"Thanks," Colby said as he disconnected his cell. He angled his body so that he was turned toward both Megan and David as the SUV continued on at break-neck speed. "Got the background check."

"And?" Megan asked impatiently as she flipped on the siren and sped through a red light.

"And the sheriff seems clean. However," Colby glanced down at his notes. "He did have a common law wife and two kids in Virginia. His wife, Sandra Rutherford, died over twenty years ago in an accident when her ten year old son, Gerald Rutherford, shot her. Then Gerald died in a hunting accident fourteen years ago. Roy Morrison stayed in Virginia until his youngest son, Chris Rutherford, turned sixteen. He left him with his grandparents and moved out here, where he worked his way up to town sheriff."

"Two gun related accidents in one family?" David asked. "That sounds suspicious."

"Yeah," Colby agreed. "Never could prove otherwise, although Morrison got a hard look from the authorities at the time."

"That's probably why he moved out here," Megan said. "To get away from living under all that scrutiny."

"Why wouldn't he bring his son?" David asked her.

"His son probably suspected the same things the authorities did. May also be because Morrison was reminded too much of his past when his son was around."

"Well, in either case, he's never going to be nominated for father of the year," Colby muttered.

"So," David thought aloud. "We're thinking this bomber may be Chris Rutherford?"

"Coming all the way out here from Virginia to do what? Prove his father is involved in those shootings? Get revenge for leaving him behind?" Colby shook his head. "You really think that's it?"

"Remember the bomber's demands?" Megan asked. "He wanted to talk to someone from the media. He has a story to tell, and I'm willing to bet it involves something Morrison would just as soon remain a secret."

"Do you really think a sheriff would risk two innocent men's lives over a family secret?" David asked incredulously.

"Depends," Colby said. "On just how big that secret is."

"It must be pretty big," Megan stated. "Deputy Waller felt compelled to tell me that the sheriff is reluctant to involve any one else. He even advised me that we would need to call in our own backup."

"HRT?" Colby asked as he flipped his phone open.

"Yes, and a medical unit, too," Megan nodded. "But ask them to standby out of sight. I have a feeling too many law enforcement officials might make our bomber uneasy. He's already killed a deputy."

"Damn," David whispered. "So he wouldn't hesitate to..."

All three agents grew silent as they worried for their friends' lives.

--

Chris walked past the store window without even looking out at the sheriff and deputy. He was aware that they were watching his every move, but his father knew better than to try anything – especially after losing one of his deputies. Rutherford felt a small twinge of remorse at the death of the young deputy, but it needed to be done. He had originally felt that way about the Fed, but things had changed significantly since then.

The young bomber couldn't believe that despite the raging fever and the obvious pain that the Fed was suffering from, his first words as he roused would be about his younger brother – insisting to know that he was safe. Chris had only known one other person like that and, as he opened the cooler to get a bag of ice, memories of his own older brother surfaced in his mind...

"Ow," ten year old Chris whispered.

"I know, bro," Gerald had replied sympathetically as he continued dabbing antiseptic ointment on his brother's injuries. "But we don't want those cuts to get infected."

"I'm sorry, Gerald," Chris whispered sadly.

"Not your fault," the older boy promised, his voice also a whisper. Their father had passed out in a drunken stupor but they were still careful not to wake him. "Just because you forget something doesn't mean you should get hurt."

"But I got you hurt, too," the younger brother whispered.

"Nah, it's no big deal." Gerald carefully shifted the bag of ice from a bruise on his shoulder to a bruise on his lower back. "That's my job, okay? Promise me that you'll always remember that."

"But I should be able to stand up to him," Chris insisted. "I am a wimp."

Gerald seized his brother's chin, clamping his jaw firmly, but not painfully. "No, you aren't. I don't ever want to hear you say that again." He stared into Chris' eyes, gently shaking the boy when he remained silent. "Do you understand?"

Chris nodded and, as his big brother released his grip, he tightly hugged him. "You promise you're okay?"

"I promise, bro." Gerald hissed as his little brother pressed on a bruise. "Do me a favor, kiddo."

"Anything," the ten year old promised.

"Fix me another bag of ice."

Chris nodded and silently slipped from their tent, creeping past their father where he lay unconscious. He grabbed a large plastic bag and filled it with ice from the beer cooler, his heart breaking as he saw the number of bottles left. He and Gerald would be in for even more hell tomorrow. He shivered in the warm, evening air and began walking back to the tent. Something caught his eye and he quietly approached his father.

The filleting knife from earlier was sticking in the ground about a foot away from his father's hand. After beating Gerald to near unconsciousness, Morrison had thrown the knife down, and consumed three more bottles of beer. Chris had helped Gerald into their tent, relief washing over him later as he heard his father crash to the ground. He'd crept to the cooler then to get a bag of ice for his brother, too scared to even look in his father's direction, lest he wake up and come after him again.

Now, as Chris stood over the prone man and studied his lax features in the moonlight, he noticed that his father didn't look nearly as scary, and an idea tugged at the back of the boy's mind. Cocking his head, he bent down and slowly reached out for the knife.

