A/N: Thanks again to my awesome reviewers. Pyroangel32, I'm dreadfully sorry for putting your job in such jeopardy, especially after such a glowing review. It made my week.

Just as a warning, I'm heading into an extremely busy time, so I don't know how frequently I'll be able to update, but I'll certainly try to keep up some sort of schedule.

Ooh, and I just reached 1947 hits! How appropriate is that? It's a shame I missed 1939.

As always, reviews and any criticism are appreciated.

Chapter 8 – Too Many Mornings

1947

Awakening the next morning, the first thing to assault Woody's senses was the smell of coffee. As he slipped further into wakefulness, he became aware of the discomfort that seemed to have settled over every inch of his body. His muscles ached from his awkward sleeping position, although the pain in his back had lessened. He had neglected to close the blinds, and the late morning sun was streaming through the glass and down onto him, leaving him with an uncomfortably warm sensation, as if he were being slowly boiled. As he attempted to crack one eye open, he realized that they, too, hurt. But the scents of coffee and blackening toast were appealing to his awakening appetite and just intriguing enough to make the detective in him want to investigate, and he managed to open his eyes and heave himself into a seated position, his first concessions to the day ahead.

What he saw was enough to make him question his newly achieved state of consciousness. Turning his head, he could see Jordan, padding barefoot around his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts and looking intoxicatingly disheveled. If this apparition weren't enough, Jordan was actually cooking, or at least attempting to cook, and the idea of Jordan in such an idyllically domestic scene was enough to make him fear for his sanity.

She turned then, noticing that he was awake, and smiled cautiously at him, thanking him for not throwing her out the night before. For a moment, they seemed to have achieved a tentative peace. Then, Woody rose, stiffly and in obvious pain, and he saw her face fall sadly into the expression he least wanted to see: pity. Instantly, the defenses Woody had honed over the past six years reasserted themselves, and he settled once more into the familiar mask of cold indifference.

"And what do you have planned for us today?" he asked mockingly.

"At the moment, I'm planning on drinking coffee," she said slowly, uncertain in the face of his volatile personality.

Deciding not to argue with her without caffeine in his system, Woody limped silently to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup, which he used to wash down a mouthful of pain killers. It was too strong and too hot, but it beat the swill that normally sat around the precinct, and he was grateful that she had at least made the effort. He sat, drinking coffee and eating plain, burnt toast as Jordan made her way to the phone, holding the receiver with one hand and twirling her hair with the other, waiting for an answer from whoever happened to be on the other end. Finally, someone picked up, and Woody listened intently to their conversation, feeling guilty for eavesdropping, but justifying it with the thought that he had nowhere to go where he wouldn't be able to hear.

"Nigel?" she asked, pausing while he responded. "It's Jordan….I'm fine. I'm at Woody's….No, he…No, Nigel, I'm fine, really….Of course he didn't throw me out. I got caught in the rain, and, well, do you think you could send someone up here with my suitcase? Thanks, and I'm sorry about last night. Goodbye."

They were sitting in tense silence, broken occasionally by deafening attempts to chew the charred toast, neither one willing to start a conversation that would, in all likelihood, lead to another fight, when Nigel arrived. Taking in the domestic setting, Nigel's expression lit up with gleeful anticipation, until he noticed the uneasy atmosphere, which his presence had failed to alleviate.

Jordan rose immediately, grateful for the distraction, and grabbed her suitcase, throwing a quick "Thank you" over her shoulder as she rushed into the bathroom, leaving Nigel and Woody to stare uncomfortably at each other.

"Woodrow," Nigel said, breaking the silence.

"Can we just skip the part about, 'If you hurt her, you'll have me to answer to in lieu of a protective older brother'?" Woody interrupted.

"Actually," he replied calmly, "I was going to credit you with more sense than to think you could get away with hurting her, and I was just going to warn you that, whatever has happened or will happen between you two, she's extremely fragile right now. I'm not going to threaten you, but if Jordan receives anymore emotional setbacks right now, I think you'll have reason enough to punish yourself."

Woody spluttered incoherently in response, but had no sensible reply to make. With Woody's outburst effectively suspended, the two men returned to their previous silence, now sullen on Woody's part, until Jordan returned, dressed in street clothes and with her hair somewhat haphazardly pinned back.

"Thanks for the clothes, Nigel."

"My pleasure, love. If there's anything you need, phone, and either Bug or I will be at your service in a moment."

And with a set of abbreviated goodbyes, he was gone, leaving Jordan and Woody alone once more.

