xxxXXXxxx

"He's still in surgery," Connor said simply. "She's still missing."

Natalie didn't bother trying to go for the 'brave face'. She went straight to a chair in the small, private waiting room and dropped down into it, her eyes bright in her pallid face.

"How bad is it?" Frank saved her asking the question.

"So far, from what I've been told, he has a ruptured spleen, broken ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding and a concussion. It's probably going to be another hour or so before they're finished with him."

"Did he say anything?" Natalie finally asked, "Was he able to talk to you, Stephen?"

Connor seemed to notice her condition for the first time and stooped down beside the chair, took her hand in his, surprised by how cold it was, how small.

"He said Eva's name, Nat, that was about it. He wasn't conscious much longer than that."

"Is he going to be all right?"

"I honestly don't know."

"He's young and strong, Natalie," Frank put in, feeling useless even as he said the words, knowing it was in bigger hands than his own. "He'll make it."

"'Make it?'" she parroted. "It's that bad?"

Connor squeezed her hand gently, repeated Frank's words, "He'll make it, Nat. I promise."

"What about Eva?"

Connor sighed, steeled himself, then pulled the envelope out of his pocket, turning it over in his hands. "I haven't turned this in to the police. I can't decide whether I should or not."

Frank reached out, took the envelope, opened it, read it, then slowly, very slowly gave it to Natalie.

Plain typeface. Old manual typewriter, obviously, not in good shape, the letters blobbed up from old ink.

"Call the cops and she will die.

Call the feds and she will die.

Mess with me in any way and she will die.

Deliver the product as I have instructed and you just might get her back.

The formula is enclosed. Dr. Natalie Durant is to prepare it."

xxxXXXxxx

"We shouldn't be doing this."

"I know."

"I mean, kidnapping is a federal offense. He should report it to the proper authorities. This could cost us our badges, Claire."

"I know. You don't have to do this, Joey. I can handle it on my own."

Joe Kerrigan sighed. "How many times have I asked you not to call me Joey?"

She smiled suddenly, her cheeks dimpling. "Nearly every time I do."

He sighed and shook his head. "What did he tell you on the phone?"

"Not much. Just that she was missing and his friend had been assaulted."

"Not much to go on." Joe checked his watch. "It's only been a few hours. Any
chance that he's just jumping the gun, and she's got lucky and switched her phone
off?"

Claire glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she drove, raising her eyebrow.

Joe shrugged. "Just wanted to make sure." He looked out of the window. "I don't
like this Claire. This… something's wrong with this. It doesn't sit right. I don't
like it"

"Neither do I, Joe." Claire pulled into the car park at Lincoln Memorial. "Neither do
I."

xxxXXXxxx

"Dr. Connor, he's not in any condition for visitors." The young doctor stared him right in the eye. "Nor is he in any shape for an inquisition."

This kid had some nerve and that was when Stephen realized that was one of the things that bothered him about Dr. VanWingen. He looked almost as young as Miles, and he wasn't backing down from him any more than Miles would. He huffed out air, put his hands on his hips and tried again.

"Doctor, I realize that you're taking care of your patient and I admire that. As you may or may not know, I'm a physician myself." He nodded toward Nat. "As is Dr. Durant. However, Miles is not just our colleague, he's our friend. I can assure you that neither of would do anything, anything at all, to exacerbate his condition. We need to talk to him. Just for a minute. If he shows any signs of distress, I give you my word, we will leave the room."

VanWingen glanced over at Natalie, then back to Connor, some of his frustration gone, did his own sigh, then said, "Five minutes. Tops. He's in serious condition, Doctor. I won't have him upset."

"Understood," Stephen assured him quickly.

Frank was left to stew in his own imagination and pace the small confines of the private waiting room.

Natalie would have been prepared if it had been any other patient than Miles, one of her own, Miles who had wiggled his way into her heart right from the first even when he'd been nothing more than an irritant to Stephen. She had to remember to draw breath after the first sight.

His eyes were closed, both lids transparent purple, black bruising spreading down nearly one entire side of his face. A tube ran into his nose, an oxygen cannula in place as well. His lips were cracked and split, a sliver of dried blood running down the side of his mouth, missed in the clean up, or new since then. A line of stitches ran across his right cheekbone. Tubes that she knew the purposes for ran out from beneath the covers like extensions of his body, IVs in both arms. There was so much monitoring equipment that it was difficult to find an unoccupied space beside the bed. His breathing was shallow, careful, even in his drugged half slumber as if his body knew very well that any movement would wake up nerve endings better left sleeping.

She didn't want to wake him, cause him pain. She would have been content to simply sit there and watch him sleep, drugged into painlessness.

Connor, of course, had another agenda, as well he should.

He stepped up to the head of the bed and laid his hand gently on Miles' right shoulder, just enough pressure to register, not enough to cause discomfort. He hoped.

Purple eyelids fluttered, tried to open, failed.

"Miles," he said softly.

Nothing.

"Miles." More force now. More like his 'you're not doing enough' voice that he only used when things were desperate and he had hit his frustration peak.

The eyelids succumbed to the effort this time and bloodshot eyes tried to track him. "Ste-en," came out of a dry throat. Then he blinked, the eyes cleared a little of the drugginess and he tried again, "Eva. Help her."

"That's what we're trying to do, Miles," Stephen assured him, his eyes going instantly to the monitors that registered the distress. "Try to calm down. You have to stay calm or they're going to throw us out and you won't be able to help." It was a dirty trick, but he had to keep the kid calm or that was literally what would happen. VanWingen was standing not ten feet away from them at the foot of the bed, his grey eyes pinned on his patient, watching for any reason to end the session.

Miles nodded his head, then winced as it pulled on the stitches in his cheek, woke the headache that had been lying just behind his eyes.

"Eva," he repeated, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, "someone has... Eva."

"I know, we have to know what you saw, if you recognized anything about the people who did this to you."

"One..." Miles started to shake his head, caught himself before the gesture could set off more nerve endings. "One man."

"Did you recognize him?"

"No."

"Anything, Miles. Anything that could help?"

"I-I-I can't–"

"Stephen," Natalie's soft voice interrupted and Miles' bloodshot eyes veered over to her. She took his hand, careful of the IV in the back of it, gently rubbing her fingers over his palm.

"I'm sorry," Miles whispered.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I just want you to try to think. Do you remember anything at all about him. I know you're tired, Miles. Just anything you can remember."

Her hand was warm around his fingers and he tried to pull in the tattered edges of his memory. "Ski mask. B-blue eyes." He hesitated, pain shrouding everything before this very moment. "Accent," he said finally. "Boston. He sounded like the city of Boston. I went-went there once. Boston..." His voice trailed off, eyelids lost the fight with wakefulness, and his breathing evened out as the pain vanished into sleep.