren't you even a wee bit curious?"
"No," Woody's voice was flat, but Nigel could see the detective was trying hard to hide his true feelings about the matter. Maybe he could use Woody's curiosity against him. Woody picked up the toothbrush and slowly and deliberately put a line of toothpaste on it, trying to change his focus.
"Well, okay then. It's only fair to tell you…" Nigel paused purposely.
Ignoring him, Woody brushed for a full two minutes, then finally spit out his toothpaste in the waiting bucket. "Tell me what?" he asked, his voice calm and seemingly uninterested.
"Jordan's gone."
At the sound of the news, Woody's tone turned bitter. "Gone? Isn't that typical 'Jordan Cavanaugh'? Run, run away, little girl -- So, gone where? Probably out like Nancy Drew, chasing some stupid clue about her mother's death that won't pan out. Or maybe she's off across the country somewhere like some Jane Do-gooder, trying to right another wrong." Woody's voice faded. He knew he was to blame for her leaving, but he couldn't help the anger that began to fill his chest. She didn't even wait for the surgery! his mind roared. She didn't even wait…I still might be able to walk…We still might have had a chance…She didn't even wait! "So, Nigel, just where did she go this time?"
"No, Woody," Nigel's voice cut through his dire thoughts. "You don't understand...She was working on a case with FBI Agent Drew Haley. Two agents - undercover - turned up dead at the Cask n' Flagon. Two other agents," Nigel's hands made air quotes, his face frowning as he continued, "showed up at the morgue looking for the bodies and for Jordan. She was just gone. I've been checking everywhere, even looking at her credit card activity and bank statements…"
"Why does that name sound familiar?" Woody interrupted. His mind sifted through various conversations he'd had with Jordan over the years, but the memory refused to surface. "Who is Drew Haley?" Then Woody felt a chill. "Where is she, Nigel!" he demanded, recalling the dreams he just couldn't seem to shake. Jordan was in trouble…Jordan really was in trouble! Even in his anger, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was not right, and his heart screamed for him to remember. "Haley…"
"Agent Drew Haley is the FBI Agent who worked the 'Digger' cases -- right before you came on with the Boston PD…The ones where Jordan was…"
"…buried alive…" Woody's voice was barely a whisper, the image of Jordan lying in a coffin playing over and over. He remembered…She had told him one night when they were alone, walking past a graveyard on their way back to her apartment after closing up The Pogue. She'd seemed scared, had moved closer to him and grabbed his arm. He hadn't understood, and then she'd blurted out the story as if it were an everyday thing, except that her voice had been small, frightened - not a side of Jordan Cavanaugh that he often - if ever - saw. "Where is she now? Where's Agent Haley?" he asked frantically.
"Agent Haley's been missing for two days now, last seen with Jordan. She called out sick yesterday…," he started.
"Sick? Jordan? She's never sick…"
"…and today she's just…Gone. We don't know where she is…" Nigel said helplessly, not offering the information about her run-down El Camino. That would freak him out, Nigel thought. No, I best keep that information to myself for now. But…He held out the letter to Woody. "I was hoping this would leave some clue…It seems that the last known sighting of Jordan was here, to drop this letter off for you…" he finished lamely.
Woody took the letter in his hands, his face suddenly pale. "She's in trouble, Nigel…I know Jordan's in trouble…" He tried to rise from his bed, not really caring if he could feel his legs or not, the letter fluttering to the floor. He gave Nigel a look, then mustered up strength to drape his legs over the side of the bed.
"Woody…Don't…" Nigel tried to discourage the detective from rising.
"He's right…" Garret's voice sounded from the doorway. "Get back in that bed. You won't be any good to us if you don't recover…" he sighed heavily, cursing the last few weeks. If only they could go back in time.
Woody was exhausted with the effort, but he tried again to rise from his bed…My prison, he thought grimly. "Get out of my way! Jordan needs me!" he tried, tears of frustration forming as he struggled to rise.
Nigel looked over to Doctor Macy, wondering how much he'd heard, how much he knew. He was afraid to ask if the autopsy had revealed that the victim had indeed been Jordan. He didn't believe it, and he didn't really want to know just yet.
"Look, I'm going to ring the nurse and get you something…You need to rest. You need to get your mind off of Jordan and rest…I..." Garret tried in vain. He looked to Nigel for some help, and the two men moved closer to the hospital bed.
"Get out of my way! Jordan needs me!" he tried again, his body weak from the surgery.
"Woody…We'll take care of it…I promise. You have to get better…" Nigel tried to help him back into his bed. Even weak from surgery, Woody was strong. Garret had to help push him back down onto his bed, but Woody fought them, his arms flailing, fists balled.