"So," she began, "I suppose we need some kind of plan."

"Plan?"

"I've never done any real detective legwork on my own, but I think we need some place to start if we're going to find out what happened that day."

"You were there. Do you remember anything?"

"Not much," she answered slowly. "It's all so hazy, and I'm not sure anymore what's real and what my nightmares have added."

"Just tell me anything you can think of. Even if it's wrong, it might give us a lead."

"I remember…" she paused, eyes glazing over as she sank into the world of memory, her voice taking on a clinical, emotionless tone. "I remember my uniform. The hem was coming out, and I remember it flapping around my legs when I walked. It was September. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't hot. Sunny, I guess. My friend, Kim, lived next door, and we walked home together. I left her at her driveway and then turned into mine. There used to be an oak tree there that blocked the entrance from view until you were almost to the door. I remember thinking that something was wrong when I saw that the door was open. It was the butler's day off, and I didn't know who else would leave the door open. My parents were never home at that time of the day, unless my mother had just gotten home from somewhere. I never knew where she went.

"I was scared to go inside. Something was different, and I didn't want to know what it was. Or at least I think I was scared. Maybe I wasn't scared then, but I think now that I should have been. I should have known that something was wrong. She was my mother. How could I not feel that something had happened to her?" Her voice broke then and she stopped, staring down at her tightly clasped hands.

"It's all right, Jordan," he reassured. "You were only ten years old. There was no way you could have suspected anything. We can stop now, if you want to."

"No. I have to do this, and if I stop now, I don't know if I'll be able to pick it up again."

"Okay. Try to stick to the facts, then; it might help. And stop if you need to."

She took a deep breath and plunged back into her narrative, voice less steady, fingers working violently at each other.

"I…I couldn't see when I first walked in. The hall was dark, and the first thing I saw was…paper. There were papers scattered everywhere. I thought my parents would think I had done it, so I bent down to pick them up, but then I noticed a…shoe, one of my mother's favorites, lying in the hall. I walked over to it and looked into the stairwell, and I saw her, on the floor. There was…there was blood everywhere. It wasn't hers. It couldn't be hers. But she wouldn't get up. I tried to wake her up. I shook her. I screamed at her. I screamed for my daddy, but he wouldn't come. He didn't come. Why won't he come?" By this point, her voice had reached a feverish pitch, and she had lost herself, subsumed again by the horrific scene. Recognizing this, Woody reached out to touch her arm, carefully, as if afraid she would break if he moved too quickly. She jumped, startled by the contact, and turned her anguish-filled eyes on him.

"It's okay. You're fine," he said soothingly. "You're here. It's over."

"I…I don't remember anymore," she stated alarmedly. "I…don't know what happened next. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wish I could help more. I'm so…useless. I should know more. I should. Why can't I remember?"

"It's fine. I don't know what I expected, making you relive this. I shouldn't have put you through it."

"Where do we start, now?" she asked, breathing in deeply and attempting to gather the tatters of normality back around her.

"You don't remember what was on the papers, do you?" he questioned.

"No."

"Then, I guess I could look into pulling the evidence, see what I can find out. I'd really like to talk to the detective in charge of the case."

"He retired about ten years ago. I think he's living in California now."

"Where can we go for information, then? Your father?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "I don't want him involved."

Feeling that this was not the best time to pursue the subject, Woody let the matter drop.

"Who else would know something?"

"What about Lieutenant Wilde? He knows everything."

"That's a thought. He might at least give us a place to start." He paused a moment, uncertain what to do about Jordan's presence, before beginning again with, "I guess I'm off to the precinct, then. I'll be back in a couple of hours, and I can take you to your rooms after that. Until then, umm…I have…books, somewhere. Under the bed, I think, and you're welcome to more coffee and toast." He looked around uncomfortably at his apartment, which now seemed to be wildly inadequate.

"I'm coming with you."

"Jordan…"

"I…don't want to be alone," she admitted ashamedly.

"All right, then."

Woody made his way, slowly and self-consciously, down the halls of the precinct. His cane was nothing new, but being back at the place where he used to wander freely, as an employee, whole and indestructible, always brought its presence acutely to mind. He hated knowing that he was being stared at, pitied by the men who were still capable of doing the jobs they had spent their lives working at. If the cane weren't enough, the fact that he carried a shopping bag in the other hand was enough to garner him stares from the people who didn't know his history. He smiled ruefully at the thought of how much more they would stare if they knew that the bag was full of flowers, which Jordan had insisted he stop to let her pick for Lieutenant Wilde, and had then forced him to carry inside for her, hidden inside the brown paper bag, as she was too well-known at the precinct to risk showing her face.

