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Be careful what you wish for. I should have it tattooed across my forehead.

I have my answer. After all these years, I know why my father lied to me, why he left town rather than deal with my insistent questions, why there are holes in my memory he never wanted to be filled. I know what my own mind was protecting me from and I shiver in the knowledge I can never climb back into my blanket of oblivion.

For a long time I sit in my bed, knees drawn up to my chest, hugging them to me, as if I fold in on myself enough somehow I'll be able to minimize what I've done. Finally I pick up the phone. When the tired voice answers, I say, "It's Jordan."

"Jordan? Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I – Uh – I did something. And – And I need – I need… to confess."

I'm pretty sure he hears the genuine pain in my voice; he used to know me so well. "What did you do, Jordan, that you need to confess to in the middle of the night?"

"I killed my mother, Paul."

Half an hour later, he's at my door. Wordlessly he wraps his arms around me and leads me to the couch. The tears that started the moment I said the words haven't stopped. They are quiet tears. I think the harsh, angry sobs died years ago; all I have left for her, for my father, for myself are these twin streams of silent guilt and anguish. Paul simply holds me and rocks back and forth, his hand smoothing my hair. After what seems like hours, he softly tells me, "Jordan, you didn't kill your mother."

I let my head rest on his shoulder. "But I did, Paul. I've finally remembered what happened that day."

He pulls back enough to tip up my chin so that I'm forced to meet his scrutiny. "Memory can be false. You know that." He swallows. "Someone must have suggested-"

I shake my head. "No. Never. And it all makes sense. My dad's lies, his cover up, why I blanked certain things out – everything."

"It doesn't make any sense!" He shakes his head for emphasis. "Why would you…? No, Jordan. I don't accept this 'memory' of yours."

"Paul. I was standing over my mother, holding the gun that killed her. I was covered in blood – her blood. There'd been an argument of some sort and then – then this sound. The shot. And the smell. Believe me, I know that smell."

"What was the argument about?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe Mom – Maybe she had one of her episodes and I got mad and picked up Dad's gun."

He doesn't reply, but his face is still a panorama of disbelief. "Jordan-"

"Paul, please. I know what happened." I lean back against the couch. "I need – absolution."

Defeated, he concedes, and we go through the old rites and rituals. They bring me a small comfort that I don't think I really expected. When he's gone, I brew coffee and drink it in bed waiting for the sunrise.

XXX

It's almost noon before I can make the call I've been thinking about since my third cup of Costa Rican dark roast. Not quite nine in the morning in the desert. Danny McCoy is prompt in answering my call.

"Jordan, good to hear from you." His voice is silk, but today it barely touches me. "Changed your mind at all?"

I give him a small chuckle and then sigh as dramatically as I can. "Sorry, not yet." I take a breath. "I actually need a favor."

"Sure. Whatever I can do."

"I need to find my father."

"And you think he's in Las Vegas?"

"No," I tell him. "But you're the only person I know who might have the right – or wrong – connections."

He laughs at that. "All right. What do I get if I find him?"

"My eternal gratitude?" I force myself to be flirtatious. I don't want him to know anything's wrong.

"Well, that should be thanks enough for anyone," he teases back. "Um, Jordan, would I be out of line if I assumed your dad may not exactly want to be found?"

"Nope. You'd be right in line. But I need to get a message to him. I think he'll come back to Boston if he gets it."

"Okay, so what's this message I'm passing on."

I lick my lips. I've thought about this. "Tell him I want to know what happened to my extra uniform skirt."

"Huh? Your extra uniform skirt?" I can just picture the look of befuddlement on his face. At any other time I'd probably find it endearing.

"He'll understand, Danny."

"And he'll rush home to Bean Town?"

"That's what I'm hoping. I think."

He hesitates. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I lie.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

If he thinks I'm fibbing, he lets it pass. I have a funny feeling that my dad might not be the only one coming back to Boston if Danny can find him. Pollack was right about one thing – I'm not a great liar, which is, at this moment, a height of irony, in my mind.

