A/N: Hello again, gentle readers. I know; it's been a very long time. Unfortunately, I was set upon by writer's block and the Christmas season at the same time. Sorry, and I hope I can post more regularly in the future. Thanks so much for the reviews! They've been splendiferous!

Chapter 9 – Children and Art

1947

The locket was an old-fashioned, heavily engraved heart, held together by a rusty clasp. Not having the key, Woody worked carefully at the clasp with a lock pick, praying as he did so that it wouldn't break. Finally, the clasp gave way, and the locket creaked open on its rusty hinge. On one side sat a picture of a little girl with dark hair and large, serious eyes standing beside a woman with similar features and coloring, whom Woody guessed must have been Jordan and her mother, and on the other was a lock of reddish-brown hair, which proved more difficult to identify.

"Is this…yours?" he asked tentatively.

"No, I…it's not mine," she replied slowly, staring at the lock of hair.

"Could it have been your father's?" he continued to probe.

"I don't think so. Dad was blonde when I was a kid."

"Do you have any idea whose it could be?"

"None." She paused, still concentrating on the locket. "Well, maybe…no, none."

"So, we're back at square one, then," he sighed, beginning to despair over ever getting a break in the case.

"It looks that way. I suppose we could…hold on a second," she said, turning the locket over in her palm.

"What?"

Her fingers had begun working at the frame holding her picture in place.

"I think there's something behind here. It's…there."

The frame swung open, revealing a second compartment behind it, in which a tiny note had been concealed. Carefully unfolding it, Jordan began to read:

E,

I don't care what he thinks about you or your husband. You will not see him. Tell him whatever you have to, but get rid of him. Remember, you know exactly what will happen if he finds out. Think about your daughter, and your son. You want them safe, don't you?

T

"Her son?" Jordan asked, bewildered. "But, I didn't have a…she didn't have a son. She…she couldn't have."

"Jordan…," Woody attempted to interrupt.

"No," she continued, ignoring him. "She loved my father. She wouldn't have…"

"Jordan!" he interrupted more forcefully.

"What?" she snapped.

"Does the name James Horton mean anything to you?" he asked, starting to put the pieces together and not liking the picture that was emerging.

"No," she responded, nonplussed. "Why?"

"Wilde, his last words were, 'Tell Jordan, James. James Horton.'"

"I've never heard of him. Do you think that he…?"

"It's a possibility."

"But how do we…?"

"I don't know. Maybe I could…"

"Good, and I'll…"

"Good," Woody concluded, pleased that they were returning to their old rhythm, though still wary of the Pandora's Box they were about to dive into.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, though?" he asked.

"What choice do I have, now?"

"It's not too late to stop," he reasoned. "We could close the locket up, forget what we found inside it, and you could go back to your father's house. You could spare yourself a lot of grief."

"I have to try, Woody. Even if nothing comes of it, I owe her at least that much."

"All right, then," he said resignedly. "Let's track down James Horton."

And so, for the next few days, Woody pounded the pavement, putting in enough legwork to wear off the end of his cane, in search of the elusive James Horton. He ploughed through birth, death, and marriage certificates from the past forty years, visited what seemed like every establishment in Boston asking if anyone had heard of him, and even allowed Jordan to call in a few favors from her motley assortment of friends in the hope that they could turn up something on him, but so far they had come up empty handed.

One afternoon after a particularly boring session in the City Archives, Woody returned, disgruntled, to his office, to find Max Cavanaugh waiting for him. Taking in the man's less than pleased expression, Woody surmised that Max must have heard something about the new direction his investigation had taken. Settling himself into his desk, he decided to let Max start the conversation. For several minutes, or so it seemed to him, they sat in silence.

"Hoyt," Max finally began, "do you want to tell me exactly what you were doing at the precinct when Wilde was killed?"

Woody had trouble containing his sigh of relief that Max may not know anything beyond his presence at Wilde's murder.

"Well, sir," he began, "I…I was having lunch with a detective…Matt Seely, and I thought I'd stop in and say hello to Lt. Wilde while I was there. When I walked into his office, I…I found him dead. That's all, sir."

"And those flowers in Wilde's office, I suppose they were a coincidence?"

"No, sir, I…"

"Don't lie to me, Hoyt," he threatened. "Jordan was there, and I know you've seen her. Now, tell me where she is and why you never mentioned to me that you found her."

"I…I didn't find her, sir. She found me. She had heard that I was looking for her and came to my apartment a few days ago. I tried to convince her to go home, but she said she couldn't, that she was afraid. I decided that going along with her plans was better than losing contact with her altogether, so I let her talk me into going to see Lt. Wilde. Then, she…she left. She said she'd contact me again in a few days."