His progress was irksomely slow, as it seemed every employee of the Boston Police Department wanted to talk to him, to ask him what he had been up to since leaving and to kid him, in what they perceived to be a good natured way, about his "third leg," eyeing the bag with an interest borne of years of following evidence and suspicions. Woody endured their questions and their jokes, assuming his familiar jovial mask and returning the same tired jokes and punch lines unflappably back to them, but he was glad to see the crowds thinning out as he approached the building's deserted back corridors, glad to see the smoky cloud that meant he was nearing the end of his journey.

But when he finally reached Wilde's tiny, corner office, he was surprised to find that the door wouldn't open. The handle turned; it wasn't locked, but there seemed to be something blocking the entrance. Leaning his weight against it, he managed to push the door forward enough to slide through the opening, and in doing so nearly tripped over a pair of legs stretched in his path along the ground. Looking down, he saw the body of the shriveled old man, lying across the floor, barely able to move, eyes glassy and breathing shallow. Calling for help, Woody knelt next to him to assess the situation and provide what aid he could, dropping the bag as he did so, its contents spilling around him.

"Lieutenant Wilde! Lieutenant Wilde, can you hear me? What happened?"

Wilde stared blankly at him, unable to recognize the younger man or process what he was saying. He took a shuddering breath and began to cough, his head falling grotesquely to the side, his unblinking gaze landing on the wilting flowers scattered around them. Comprehension seemed to dawn in the old man's face, and for a moment he seemed to think clearly. With a tremendous effort, he began forcing out words.

"Jordan…" he rasped. "Tell Jordan…James. James…Horton. He's…"

But who or what James Horton was remained unanswered. The light that had so briefly illuminated the old man's face died, and with a final spasm, his lungs emptied themselves, breath mixing with blood trailing from desiccated lips. He was dead.

Woody stood, horrified. Dead bodies were something he had dealt with every day as a homicide detective, but to actually see someone die, to see the life flow from their body, to be the one entrusted with their final words, terrified him. He stepped blindly away from the corpse, memories of his father, dying unconscious in a hospital bed, dashing themselves against the inside of his mind. With a feeling of overwhelming relief, he finally perceived the sound of footsteps coming near. Attempting to pull himself together, he raised his eyes just in time to see Tom Malden, newly appointed Chief of Police, stepping through the doorway.

Malden's practiced gaze took in the situation: the body lying twisted on the floor, obviously dead, surrounded by flowers, guarded by a dazed former detective. Deciding to start with the room's still living occupant, he turned to Woody.

"Hoyt," he said, his businesslike tones jerking Woody back to reality, "what happened here?"

"I…I don't know, sir. I came in to…to visit, and he was just lying there. I called for help, but there was nothing I could do."

"Did he, ah, did he say anything?"

"No, sir. By then, he was too far gone."

"Very well then, Hoyt," Malden said, feigning sympathy for the other man. "Come along, and we'll take your statement. I'll see to it that a crew is sent here."

Time seemed to drag leadenly on as Woody sat in the interrogation room, reliving those moments in Wilde's office countless times, leaving out a few important details, as his mind screamed at him to run out of there as quickly as his unresponsive legs would carry him and find Jordan. She was outside alone, and someone obviously knew what she was trying to do. She wasn't safe, and it was his job to protect her.

He felt ready to burst with apprehension when they finally let him go, and this time as he walked back through the precinct's crowded halls, he didn't stop to chat, but sailed directly through the sea of bodies, like a knife thrower's dagger slicing the air. Finally reaching his car, he nearly collapsed with relief to see her sitting inside, alive and well, fingers drumming a bored rhythm against the dashboard.

Ramming himself into the driver's seat, he had the car started and speeding away before she had time to form a greeting. Not giving her a chance to speak, he plunged headlong into the conversation with a terse, "What exactly made you run away from home?"

"What did Wilde say? Did you learn anything?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"Wilde's dead. I think someone wanted to kill him before he could tell you something, and I need to know exactly what's going on. Why did you leave home, and how is Wilde connected?"

Jordan's face drained of color, and she sat back in her seat, stunned. "I…I have no idea. I left home because of Evelyn. She found something of my mother's, a locket I was keeping, and she exploded at me. I had no idea why it was so important. She blew it too far out of proportion for me to overlook it, and my father refused to listen to me, so I left."

"Do you still have the locket?"

"It's in my suitcase at your apartment. I've never opened it."

"Well, it looks we're about to."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.