"All right," he continues. "Can you e-mail me anything about him?"

"Sure. I'll send you everything I know." Well, not everything. A girl's got to keep some secrets. Even from herself it seems.

"Great. I'll get on it as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Danny."

XXX

Danny calls me a week later. "Geez, Jordan, your old man must have been great at hide and seek."

"No luck?"

"Not so far."

I sigh. "Thanks for trying, Danny."

"Hey! I didn't say I was giving up. I've got some leads, some… people Ed might know. I just wanted you to know I was still looking."

"Okay. Thanks again."

"And I wanted to make sure you were still okay?" His tone says he didn't believe me the last time.

"I'm fine," I promise him. "There are just some – some things I need to talk to my dad about."

He hesitates. "Jordan, what if he won't go back to Boston?"

"Tell him I'll meet him somewhere – anywhere."

"It's that important?"

I see my blood stained hands again. "Yeah."

I hear a voice in the background and then Danny is chuckling. "Ed says hi and to tell you we'll track down your old man." Another chuckle and then Danny's voice again, turned form the phone, "Do you want to talk to her?" I smile to myself as Danny goes on, "And Ed wants to make sure you know you're welcome here anytime. He likes you."

I laugh a little and thank Danny again before handing up.

I've just cradled the phone when Lily taps on my door. "Sorry," she tells me, her eyes straying in curiosity to the phone. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

I wave away her concern. "I was done."

She bites the edge of her lip. "Can I ask who it was?"

"Danny McCoy." A look of surprise widens her eyes. "I asked him to find Max for me."

"Is everything all right?"

Damn it, is my relationship with my dad that bad that everyone thinks the minute I try to find him something must be wrong? Yeah. Never mind. "Yeah, it's fine. I just need to talk with him about – about some things."

She nods with a slowness that tells me I'm not really fooling my nearest and dearest friends. Part of me wants to tell Lily… Garret… Nigel… Bug.

Woody.

Part of me. But I'm afraid I'll see that look in their eyes – the one in Paul's eyes when I told him. The one full of shock – not at what I'm saying, but the fact I'm saying it at all – and sympathy because Jordan has finally let her mother's murder drive her over the edge. The I don't want it to be true, so it can't be look. Then they'll say the soft, soothing words that I wouldn't mind hearing, except they're false. And I need the truth – I need it the way addicts need their fix.

She tells me Garret needs me to take a call, a body out near the Mass Pike. I shudder at the very mention of that phrase. Nigel's getting what we need and he'll meet me at the car. Lily mentions as I hurry past her that Woody's the detective.

Of course.

She also reminds me that if I ever need to talk, she's there for me. Be careful what you wish for.

XXX

The crime scene is the back parking lot of a small diner. Witnesses saw the deceased – one of the short order cooks - arguing with "some dude" the previous night. No one heard the subject of the argument or, if they did, no one was willing to talk about it. The description of the "dude" was vague – so vague it might be an insult to actually vague descriptions. Medium height, on the hefty side, muscled-hefty though, brownish-blond hair, etc. Not a list to inspire much hope of finding the guy so Woody could have a conversation with him.

I leave Nigel at the scene to go over the forensics. Woody shoots me a curious look, almost a pout. I can't help it. I can't be around him now. Because of so many things. Pollack. I know I disappointed Woody by choosing the Aussie, and it makes me both sad and angry that I care so much, that he cares so much, since he's the one who shut us down ultimately. Lu Simmons. She's nice, not so complicated and doesn't seem to get herself into situations where Woody ends up shooting people. It's clear we've both moved on, not completely – maybe that will come in time, but I suspect it won't – but enough to have lives apart from one another. Despite all that, I tremble inwardly at the thought of Woody getting a good look at my face. He'll know something's wrong and he'll ask me what it is. More, he'll insist I tell him. And because of everything that used to be between us, I'll tell him. He'll look at me and try to protect me from myself just like nothing changed and I can't take that anymore. I've realized over the last few days that somehow I'd expected Woody would be part of my life when I found out the truth about my mother. He'd help me put the pieces together and stay with me whatever the picture came out to be. He'd still help, but any claim I had on him is gone. If I do this, it has to be on my own.