This seemed to convince Max, and he seemed at least marginally calmer as he said, "All right, Hoyt, but the next time she contacts you, I don't care what you have to do, you find her and you bring her home. Are we clear on this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Goodbye, Hoyt."

And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving Woody to wonder once again just how much trouble he and Jordan were inviting in. He was still sitting at his desk, staring absent-mindedly into space, when Lily entered the room.

"From the way that man stormed out of here," she began, "I'm guessing that must have been some discussion you two had."

"It was nothing, Lily. Let's just say he's not…entirely pleased with the way I'm handling his case."

"You're sure that's all it is? I don't want to pry, but you look a little winded. You're not in any trouble, are you?"

"No, Lily. I'm fine," he said tiredly. "It's just this Cavanaugh case has taken a spin I wasn't expecting."

"What's the problem?"

"It seems I'm searching for a man who doesn't exist."

"I once dated a fella like that. What's his name? I might know him."

"Have you ever heard of anyone by the name of James Horton?"

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Completely."

"We grew up together. If it's the same James Horton, he lived just down the block from me. I mean, he was a good bit older, but I still remember him. Weird kid. He used to set traps all around the neighborhood. I'm not sure what he did with the things he caught, but I don't think I would have liked to be one. I think his parents still live there."

"Lily," he exclaimed, struggling back into his hat and coat, "you're an angel! What was that address, again?"

The house Lily directed him to was one in a series of typical suburban houses, surrounded by tiny, well-groomed lawns in which happy children played noisily with one another. The Hortons' house seemed to have been one of them at one time, but in contrast to the pristine houses surrounding it, it seemed to have sagged with age and fatigue. Broken shutters hung loosely from dirty, cracked windows set in walls that may have been white when first painted, but the paint had all but disappeared. The house had no lawn, merely a bare plot of dirt in which a few browned plants lay resting. On the front steps stood a woman, as tired and dirty as the house itself, making a vain attempt to sweep the grime from the entryway.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but are you Mrs. Horton?"

"I am."

"I'm Detective Hoyt," he said, taking out his badge. "I was wondering if you could give me some information about your son, James."

"What's the boy done now?" she asked wearily.

"Nothing, that I know of. We're just trying to find out where he's living."

A spark ignited in her eyes for a moment as she asked suspiciously, "Did Cavanaugh send you?"

"No, ma'am. Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" She eyed him coldly.

"No. I'm actually here at the request of his daughter, Jordan."

"His daughter? So, old Emily wasn't too crazy to raise a daughter," she chuckled lowly, speaking mostly to herself before looking up to stare appraisingly at Woody.

"I figured someone'd come poking around soon enough. Come inside," she sighed, motioning vaguely at Woody as he followed her into the house's dim interior.

"James always was a queer boy," she said over her shoulder as she puttered about the house, rifling through the clutter that had taken over every available inch of space. "I always knew he'd get in trouble with the law one day."

"He's not in trouble with the law, Mrs. Horton. I'm a private investigator," Woody stated patiently before pausing. "Queer in what way?"

"Oh, you know. Always wandering off and getting in fights. Moody. Not surprising, really."

"Why not?" he asked casually.

"Well, the poor boy. He couldn't help it, could he?"

"No, I suppose not," Woody answered, growing increasingly confused.

"When you say that he couldn't help it," he continued, "Do you mean that there have been others in your family who were…queer?"

"Are you saying something against my family, young man?"

"No, no." He smiled disarmingly. "I just…wondered why you'd expect him to be moody."

"Oh, that. Well, after the accident, poor James was just never the same." Mrs. Horton seemed to be loosening up, glad to have someone to confide in.

"Accident?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yep. Almost drowned."

"How?"

"Who can remember after all these years?" Which was, in Woody's opinion, an odd remark for any mother to make, but Mrs. Horton continued, though haltingly, not wanting to lose her audience. "Some boys were…playing by the well out back when he was just a little thing. You know how boys are. Cruel sometimes. Anyway…they lowered James down to see how deep it was, then covered up the well. We didn't find him until all hours of the…ah, here it is!" She finished abruptly, holding up a crumpled piece of paper.

"I knew I had James' address somewhere. There you are, Mr. Hoyt. He moved down there a few years ago with his girlfriend. Said they were starting fresh." She handed him the paper, on which an address had been scrawled in a childish handwriting.

Woody returned home to find Jordan drinking from his milk jug, which she raised in toast upon seeing him. Ignoring her mock salute, Woody sailed directly into his latest news.

"Jordan," he asked excitedly, "have you ever been to Alabama?"