Dedicated to: My Dad, wherever you are
Rated: T, for mild language, mentions of suicide, rape and murder, and for obvious peril
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did
A/N: This is told from Woody's POV, to squash any confusion.

"Woody..." I groaned and rolled over. "Woody, do want updates on the case or not?"

I opened my eyes and sat up, my neck hurt like hell from laying the way I had been, sprawled on Jordan's couch. "'Course I do," I said sleepily, stifling a yawn, "What've we got?"

"Nigel cross-referenced his lube list with known sex offenders," said Jordan, giving me her 'look'.

"And?" I asked, stretching and standing up.

"You want the good news, or the bad news?" I groaned again, and almost subconsciously rubbed my neck.

"Good news, please."

"He got hits," she said.

"Hits?" I asked, putting the emphasis on the 's', "As in, plural?" She nodded.

"That's the bad news. Twelve of the sixty customers are known sex offenders. Ten of them like boys. Nine like boys between the ages of seven and thirteen."

"Nine?!" I was almost yelling at her, though it wasn't her fault, "Nine..."

That hardly narrowed the field. Having nine suspects was hardly better than having the 590,763 people that lived in Boston as suspects. Ok, it was, but hardly.

They didn't even know what the boys had in common yet; none of them hung out with the same people or in the same places, none of them were one the same school sports teams, they didn't take the same music classes or art classes. Their schedules didn't overlap in any one place. One played piano and one played guitar, two were in a soccer league (different ones), one was in a baseball league, one on a basket ball team, one took a painting class and one went to mother-and-son pottery classes. Four were in the sixth grade, two in seventh and one in eighth, and the only two that went to the same school was a sixth grader and the eighth grader, so chances were they'd never met.

"I'm sorry Woody," Jordan said, trying to comfort me (unsuccessfully). She gently put one of her hands on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "We'll get him. Eventually."

"But not before he rapes and kills another boy," I explained, the feeling of a rock in the pit of my stomach, "I just want this sick son of a bitch off the streets."



"Me, too."

--

"I hate this!" I yelled, pounding my fist into my bedroom wall. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about those poor boys. I wanted to catch the man who was going this. I want not only to catch him, but to catch him in a state that had the death sentence. I wanted this sick, freak of a man dead.

It was shocking for me to realize this. I'd wanted to hurt people before, I'd wanted to severely hurt people before; but I don't think I've ever wanted someone dead before. And I wanted his guy dead.

'Bring!' screamed my cell phone, and I grabbed my jeans and yanked it from my pocket so forcefully that I actually send it flying across my bedroom and out of my bedroom door.

"Dammit!"

I set out after my phone, which somehow had disappeared. 'Bring!' it screamed again, muffled. I groaned. Where had my stupid phone gotten to?

Then I saw it; it was under my couch, half-covered by a fallen pillow. How it had gotten from my bedroom to there I would never understand, but I had found it.

I snatched it up and flipped it open. "Hoyt," I said calmly, as though the last three minutes of my life had never occurred.

"Hey, Woods, how's it going?"

"Cal?!" This was so not the time. Every time was never the time with him, but he always called at the worst moments possible. This case was eating me from the inside out, I hadn't slept in days, Jordan and I weren't getting on so well, and I had a killer headache. Now was not the time to be dealing with my dead-beat brother.

"Yeah, Woods, it's me," he sounded tired. Almost as tired as me. But not quite. No one was as tired as me in that instant.

"What is it this time? You need money? Got arrested and need me to bail you out?" Cal snickered.

"No, nothing like that. Woody, I'm clean now. I'm getting better. I just called because..." He sighed. "I saw on the news about the Boston rapist. They mentioned you were lead detective; I just thought..."

"Thought what?" I snapped.

"I thought it'd be eating you up." He was quiet, which was unusual for my brother. "I know this probably hits way too close to h—"



"I'm fine," I lied, keeping all emotion out of my voice. "I don't need your pity, Cal. Just... leave me alone."

"Now I know you're not fine." I groaned. He knew me too well. "Do you want me to catch the next flight to Boston? 'Cause I swear I will."

"No. No, no, no, no, no. Remember the last time you came to Boston? You nearly got yourself and Jordan shot down by the Albanian mob! No, I don't want you to come to Boston, nor do I need you to come. Seriously, I just need some sleep. Which this phone call is depriving me of."

"Woods..."

"Don't 'Woods' me!"

"Woody..."

"Seriously, Cal, I'm fine!"

"No, you're not..."

"I am!"

"Woody..." I was sick of this. I hung up on him, then threw my phone down, cracking the casing. I didn't care. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to catch the guy who was doing this. I wanted Jordan to see me as more than a friend. I wanted my brother to stop hassling me. I wanted my head to stop pounding. I wanted to be able to eat something more than toast and coffee without throwing up because of this case's gnawing at my stomach. You can't always get what you want.