I'm used to that.

XXX

We pull enough evidence off the body of Tommy Greene to justify the police issuing a warrant for the arrest of one Mikey Supansich, whose fingerprints and DNA are well known to law enforcement. Nigel is showing Woody a picture of Supansich, who has a scar down the left side of his face that looks like – all according to Nigel - whoever won that knife fight had a great time making dear Mikey remember it. The line curls like a coastline from his hair to his chin.

"Yikes," Woody says. "Funny no one mentioned that."

Nigel shrugs. "I think I'd'a kept mum about it, myself." Woody gives him a questioning look. "Bloke that that?" Nigel gestures at the computer screen. "What if he won the fight? What if he lost and still doesn't like to talk about it?"

Woody nods speculatively. "Good point, Nige."

"Well, guys, I think Mr. Supansich's face may be even prettier – ewww…," I grimace as I finally get a look at the screen. "Um, more distinctive."

Nigel grins ghoulishly. "Now remember, luv, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

I raise my brows. "Boris Karloff? The Wolfman? The Mummy?"

"Only if it's his mummy," Nige quips. "You forgot Dr. Frankenstein."

"Frahnkenshteen," I correct him. If he's going to get silly, so am I. Gallows humor is all I have left at the moment.

Woody is watching us as if we have suddenly shifted dimensions on him and he's found himself in a world where everything is just slightly off, where the compasses don't point north and you might be expected to eat green eggs and ham.

Nigel and I exchange looks. We both clear our throats. "Right," he says. "Sorry. Back to work."

"Absolutely," I agree. I look at the face on screen again and it deflates the small bubble of normalcy I'd spent the last few minutes enjoying. "Our guy here, Tommy Greene, got in some pretty decent scratches." I lean forward and lightly trace a pencil tip against the face. "Here. Here. Here. And probably here, though that one would be light. The right side of his face should show four scratches, all fairly deep. Greene put up one hell of a fight."

"Any deep enough to need medical care?" My detective – Jordan! Not yours – asked.

I shrug. "Probably not, unless he doesn't take care of them and they get infected. If he was smart he stopped somewhere and got some basic supplies. If he was really smart, he stopped at several big places where the pharmacy is just part of the store and bought what he needed in batches. A lot of the big stores even have those self-checkout booths now."

Woody sighed.

"If he doesn't do something for them, they most likely will get infected. If it's bad enough he'll have to get medical care. Oh, and Woody? This guy dyes his hair. Greene had a couple of nice specimens clutched in his hand. I want to run a few more tests, but I might be able to get some kind of ethnicity."

There was a body the next day and another the following one. The fourth body didn't come until six days after Tommy Greene's. The scenes were all similar – alleyways or back lots. The second and fourth victims had jobs similar to Tommy's – working late, small out of the way places where a lot of blind eyes were turned to any fracases. The third was a paralegal who was also taking night classes in law school. All lived alone and, as Woody kept digging, we learned they had all gone to high school together and then served together in the Marines, though not for long. Beyond that, Woody ran into brick walls regarding the oddity of their military so-called careers. All had been killed with the same knife.

XXX

A week later there was still nothing new. An APB had gone out on Supansich. The families of the victims had been interviewed, but they had all denied knowing of anyone named Supansich or why anyone would have a grudge against their sons and brothers. Woody's break came a few days after that.

I had taken a report on yet another body to the precinct. Why, I'm not entirely sure. Woody wasn't there, so I left the report on his desk and turned around to leave. A young woman, twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, stood in the doorway, her heart-shaped face pale and drawn, her dark eyes huge and filled with anxiety. "Are you Detective Hoyt?" Her voice trembled.

"No, no, sorry. I'm – uh – He'll be back shortly." I give her my name.

"Oh. I'm Lesa. Lesa Warner." She twists her hands. "Okay. Maybe I'll just come back later."