"Jordan needs me!" he cried again, his shouts sounding into the hall. The nurse ran into the room, finally answering Garret's frantic pulls at the bell.
"What seems to be the problem?" she demanded, taking in the sight of the two men trying to hold the young detective down.
"I think he needs to be sedated," Garret offered without explanation. She nodded in agreement and ran out of the room.
"Like hell I do! I need to get out of this bed and find Jordan!" he cried, punching out at his friends.
The nurse ran back in, an orderly behind her to help if necessary. Once she got the needle into Woody's IV, it was only a matter of seconds before he was out. "There, all better…" she told the men, then walked out shaking her head.
"That was a disaster!" Garret turned toward Nigel, once the hospital staff had left the room. "What the hell is going on now!"
They walked quickly down the hall. "Framus found Jordan's El Camino -- torched -- with a feminine body still inside…" the Brit's voice was almost a whisper.
"Oh my God! It's not…?" Garret almost couldn't finish.
"I don't know…I couldn't stick around…I…" Nigel faltered.
"Well, then who handled the call from the morgue?" Garret quizzed. "Never mind!" He reached for his cell phone once they were outdoors and dialed Detective Roz Framus. "If we find out that it isn't Jordan, then we'll need to know whothe hell is lying in the morgue, and what she could possibly have to do with Jordan's disappearance!" he thoughtaloud as he waited for Roz to pick up.
-----
Drew Haley wondered how much longer they were going to let him live. His left eye was swollen shut, probably black and blue and maybe even shades of red. He could barely feel his right leg, and he could hardly breathe. He probably had a broken rib or two. Miranda. The thought of her turning on him made the bile rise up in his throat. She'd been his best trainee in the last several years, always on top, striving to be the best. Her betrayal sickened him completely. They had almost -- almost -- had a relationship, but then she'd gone under cover. It put distance between them, and apparently something more. Her eyes were no longer soft with what once could have blossomed into love, but cold and hard and steely. Like the eyes of a stranger. Or a killer. And he'd seen enough of both to know…
Even if Clay Casey, his Bureau chief, was missing him, it would be more than difficult to track Miranda down. She'd trained with the best, knew what clues they would look for. His only hope lie in the fact that Jordan had taken his case file by mistake. He'd noticed not long after they had parted, opening the ME's own file, her notes jumbled and scrawled hastily -- not his neat block-printed and orderly style. In fact, he had been on his way to retrieve the file when Miranda and her pals had overtaken him. If Jordan rifled through the file, she would see in his notes that he had been a little suspicious of Charlie Parker to begin with. And she would find his notes from observing her autopsy…He had thought Parker's gun shot Vega, though he hadn't voiced it at the time, but he had jotted down some question marks alongside his notes from her observations…And although neat, the notes were not scripted in his usual fashion…He had been distracted -- by Jordan -- but he had wanted to make sure he had enough pieces of the puzzle to put together at a later time, enough thoughts jotted down so that he could stop to examine each small and seemingly insignificant detail. So possibly breaking from his usual style of investigation could save his life…If only Jordan would look through that file!
But even during his musings a thought kept trying to surface from the back of his mind. There was something in there he didn't want Jordan to see…Something about her family, wasn't it? Ah, yes…He remembered with not a little pain. Why had he put all of those notes in that one file? It was something about her father, something it would hurt her to know…
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"Detective Hoyt…?" Woody stirred. He thought he had heard a voice and opened his eyes to see a dark-headed man in a collar - a priest - standing next to his bed, setting a small vessel on the nearby tray that Woody recognized as holding communion wafers. God, was he that sick! Had the surgery been unsuccessful? Was he about to receive Last Rites? His face paled and he started to panic.
"Calm down, kid….You aren't dying or anything….I sent for Paul. Jordan once told me you were Catholic," Max explained, his face a mask of calm.
Paul….Paul….Why did that name ring a bell? He groaned in remembrance. Of course. Jordan's high school sweetheart…a man she'd actually loved. Jordan. Thinking about her was almost unbearable right now. Jordan…And was that actually Max sitting at the foot of his bed! What the hell was going on! He vaguely remembered overhearing a conversation between Max and Doctor Macy. But it seemed like ages ago, if it hadn't been just a dream. He struggled to think clearly. Hadn't Nigel been in his room not that long ago? And Doctor Macy? He looked toward the tray. The letter from Jordan was gone…Had she really left him a letter? He really couldn't think, his mind was cluttered from pain killers…or had it been sedatives? He started to speak, his mouth like cotton. "Jordan's…"
But Max interrupted him, clearing his throat. "Paul's also here for my benefit…A confession of sorts. It's time you knew the truth about some things…"
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