Author's Note: I promised myself I would have this chapter written by the time I left to spend Thanksgiving with my family, and I managed. Barely. I hope it doesn't seem as cut and dried as I felt it was, but then again, I rarely like my own chapters of this sort.

Feel free to let me have it at the end.

One more chapter left. sniff

Author's thanks at the end.

She had to move with him – as I was, she was arching backwards to relieve some of the pressure on her windpipe. He was stronger than he had any right to be after so many months of sedentary living, and her brief struggles had been easily countered. Carly didn't think Mort knew just how much strength he was exerting . . . though whether he knew or not didn't particularly matter. Either way, he still had her by the neck.

"Now, let's just calm down, sir," the troublesome security guard who'd started all this trouble attempted to counsel. Carly rolled her eyes despite her circumstances; if that was the best she had to rely on to get out of this, she was a goner. And when she was a ghost she was going to haunt him 'til his dying day.

Would someone please get me a real negotiator? Carly asked over a sudden flow of nearly unintelligible curses from Mort. His grip on her tightened as his anger rose and she could feel – and possibly hear – her temples pounding painfully as oxygen deprivation started to slowly settle in. This guy is only aggravating the problem. Why can't anyone else see tha–

"What are you going to steal from me next, you Southern fried bastard?" Mort's voice rumbled out of his chest, carrying malice, paranoia, and unmitigated anger with it.

"Just calm down –"

"Put your gun down!" Mort screamed. Carly's head was so close to his chest that she could hear his vocal chords grating together. "Put the gun down!" Mort tried to stride forward, but was hindered as Carly tripped over her own feet and the rubble covering the floor. He was unaware of her as anything other than a weight to jerk on so he could move forward.

Gagging painfully, Carly managed to wrap her hands around Mort's forearm and gain some balance, finally getting her feet fully under her. It put her in an awkward crouch, but with some of the pressure relieved, Carly was able to draw a breath that was deep enough to drive away the splotches that'd been dancing at the edges of her vision. Mort paid her actions no notice at all since they allowed him to move with more speed.

"Do it! Put it down!" He was opening and closing his fist in agitation, and his fingers occasionally ripped a hair or two out by the roots, making Carly wince in pain. It was ridiculous that her awkward position didn't have her back aching worse than her scalp from the rough treatment, but she supposed that was the shock.

"I don't have a gun, sir." The guard's voice was utterly calm. "You must be seeing things."

Carly craned her head around as much as she could. She thought she caught a glimpse of something that looked very much like a gun. Then her left foot slipped on something that felt like slick magazine paper, and she had to focus on regaining her footing.

"No! I'm not seeing things! I'm not losing my mind!" She could feel Mort trembling like a gun-shy hound. "I'm not losing my mind," he said to himself. "You have a gun. You have a gun, you sonofabitch!" Just as suddenly as he went from talking to himself to screaming, he lowered his voice again. "I can see the gun. He's lying. Always lying. Thief, steals truth."

"Mr. Rainey, you need to let Dr. Beckham go."

"Put your gun down first."

Not an unreasonable request, Carly thought. What kind of game is this guy playing?

The guard apparently didn't agree, because the next thing he said was, "I told you, sir. I don't have a –"

"You do!"

Everyone had a point where they couldn't be pushed any further without snapping. For Briar Ridge's residents, that point came more quickly than for the general populace. And Mort reached his; it was as if an inaudible whip had cracked, so great was the change in the room's tension.

He whirled Carly around, knocking her off balance. Before she could process what was happening, she found herself face crushed to Mort's shoulder, the scent of his fear-sweat in her nostrils. She tried to push away, everything in her rebelling against having her sight cut off in such a dangerous situation. Then a pressure built in her left temple and she froze.

Guess he remembered I was here.

He'd wondered how long he was going to have to goad him before Mort started to use the doctor's presence in the way he was meant to. But when he finally snapped, Ted watched in delight as Mort prepared to use the gun as it was meant to be used. For violent, bloody death. Although if Morty-boy pressed it any harder against her head he was simply going to shove it through her skull. Now that would be a sight to see. Morty would have a proper freak out then. The author had always been something of a pansy. The thought of seeing him break out into a raving case of hysteria was nearly enough to bring a smile to his lips. But that would be bad. The other hospital employees would only be held back at the other end of the corridor for so long, and they still had so far to go.