Somehow, she looks like "later" might be closer to "never." I leap without looking. "What did you need to see him about?"

Anther startled "oh" escapes her lips. "I – My – My boyfriend – Well, ex-boyfriend… he was killed. They told me Detective Hoyt is in charge of the investigation."

"And you wanted some information?"

She shakes her head. "I think I might know something. About why, I mean. I mean David told me some things." She swallows. "It's why I broke up with him."

David? Supansich's fourth victim had been named David Caldwell. I ask her if that is whom she meant.

She nods slowly. "Are you also working on the case?"

I speak as gently as I can. "I'm the medical examiner who did the autopsy on David."

A look of distaste crosses her features. Hardly the first time I've seen it. "I – I see. Does that mean you help people like Detective Hoyt?"

I nod. Whether they want me to or don't sometimes.

She gazes around for a moment and then her spine seems to stiffen. "Look, maybe I can tell you and you can tell him. I really just want to get this over with."

"Tell me what?" The girl turns, inhaling sharply. I raise my eyes to meet Woody's. He has a dangerously deceptive smile on his face. He advances easily toward Lesa. "I'm Detective Hoyt. What can I do for you…?"

Lesa glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes still startled, her lips twitching as if even this total stranger could feel the shifting undercurrents. "I – um – uh…." She swallows heavily. "I – Never mind. It's – I'm sure it's nothing."

Woody puts out a restraining arm as she tries to dash past him.

With an inward curse, I tell him who she is and her connection to the case.

Lesa calms slightly when confronted with Woody's frame blocking her way and his arms further barring her path. I have a sudden feeling I know a bit about David Caldwell's personality – and I don't like it. This girl is far too easily cowed. She gnaws on her lower lip while Woody's gaze tries to burn holes in my head.

I tell Lesa that she needs to tell Detective Hoyt whatever she'd been about to tell me and that, since the detective is back, I'd better be on my way. It earns me a surprised look from Woody. I don't have the energy to tussle with him on this though. I barely have the energy to care about this girl. That fact scares me.

XXX

I drive back to the morgue deep in thought, though I can't say about what. I do that a lot these days. My thoughts circle around in my head without any coherent meaning and later I can't recall what I spent so much time pondering. Maybe that's why I've always run before. Maybe it's a way of outdistancing the thoughts that I don't want to think. God, Australia is starting to sound like Heaven.

I head straight into Trace when I get back. Nigel had promised me some test results on a poisoning case and I'm hoping he has them. I want to finish the paperwork and give it to Garret. I find him talking with a familiar face.

"Hey." Danny McCoy smiles at me with what seems like genuine pleasure.

"Hi," I reply, my voice suffused with amusement and wry questioning. "You're in Boston."

He spreads out his hands. "So it would seem."

"And why are you in Boston?"

He shrugs. "I hadn't seen my favorite medical examiner lately."

"I'm going to go get some – uh – coffee," Nigel interjects as he sidles from the room.

I watch him go and then turn back to Danny. "Your favorite medical examiner, huh? And how many other M.E.'s do you know?"

"Well, now that you mention it, just you."

I eye him suspiciously. "Why are really here?"

He crosses the room to stand close to me, a little closer than is really comfortable. His voice drops. "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine. I told you." I turn around, ready to retreat to my office. "You didn't need to come out here."

He grabs my arm and spins me back around. "You're not fine and I did need to come out here." His face is serious, his eyes dark with concern. "You're a good friend, Jordan, and I think you're in trouble."

"I'm not!" I hear the edge in my voice and know I've blown it.

"Yeah? Come on, then. Come down to your office and prove to me nothing's wrong."

I raise an eyebrow and try to brazen this out. "Why, Danny McCoy, what are you suggesting?"

"Not that." His tone is clipped. He tugs me by the arm until I am walking beside him, keeping up – barely – with his long, ground-eating strides. He opens the door to my office.

Every drop of blood drains from my face.

END Part Two