"Chris!" Gerald quietly hissed from the tent. "Don't."

The young boy looked up and met his brother's eyes. He saw a pain in the blue orbs that he knew wasn't caused by the earlier beating. Chris rose, leaving the knife in its place, and returned to the tent. As he handed Gerald the bag of ice, his older brother pulled him to sit beside him.

"You don't think like that, bro," Gerald lectured him. "If and when the time comes, I'll be the one who does it, okay?" His younger brother silently nodded and Gerald ruffled his hair. "Time to get some sleep. I'll keep watch tonight – you rest." The older boy urged Chris to lie down, guiding his head to rest on his thigh.

"Thanks, Gerald," Chris whispered as he fell asleep, confident that his big brother would keep him safe from the monsters of the night – both real and imagined.

Rutherford shook his head, clearing the memories from his mind. He pulled a bag from the cooler and grabbed two towels from the display of tacky, tourist must-haves. As he made his way back to the office, he did spare a glance in his father's direction and was satisfied to see the big man cowering in his seat, afraid of the demons that were about to come to the light of day.

--

"Here you go," Chris said as he set the ice and towels down next to Alan. "You'll have to take care of this part on your own."

"What are you going to be doing?" Alan inquired.

"I've got to deal with those yahoos out there. Sorry, old man."

Alan marveled at the sincere remorse in the bomber's voice, and the softness with which he said 'old man'. He mulled that over for a minute before turning his attention to Don.

Alan opened the bag and placed a handful of cubes in each towel, bundling them up into makeshift compresses. He placed one on his shoulder, so that the back of Don's neck was resting on it. He gently lifted his son's t-shirt and placed the other compress on his chest. Don shivered and tried to shove his father's hands away, but Alan captured them in his own and gave them a tight squeeze.

"It's okay," he whispered as he rested his head on top of Don's. "Just let the ice do its job. Shh, you'll feel better soon – I promise."

"Cold," Don mumbled as he weakly tried twisting out of his father's grasp.

"I know, but you need to cool off. You have a fever, Don." Alan easily maintained his grip against son's feeble attempt to free himself. "Relax for me, Donny. Can you do that?"

"Cold," the injured man mumbled again, beginning to pant from his struggles.

Shifting his grip up to Don's wrists, Alan locked him in a tight embrace, pinning his son's arms to his chest. "I've got you," the older man whispered. "Can you feel that? I'll keep you warm, but you have to let the ice do its job, okay?"

Don didn't answer but did turn his head to press his cheek into his father's shoulder.

"That's it," Alan soothed. Slowly, Don's body stopped shivering as the heat from his fever dulled the initial chill of the ice. After fifteen minutes, he repacked and moved the compresses to new locations, again struggling to keep his son calm. He kept up the cycle of bundle, shift, comfort for a little over an hour, until Don's body was no longer hot to the touch, and his son had fallen into a peaceful slumber.

--

Megan pulled the SUV into the lot of Turner's Gas and Go, quickly parking behind the sheriff's car. She peered into the store and saw a young man in his late twenties, with close cut blond hair. He held a gun in his right hand, which was casually resting on his shoulder. He gave her a big grin and a thumbs up before punching a number into his cell.

The three agents, having already donned their Kevlar vests just down the road, climbed out of the vehicle, guns drawn, and crouched behind the car. The sheriff rolled down his window and held a phone out to Megan. "He wants to talk to you."

Surprised, Megan took the phone and poised herself. "This is Special Agent Megan Reeves with-"

"The FBI," the man cut her off. "I ain't stupid you know. You're in a big SUV and your vests say FBI."

"Of course," she apologized. "I didn't mean to imply-"

"Look, just shut up and let me talk, alright? Now, the reason I wanted to speak to you is because the sheriff there doesn't seem to want to meet my demands."

"Which are?" Megan stalled for time.

"I want the media down here now. I have a very interesting story to tell, and I want it documented for the world to hear."

"Is this about your father, Chris?"

To her surprise the blond chuckled. "Good work, agent. Does that mean my dear father actually 'fessed up to knowing me?"

"What kind of media?" Megan asked, choosing to dodge Rutherford's questions. "TV? Print? Radio?"

"All of the above would be nice," Chris told her. "But I'll settle for a TV crew. If I talk to a newspaper reporter there's no guarantee that my story will be printed. TV stations seem to have a hard time passing up on situations like this."

"Local crew or national?"

"Don't bite off more than you can chew, agent. I don't figure a national crew will come out here for this. Local will be fine. One camera man and one reporter to come inside."

"Ah, Chris," Megan shook her head as she watched him through the glass. "You know I can't endanger anyone else."

"That's a pity," he said, and Megan did sense a note of sorrow in his voice. "Your Fed buddy here needs help bad, but he's not getting it until I get what I want."

"How about me and another one of my agents come inside with a camera? I'll even have live feed run to a monitor out here where you can see it. That way you'll know we're being square with you."

"Let two agents waltz in here?" Chris mocked. "I don't think so. But as long as you're making a counter offer..."

TBC