He released the safety on his weapon and fired it to Mort's left. The writer flinched and screamed, "Stop it!"

"Stop what? I didn't do anything." He was very glad that the bitch in all likelihood had her mouth filled with a fold of dirty robe. It wouldn't do for her to give away the game. He fired again, this time arranging his face to look as if he was reacting to something Mort had done. "You need to stop doing that before you hurt someone, Morty." Damn. Didn't want to say that. "Just stay where you are, Mr. Rainey, and no one will get hurt." Not for awhile yet at least. He didn't want it to happen here, not with all these people around. Having eavesdroppers would ruin the moment when he and Morty had their little chat. After all, someone had to know just how brilliant his plan to get Amy had been.

Someone had to know.

Someone would know.

He couldn't breathe. No fresh air could get in with the windows closed. The thought of breathing air he'd already exhaled made him shiver with disgust. He couldn't do it. He needed new air. But the room was getting smaller, forcing all the air out of it.

Have to leave the room. His thoughts were simple even as his body quaked with manic hysteria. Have to get out before I get crushed. Being crushed would be a bad thing.

-BANG!-

Mort had to keep himself from dropping to the floor, from hiding from that loud noise that he could see. "Stop it!" He'd spent enough time curled into a little ball, ignoring the outside world. The past few days had made him see what doing so had done to him, how he was more animal than man when he hid inside his own mind.

"I'm not doing anything.

He refused to go back to that. Refused to let this man drive him back to being that. He'd reached the point where he no longer wanted Amy back – all he wanted was to be left alone. Maybe write another book. Non-fiction this time. Safer than fiction. Yes, he could see it now –

-BANG!-

The instinctive fear, the urge to make as small a target as possible broke into Mort's wandering thoughts. He was crouched over before he realized what he was doing, the doctor laying across his knees motionless. Was she hit? The thought made him push her away in revulsion. Too much blood, too many bodies had passed before his eyes in the recent past.

It was as if her body was made of rubber; the moment she hit the floor, she rebounded, getting to her feet and making a rush to the door.

She's part of this. She's involved. He didn't know if that was true or not, or in what manner it may be true, but the thought that she might have had a part in his torment was enough to make Mort move faster than he ever had in his life. Before she'd taken more than a couple of steps, he was on her. She cried out as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist in an iron grip and twisted her arm up behind her back. If he pushed a little further he could break a bone or dislocate her shoulder. The smallest struggle would send excruciating pain from her neck to her fingertips. He knew; he'd researched such things for one of his stories.

"Mort. . ." Her feeble, pleading voice brought back memories of Amy. Of that day in the cabin. Shadowy memories, where voices had shapes and emotions that he could see and feel but couldn't clearly recall. Part of him wanted to let the doctor go.

A bigger part of him told him no cost was too great to find out just what had happened to him. Had he truly just lost his mind, or had someone stolen it from him? Like Amy had been stolen from him.

The doctor stays.

Whether the thought had originated with him or not, Mort agreed. Yes.

"Move out of the way," he rasped at Ted. Yes, that was it. That was who it was. He knew it was Ted now. Knew it was Ted.

"I can't let you leave this rat warren of a building, Mort."

He was writer; most words had imagery or connotations attached to them. It was how he made his living. And the images those simple words brought to mind were enough to make the simple claustrophobia he was feeling inside his room seem like a mere trifle. After all, what was a single room when an entire building was closing in around you, preparing to collapse on top of you?

"Get out of my way," Mort repeated.

You have a weapon, use it. He raised the gun, uncertainly, not quite sure what to do with it, then shoved it into the doctor's back. It was a good a place as any and there was less chance it'd be knocked out of his hand there. He then forced her to walk forward by shoving forward on her arm. Forward, not up. Hurting her would slow me down. And he desperately wanted out.

