DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Willing to stage a coup.

FEEDBACK: Welcomed and appreciated

A/N: One down…uh… I've actually lost track of how many stories I'm working on. But I am working on them, I promise!

DEMANDS: Part Five

The Boston cops had caught up with Rebecca Gainsey before she could flee. Rather than have her brought to the precinct, Woody and Jordan had gone to her apartment, hoping to save time. The woman had been uncooperative however. She actually spit at Jordan, who would have happily backhanded the woman into next October if Woody hadn't been around. Of course, Woody might have looked the other way, given the circumstances.

Only as Woody gave in and had the arresting officer take her out, did she say anything remotely helpful. "I hope he burns in Hell!" She glared at Jordan. "He had no right to have a life. Not after what he did to my…!" She bit her own tongue hard enough to draw blood, her face going pale at the near-revelation she'd provided.

Woody watched her go, while Jordan stared out the tiny window in the sitting room. The place was so obviously a temporary stop. Such hatred grieved her, even though she knew she'd once borne the same emotion toward her mother's killer. "That wasn't too helpful," Woody observed. "We'll get CSU – or would you rather have Nigel down here? Anyway, we'll get this place processed. There might be something."

Absently, Jordan nodded. Slowly, she took out her cell phone.

"Jordan? Jo?"

She looked over her shoulder at him.

"What're you doing?"

"Something she said."

"She didn't really say anything we – you – Haley – whatever – hadn't already guessed – someone who hated him."

"I know."

"Then what?"

Jordan turned, her hand still wrapped tightly around the phone. "Something the people who took Allie said – or did, really. It didn't seem strange at the time because… well, because 'strange' had pretty much lost all meaning."

Woody's brow creased and he scrutinized her intently. "Come on, Jordan. What're you thinking?"

"They gave us two hundred minutes, Woody. Two hundred. Why not three hours? Or four? Why two hundred?"

He nodded appreciatively. "It means something."

"It's all I – all we have. I'm calling Drew's assistant." Woody made his own call to CSU and then began a cautious preliminary exam of the studio apartment. He listened to every word of Jordan's call though, gleaning more details than he wanted to know about her personal life. Not that she said anything specific. No, it was the way she talked to the assistant, Polly, the little things she said. In the middle of the chaos and crime, Woody realized he'd never felt so isolated, so alone. He'd once told her to move on with her life and though they'd tried to pick up the frayed threads of their relationship after that morning, they'd failed. And so she had moved on with her life.

"Polly," Jordan was saying. "Try 'Allielieua' as the password." Silence. "Yeah, I know, but try it. It's – It's his nickname for her."

Woody's heart clenched. He watched Jordan out of the corner of his eye. Her lower lip would be swollen and bloody before long, the way she was biting down on it. He also though she might break the back of the flimsy chair she clung to for support. But her face was blank, calm almost. Only her body language gave her away.

"Right," she said. "Look for a sentence involving two hundred. I'm guessing years." She covered the phone slightly and glanced over at Woody. "They gave us two hundred minutes for a reason, right?"

He nodded.

After a moment, Jordan smiled. "Great, Polly. Give me those names." She motioned for Woody's notebook and a pen. Scribbling hastily, she got down the names the woman gave her. "Thanks, Pol. Get those names to Mike Davis, will you? Have him call me if he gets anything."

Woody was reaching what she'd scrawled. Six names in all. He whistled lowly. "Geez, these guys all got two hundred year sentences?"

She looked up at him and nodded. "Drew's good at what he does. And what he does is pretty ugly sometimes – most of the time."

The detective nodded.

"I'm going to call Nigel with these names."

Woody indicated he'd get BPD on them, too.

XXXXX

It was – unsurprisingly – Nigel who made the connection. Haley had put a man named Stephen Blaine away nearly two decades before, close to the beginning of his career. Blaine's crimes had bee so horrific that even the veteran police detectives called to testify could barely choke their way through it. The judge had had to clear the courtroom after several observers literally got ill. Jordan knew the case by name only; Haley wouldn't talk about it except to say the man was one of the sickest he'd ever chased and that, for anyone who did to children what he did, two hundred years was not long enough, that Haley regretted the fact they couldn't keep the bastard alive to serve the entire term in actuality.

Blaine had died in prison. Men with his predilections don't do well in the general population of a maximum facility. He'd left behind a wife who spent the rest of her miserable life proclaiming his innocence and even suing the state that incarcerated him, saying they hadn't done anything to protect him. He'd also left behind three children. Two sons and a daughter. They'd grown up with memories of a man who cosseted them, fulfilled their every whim and never had a harsh word for them. They'd grown up with a woman both embittered and blind. They'd been raised and had come to maturity in a venomous stew of sour hatred, liberally salted with a desire for vengeance.

The daughter had been married three times before she was thirty, the last time to a man named Phillip Gainsey. She'd worked a series of meaningless jobs, always above the law, but nothing that would bring her any attention. Most of her jobs had brought in close contact with young children. Her last job brought her to the Vaucluse School.