As he got closer to the door, Ted moved to step out of the way. Even Mort's madly racing mind knew it'd be a very bad thing to allow this man to get behind him. There'd be nothing to keep Ted from sticking a knife in his back. Besides, Ted had all the pieces, and Mort wanted them. Just like he wanted outside. Which meant Ted needed to come outside too.

"You, come." Mort moved the gun from the doctor's back so he could motion with it. "In front. We're going outside."

Lawley was cleaning up the kitchen when his phone started to ring. He was in such a good mood that he decided to let the machine pick it up. Dealing with a telemarketer or even worse, his office, would be the exact opposite of what he wanted to spend time contemplating. Why would he want to talk to someone else when he could remember the way that first kiss had felt – it was amazing how sweet her lips had been for someone who had such a tart tongue. Or he could reminisce at how she'd finally let her shield fall enough to let him into her life. Or so she'd said. He was smart enough to know not to immediately press his advantage, but he also knew that he couldn't leave her alone for too long either or she'd start second-guessing herself and probably his intentions as well. She was frustrating like that, but he didn't mind since it was also part of her charm. That the self-confident doctor could be so easily unsettled by him when she all but shrugged off death threats fascinated him.

His rather silly grin was interrupted by the simultaneous sounding of his cell phone and pager.

All right, all right, I get the point. Hanging up his dishtowel and the oven handle, he retrieved phone and pager and checked their displays. The page was coming from his office – no surprise there – and the phone call from Detective Noell.

His contentment was shattered by a sudden sense of foreboding. He'd pushed it back when she'd left, but now it was resurging with a vengeance. Just how bad had the trouble at Briar Ridge gotten? He didn't usually get called in unless someone had been killed.

Oh good lord, calm yourself down, Mick. "Lawley," he barked into the phone. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he could get his stomach to settle down.

"Mr. Lawley, I'm sorry to contact you at this late hour, but we have something of a situation at Briar Ridge. . ."

Michael knew he shouldn't be here. It was dark, and everyone said that it wasn't safe to be on the grounds after dark. There were dangerous people around. He was supposed to be back at the group home by now. It was dinner time and he was hungry. . . But he wasn't done. And he'd never seen one of these dangerous people. No, getting the seedlings transferred into their new pots was more important and he would be done soon. It wasn't too long a walk back to the group home. He knew. He'd done it before. Everyone thought he wasn't smart, but he was. He left his window unlocked so he could get back in when he stayed late. He never got locked out.

Carefully, painstakingly, Michael transferred each bean sprout into their own individual small 3" deep plastic well in a flat of such wells. In another two weeks they'd be ready for sale to hobby gardeners who came to Briar Ridge's greenhouses for cheap garden stock. He wouldn't be there for that – too many strangers – but he liked preparing the plants for it. More money meant better things for the garden, and new things for him to do. He liked having new things to do as long as it involved plants. He didn't like having to eat new foods. Especially white ones. He didn't like white foods.

He was about three-fourths of the way done when he heard voices approaching the greenhouse. Sometimes people had used to walk out here at night, nurses and orderlies and security guards on break. But since everyone had gotten scared, no one came here at night anymore. Michael looked at the small lantern he was using to light his workspace – We do not play with fire. Fire hurts plants. – and decided it wasn't enough to draw anyone's attention. Especially since his back was to the direction the voices were coming from. And maybe they were just voices – the thought didn't alarm him though it would be annoying.

"Where are we going, Mr. Rainey? Morty? Mort 'ol buddy?" Michael's ears perked up. He knew that voice. Though he usually couldn't match a face to it, he always remembered voices he'd heard before. He'd told that one how to find the lake. He'd had a wheelbarrow full of weeds. From the way the man had acted, it'd been really heavy. Michael still thought they should have been taken to the compost heap.

"Stop talking to me." That voice sounded sad and scared and angry. It wasn't really a nice voice. Michael didn't particularly like it. He hoped it wasn't the man that Dr. Beckham had introduced him to. He didn't like the thought of her being around that kind of voice.

"Who says I'm talking? Just because you're hearing things doesn't mean anything is actually happening, Mr. Shooter."

"Don't call me that!" The anger and fear turned to blistering rage. Someone somewhere whimpered softly in response. Michael wanted to go see who it was, who was walking through the grounds at night, who was angry, who was whimpering. . . But the plants came first. They always came first. He couldn't help it; it was just the way he was built. That plants were more important to him than most people wasn't something he could change.

"Why not, it's your name, isn't it?" The voice that belonged to the wheelbarrow man sounded sly.

"No. It's not my name. My name is Morton Rainey. My name is Morton Rainey. My name is Morton Rainey. . ." Michael nodded sagely, understanding the need to repeat such things. It was hard to remember sometimes, and voices were tricksy. Sometimes they lied, but sometimes they told the truth, and it could be hard to tell the difference.

"Why don't we ask the good doctor, since you're not in any mood to stop and chat. I'm sure she knows what your name is." When no one else said anything, the wheelbarrow man continued; "What, nothing to say, Dr. Beckham? I'm surprised. I thought you liked to hear your own voice under any circumstances."

Dr. Beckham? Michael looked at the flat in his hands. It was the last one. Just eighteen more wells to fill with potting soil and bean sprouts. Then he could go outside and say hello to Dr. Beckham. She'd probably be a little upset that he hadn't gone home like he was supposed to, but she'd make sure he got there. She might even get him another taxi. He liked taxis. Especially the ones that were a proper yellow like they were on TV.

He got to work and within five minutes he was able to leave the greenhouse – taking his lamp with him and being sure to lock the building behind him – and set out after the group he'd heard.

For the first time in her tenure, Carly hated the extensive 1.2 acres of land that had come with the deed to Briar Ridge. At one point it'd been nearly three times that amount, but various environmental groups had nibbled at the edges over the years. So while the grounds nearest the facilities were all smooth lawns and landscaped gardens, the back half, the land behind the lake, was all untamed beech forest. And while tramping through tended land in the dark, and the cold, and the drizzle wasn't much fun – especially with one arm twisted painfully up behind her back and the barrel of a gun digging into the base of her spine – doing the same thing through wild forest was hell.

Every time she stumbled – which was often since they only had the pale light of the moon to illuminate their way and she was thrown off balance by having the use of one arm curtailed – she'd glare at the man walking so blithely in front of her. This was all his fault, whoever the hell he was. His face tugged at something inside her. Since his identity was on the tip of her tongue – she was positive he wasn't a security guard, or at least not one attached to Briar Ridge – she didn't at all blame Mort for his reaction. He certainly hadn't protested when he'd been told to join this impromptu nature hike.

"You do like places on the edge of civilization, don't you Shooter?"

"That's not my name," Mort muttered, and Carly noticed he didn't otherwise disagree, but only distantly. Shock was overtaking her for the most part.

Ted? That's Ted? No, she couldn't believe it. Yet now that she'd recognized the voice, she couldn't persuade herself that she was imagining things. But what had driven him to this of all things? She knew he had an intense dislike not only for Mort, but for herself as well. But this was a rather elaborate set-up for mere dislike. This spoke of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder with overtones of a twisted superiority complex.

I suppose I could ask what the hell he thinks he's doing. As they wandered further and further away from any source of help, Carly couldn't stop the growing urge to do just that.

"Too bad you don't have a screwdriver in your hand, Morty. I've heard what you can do with one. Tell me, has it just been luck that's kept you from hitting any bones, or do you just know your physiology?"

"Stop it! Stop talking! Stop saying things like that!" Carly grunted with pain as his anger transferred to serious pain for her. "I'm not a killer!"

Not yet. But he's being pushed way too far. That was it; she'd had enough. Stopping put even more pressure on her sore arm and shoulder, but Carly dug in her heels and spat out, "Just what are you trying to accomplish, Mr. Milner?"

Lawley had gotten to Briar Ridge at a speed that probably would have cost him a pretty penny if he'd been caught. He probably would have been able to talk himself out of a ticket, but it would have taken time he didn't want to waste so he was glad no one had stopped him.