One of the sons had been in and out of prison, mostly for small time offenses. He specialized in car theft, chopping up his prizes for parts until the cops caught up to him again.

The other son had started on a fishing trawler when he was seventeen years old. He'd worked his way up, married a fleet owner's daughter. His wife's father owned several warehouses by the docks as well and ran one of the fueling stations. Jeff Blaine had taken over daily operations when his father-in-law retired a few months back.

In the end, it took less than two hours for the pieces to fall into place, less than two hours before Woody had the siren screaming as he vented his road rage on the hapless motorists in his path. Next to him, Jordan's face bore no expression whatsoever. Only her eyes were animated.

And what he saw in them scared the hell out of Woody.

The younger son, Kevin, came out when Woody called through the bullhorn that the building was surrounded. He'd had more than enough experience with the justice system to risk becoming part of a hostage situation. His hands had been high in the air and tears had streamed down his whiskered cheeks. He was screaming, begging for his life, yelling that his brother was insane, had lost his mind, they all had when a gunshot rang through the air.

The man bucked, his spine arching in on itself. Even as he dropped to the ground, he lowered his gaze to stare at the blood spreading, staining his t-shirt and pattering to the ground like some perverse rain from the cloudless sky. Heedless of Woody's own yelling, Jordan dashed from behind the relative safety of his car to take a look at the injured man.

She knelt next to him, prying his hands from his belly. "Let me look at it."

He whimpered, his eyes focusing briefly. "You- You're his wife."

"And the mother of the little girl you took."

"You're going to kill me."

She shook her head. "No. That wound will do it for me if you don't let me take a look."

"Why?"

Woody had gotten close enough to hear the exchange.

"Because I want you to live and stand trial for what you did." Her voice carried no heat though.

Woody remembered this was one of the things he'd always loved so much about her, even when he hadn't known it. The world had never been black and white for her, but so many shades of grey. He sometimes wondered if she saw something of herself, a sort of "there-but-for-the-grace-of-God" in every one who came across her path, victim or perpetrator.

Either convinced or simply losing strength, the man finally let her look at the wound. He didn't seem to notice the sucked in breath or the look in Jordan's eyes. She turned to Woody and gave her head a brief shake. She took a deep, shaky breath. "I can't do-"

Another gunshot broke the air around them.

And then Jordan was scrambling to her feet, sprinting toward the warehouse's small side door with Woody in hot pursuit, screaming at her to stop. Jordan screamed her ex-husband's name as she all but tore the door off its hinges and plunged into the dim interior. Her eyes needed time to adjust to the lack of light and that was the only thing which stopped her.

Behind her, Woody gulped in deep breaths, scanning the area as he did so. He saw a door opposite them flung open. He radioed to his men that the suspect had fled from the other door. His radio crackled to life, one of the men responding that they had Jeff Blaine in custody. Woody breathed a winded "Thank God." He looked at Jordan. "They have him. Jordan? Did you hear me? Jo?"

She walked away from him, toward a bundle in the nearest corner.

Woody wanted to stop her, to gather her into his arms and hold the horror at bay, but he couldn't. He still knew her too well. He knew whatever she found in that corner, she needed to find it. As hard as it would be, things concealed from her would be worse. So he simply trailed her.

She crouched next to the form. One trembling hand reached toward his crown of dark hair. She squeaked as he opened one eye. "Oh, God! Drew!"

He smiled – or gave his best approximation of it. He knew Blaine had shattered several bones in his face, as well as knocking out a number of teeth.

She skimmed her fingers through his hair, trying to assess the damage. If she could assess the damage then there was a chance. Right? If she could find things that could be fixed…. Tears welled in her eyes.

"Hey," he murmured, his tongue thick, his voice clotted with pain. "Allie?"

Jordan fumbled for his hand and took it gently. "She's fine. With Lily." She sniffed, trying to hold back the tears. "You knew. You knew who it was."

"Guessed."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You'd… have… come… looking."

She snorted, the sound quickly threatening to become an unruly sob. "I did that anyway."

"Took longer. Didn't get… caught by… madman." His fingers spasmed in hers. He gave her that ruined smile again and she knew her heart was breaking into millions of pieces. "Love you. Always."

Choking on the tears she couldn't deny, she replied, "I love you, too, Drew."

"Not as… much."

"What?"

His fingers twitched again. "As someone… else. You. Love. Always."

She shook her head.

"'Sokay, Jor." Another twitch, another attempt at a smile. "Had more… than… thought… possible."

Unable to speak any longer, she leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss against his bloody forehead. "Rest, Drew. Just rest."

"Love Allie. Tell her."

"Every day," she whispered in his ear.

How long she stayed like that she couldn't have said, but it seemed like a lifetime even after his hand went limp in her grasp. Finally she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder and heard – dimly, as if distorted by great time and distance – Woody's voice. "Come on, Jordan. You need – You shouldn't…." He couldn't find the right words so he simply did what he'd wanted to early: he wrapped her into his arms and held her as she sobbed.

END Part Five