Finding the center of operations for the several squads of police who had been sent to quell the troubles took but a few seconds. He strode up to it, people parting before him until he could see Detective Noell and his partner Yancy talking to someone in the uniform of one of Briar Ridge's security guards.

"What do we know?" he demanded as he came up alongside them.

"Not a whole hell of a lot. Somehow Rainey got his hands on a gun. Somehow a security guard that no one on duty recognized was the one that tried to negotiate when it him he took Dr. Beckham –"

"Dr. Beckham's been taken hostage?" Lawley interrupted, nothing but his tone showing how upset this news made him.

"Yeah. I bet she's changed her mind about how violent her patient is now. Fool woman went in to try to calm him down without any aid." Yes, Lawley admitted that sounded like something Carly would do. "Anyway, last time anyone saw them, Rainey had Beckham and this unknown security guard hostage, and they were heading north across the east lawn."

Lawley raised an eyebrow, trying to sound impartial though he wasn't by a long shot. "You sound skeptical. Don't you believe it?"

"I believe that this 'guard' is Rainey's partner. It'd explain how he had alibis for some of the murders but not all of them."

Lawley doubted that. Rainey was such an introvert that he wouldn't seek out help for anything if he could help it. The attorney thought it more likely somehow Rainey had gotten mixed up in bad company, and the end result had been more than he could handle.

That was neither here nor there at the moment though. "What are you planning to do?"

"The only thing we can do. We'll send men into the woods. There's no roads so they can't have a waiting vehicle and they won't have gotten too far on foot. Besides, hostages are notorious for being slow movers. Until they stop moving that is. But then, perhaps the Doctor has enough sense to keep from risking her neck."

"What are you planning to accomplish, Mr. Milner?" Ted spun around at those words and had closed the small distance between them before either she or Mort could react. The next thing Carly knew, she was lying on the forest floor, cold moisture seeping into her clothing as she watched the after images of the stars that'd exploded in her head when he'd hit her. She was lying on something uncomfortable. Mort, she decided. He'd gone down with her.

"So, you finally figured it out, did you, bitch?"

Something about the way he hovered threateningly over them kept Carly from rising even though her side was all but soaked through. "I'm sorry that the potential of being shot makes my thoughts a little scattered." He'd been throwing out so many insults that were fashioned specifically for Mort that she wanted to kick herself for not picking up on it sooner.

"Ted?" Mort sounded confused, as if hearing her say his name made him doubt his own conclusions. "Yes. Ted."

"The great author speaks." Ted rolled his eyes as he started stripping off his disguise. "I'm glad you finally figured it out. This stuff itches."

This was either the sign of a man who was greatly confident in his success, or it was abnormal behavior. She bet on the last since most people would not be worrying about an itch at this point. Then he pulled out his gun and casually put in a fresh clip of bullets and she knew that he was so relaxed because he'd decided he was far enough away from Briar Ridge to suit his purposes.

"Too bad it took you so long to figure it out my dear –"

"No!" Mort shot to his feet, dragging Carly with him. "She's mine! You don't get her. You already got Amy."

Carly would have been way more flattered if she didn't suspect that he simply took offense to Ted "stealing" something else away from him. Not to mention she was being half-choked in Mort's enthusiasm and it was getting old fast.

"She's already mine, Morty."

Carly gasped in indignation but she knew her point hadn't translated well because Mort shoved his own gun into her side and said in a bland voice, "Then she dies."

Just as Carly was thinking that she couldn't believe this was actually happening, that this had to be a farce of some kind, the sound of running footsteps approaching their position reached them. Ted didn't wait to see who it was. He started firing at the exact moment as their uninvited guest burst into the small clearing their group was gathered in.

"No!" She watched in disbelief as a figure in a very familiar hat stumbled and fell to the ground. "No!" Jerking free of Mort who seemed to be stunned by this sudden outburst of violence and without paying mind to the pain she was sure came from a strained muscle at the very least, Carly all but flew the few feet to the figure's side.

"Oh Michael," she whispered. He lay on his stomach with his face turned her way. His sightless gaze and motionless body told her all she needed to know.

He must have stayed late and heard us. Must have heard me. He wasn't inquisitive about strangers, but he'd always followed her around like a puppy dog when she'd let him. Why didn't you go home when you were supposed to? she asked, gently removing his hat. His dark hair was slightly greasy; he'd never really taken to the concept of regular bathing.

Anger grew on top of her grief. She welcomed it, and after one last gentle move to close eyes that would never open again, she stood, and twirled on the man that'd murdered such a gentle person.

"You bastard."

She rushed him.

The squad of cops nearest to lake heard the shots ring out over the still water. They radioed in their position and what they were about to do, and when went racing towards the forest, guns drawn and flight lights out.

Mort didn't understand. If the doctor was a part of this like Ted had claimed, why was she so upset? They wanted to kill him, didn't they? But that didn't make sense because she was really, really upset that the man was dead. Was it possible? Was Ted lying again?

Oblivious to Mort's internal debate, Carly went for Ted's throat, determined that he be stopped here and now. He was dangerous.

She managed to knock him off his feet before he took her threat seriously. To have a serious chance, she knew she had to get the gun out of his hand. That would leave Mort as the only armed one in their group, but she didn't really think he was danger. Threats aside, she expected him to hightail it out of here while they were occupied.

Look at her. She's fighting with him. That must mean that Ted was lying. I've been around Dr. Beckham longer. He knew her better. She was annoying, and pushy, and occasionally nosy, but she didn't hurt people. He couldn't say the same for Ted.

Carly's head snapped back as Ted punched her in the jaw. He held nothing back; he cared nothing for her. He'd brought her out here to die and had no compunctions about doing the job with his bare hands even though that'd mean changing his plan. Hell, for the opportunity to kill this bitch, deviating from his plan would be worth it. He'd make it worth it.

Desperation grew in both combatants. The fight would be over soon, and whoever won would win. That would be it. And Carly for the most part was getting the worst of it. With one arm out of commission, she was taking quite a beating, something Ted was enjoying every minute of.

Mort watched them, occasionally glancing down at the gun in his hand. But he couldn't use it. He wasn't a killer. He'd never be a killer. If he killed now, the truth died and everyone would point fingers at him and say they'd always known he was a killer.

But Dr. Beckham was getting hurt. . .

Carly felt her breath leave her in a rush as Ted sank his fist into her midsection. Her legs crumpled beneath her, leaving her kneeling in the mud, fighting to make her lungs work again.

"While this has been fun. . ."

She looked up; his face was marked by her nails. The bleeding wounds only added to his menacing presence.

Mort looked one last time at the gun and dropped it. He couldn't use it. Not even now.

". . .it really needs to end now." Ted raised the gun.

Carly knew she was in all likelihood about to die, but she looked at it, then at him, with cold eyes.

Mort looked around for a branch suitable enough to use as a weapon but found nothing.

"They'll be coming soon, and I really must be getting back to Amy." Ted grinned, imagining his love as he'd left her, sleeping like a fairy princess. "I hate to do this when I so wanted to see Mort do it. . ."

He never would.

I couldn't.

"But I suppose I can live with killing the both of you myself. And I did put him here. That should be enough for anyone."

As the words left his mouth, Mort appeared. Carly tried to rise to her feet as they struggled for control of the weapon, but her abused body was slow to respond. She did manage to roll out of the way before she was trampled, but it was a close call.

"This is you. This is all you," Mort panted as he clung to the barrel of the gun with all his strength, trying to keep it pointed at the ground.

"You're making me blush," Ted hissed back. He elbowed Mort in the nose, and Carly could hear the sound of cartilage being crushed. Mort didn't give in though, or if he did, he did so in a way that sent both men toppling to the ground.

Using a nearby tree to pull herself up at nearly the same time as the men conjointly rolled to their feet to continue the battle, Carly prepared to dart in and wrest control of the weapon the moment she thought she could.

Almost . . . almost . . . al–

-BANG!-

All three watched in amazement as Ted and Mort broke apart. For a moment Carly wasn't sure who'd been shot or if anyone had even been shot. She could see nothing in the dark. Then Ted started laughing, hysteria edging his voice, and Mort swayed where he stood.

"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh no." She stepped forward just in time to catch Mort before he fell though his weight pushed her to the ground one last time.

He found her eyes somehow. She watched in disbelief as his mouth opened and shut, trying to produce sound.

"No. Don't talk." Where was he shot? Where! Her eyes searched for a wound but found nothing that was distinguishable from the mud that coated him. "Where are you hurt, Mort?" Ted was still laughing, no danger for the moment but that could change in a heartbeat. "Where are you hurt?"

He met her eyes and gave her a sort of lopsided grin. "I'm not crazy," he said softly, firmly, joyfully though his voice was just barely loud enough to be heard over Ted. "I'm not. . ."

His body went limp in her arms.

Ted stopped laughing. "Just one last loose end to tie up," he murmured, raising his gun to point it at the doctor who wasn't even looking at him. That was alright. He could wait. He wanted her to see it coming. He could wait –

"Stop! Police! Lower your weapon and put your heads above your head!"

"Nooooooo!" Ted screamed. These men would not come between him and what had to be. They would not come between him and Amy. They would not –

In the end everyone at the scene would agree that Ted was more than a little unhinged. He raised his weapon to fire. The police responded, the sounds of their weapons drowning out the soft click of an empty gun. Ted heard it though, and he stumbled back, turning as if to run deeper into the forest. His only thought was escape so he could see Amy again.

Three more bullets caught him and he fell.

Carly, sitting in the midst of three bodies of men who her job it was to help, saw none of it.

Author's Thanks: on this day before Thanksgiving, I'm most grateful for all my readers and reviewers, a few of whom are….Mayorst (No more cliffies I'm afraid, but I do intend to wrap up my loose ends, though in a nicer way than Ted.); tinkthefairy (I know you're probably upset with me for not letting Mort survive, but that's the way the story is supposed to end, I'm afraid. Having him alive in the end didn't make much sense to me.); Honorat (Ted is so much fun to write. I'm really glad I got the chance to write someone like him.); Lonely Phantom of Darkness (I hope you still think this is the best SW fic ever.); Miriam Q Webster (Some repetiveness is okay, but when it comes to the main themes of the story, I think it can get old fast. But then, that's me.); Shire cat (everyone hates Ted. It's part of his charm. .); Spoofmaster (I'm crazy now, I'm sure. I can't believe I'm nearly at the end.); Stahlfan125 (I'm glad you didn't see the Ted thing coming. I was afraid that everyone would.); Dawnie-7 (You think that last chapter was brilliant? I might have to go take a second look at it. .); BB (Culprit. That's such a good word. I'm glad the last chapter really upped the suspense. I can only hope I didn't kill it off at the beginning of this one.); Blue Autumn Sky (I'm glad you got the "It's always been you," comment. I left it vague on purpose, but it's nice to know someone was following me there.); websurfer (Evil plotting is good. I'm rather devious myself. It leads to thinks like everyone dying. Though I did resist that route. It was a close call though.); Charlie Quill (I really wrote something that made your jaw ache from being clenched? That's one of the best compliments I've gotten all year. I always think I don't do well on any sort of suspenseful writing, so its nice to see that I'm wrong now and again.); Rogue Pirate (I don't know when I'll be writing more stories after I finish this and Days, but I will sooner or later.); Lynx (or should I say "Poe"? . I'm always amused when people act surprised that I used a cliffhanger. I lime my cliffhangers.); tadri33 (here's the update you were waiting for. Just hope you're still speaking to me after reading it. .); butterflywings32 (exactly what I wrote. I know, it was a little surprising. Even to me.); Sparrow Lover (Don't worry about falling behind. As you can see there's not much left so you might as well savor it.); Merrie (Thad is a funny name. Makes me laugh. Don't know why. Probably because it's midnight and I'm tired.); CleopatraVII (don't worry about it. As you can see, there's not much left. I'd wait before reading the last chapters too. If that was an option for me.)