Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.

Note: First of all, thanks to: xOlly, ruth609, Mexwojo, Pandorea, BugFan4Ever, cjloverforever and Tawnyleaf! As always, constructive criticism is very much appreciated, but I don't mind praise, either. :))

Furthermore, I think that this site hasn't been functioning properly - I haven't received a couple of story and review alerts, so it's not my fault if some of you haven't gotten my review reply. I'm sorry, guys, 'cause what I like about this site is precisely that possibility of interaction. Ok, I'm rambling again...

The first thing she became aware of was the pulsing pain at the back of her head. It felt like her brain was throbbing. Her hand flew up, but instead of finding its way through her tangled curls and landing on the painful spot, it lingered in mid-air for a fraction of a second before going back downwards and resting protectively on her abdomen. For a moment, she was confused by this reaction, but then her still dazed mind started functioning.

"The baby." She recalled the ordeal of the last few days, caressing her belly absent-mindedly. "Instinct." She diminished the fact that her first movement when she woke up was directed towards protecting her unborn child. The one she didn't want, supposedly.

She still felt dizzy, but it slowly dawned on her: why being defensive? From what was she trying to protect the baby? Why did her head hurt so much? The last thing she remembered was walking to the El Camino. After that, everything was darkness. What had happened? Had she collapsed? Who'd brought her to her place? Woody? She stretched her arm, fumbling for him, when it hit her: she was still completely dressed, she even had her shoes on. None of her friends, much less Woody, would have left her like that. Moreover, this bed was far smaller than hers, than either of their beds. A hospital, maybe? She immediately ruled it out because of the clothes.

Alarmed, she jumped off the bed. Apparently, her body didn't like that very much. Red specks appeared in front of her eyes, quickly changing to green ones and then turning blue, as she clutched the headboard in a desperate attempt to stay on her feet. After some time - she wasn't able to determine how long it had been - she finally felt capable of loosening her grip. Taking deep breaths, she tried to remain rational. She now remembered – she hadn't blacked out at the morgue's parking lot, she had been hit on the head. Had she been kidnapped? She had been kidnapped. God, she had been kidnapped! But why? And by whom?

"James," was her first impulse. "No way." She shook her head almost momentarily. "Firstly, he's probably dead. Secondly, this isn't his style."

She was one hundred per cent sure she was right – it hadn't been James. That conclusion made the entire situation even more frightening. She could hear her heart beat and felt it rising from her rib cage, through her throat, until she felt it in her mouth. Her breathing was getting shallower by the second. Both her medical education and her common sense were telling her she had to do something. Fast, before she broke down, in a full-blown panic attack. Mustering all the strength she could, she forced herself to take deep breaths. Some minutes elapsed before she managed to regain her composure.

"Don't panic. There has to be a light switch somewhere here," she encouraged herself, stumbling, her arms stretched out in front of her.

After a couple of moments, her fingertips reached a hard surface, which she assumed was a wall. She moved along it, groping for the switch, but could find none for what seemed an eternity. Meanwhile, she discovered that some parts of the wall were oddly slick – like they had posters of some kind. When her fingers finally met the familiar shape of a light switch, she thanked God. A second later, she shrieked in horror.

Her eyes had met the dead, vacant eyes of a naked, beaten woman she recognized as Madison Moore. Still shuddering from the shock and repulsion, she looked around. All in all, about a quarter of the walls of that 15x15 ft room was covered with life-size pictures of dead women: all lying on the very same bed she had recently gotten up from, all tied to that bed, all full of bruises. What struck her as the initial shock was wearing off was the fact that none of the girls was mutilated. Returning to the bed, she looked for the traces of blood on the mattress. There were none. She didn't spot any sign of blood on the naked floor, either.

"The bastard does that somewhere else," she concluded, fighting the urge to vomit.

Feeling that her legs were starting to refuse obedience and that her whole body was shaking uncontrollably, she set onto the bed, which was the only piece of furniture in the room. Her eyes darted around, looking anxiously for the door, but the only exit was on the ceiling, which was some seven feet high. She knew it must be locked, but she had to try. She couldn't curl up and wait for that creep. Once she trusted her legs enough, she stood up and tried to move the bed, her only chance to reach the door. Tears of anger and horror welled up in her eyes as she learned that it was nailed to the ground. She couldn't do anything but curl up and wait for that creep.

She was trying to wipe the tears away, but they seemed to be coming at the speed of light. They were pouring and she could do nothing but wait till their flow slowed down at least a bit. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed silently. She was certain she was going to die.

"Why me? Why now?" she asked herself, not missing the fact that a few days ago she had been asking the same question. That only made her sobs more frequent. "I haven't even told you. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry… It's all my fault…" She wasn't quite sure why, but she felt she was to blame. "I'm sorry, Woody," she repeated. Yes, she was afraid for her life, but not so much because she feared death – the prospect of imminent death didn't really horrify her, not after everything she had been through. If nothing else, while working at a morgue, you learn how fragile human life is. Not that she hadn't been aware of that fact since she was ten. Death was inevitable. What tormented her was that her death was going to destroy a life that hadn't even begun, and both of their deaths were going to devastate the person she loved more than her life.

"I'm sorry," was all she could utter, over and over again, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. "I'm sorry, baby," she whispered, looking down. "How could I have? How could I have ever even thought about doing that… killing my own child? Killing my baby? Oh God, please, please, you can't… you can't… please… don't…"

Thinking about having an abortion was one thing and being faced with the certainty of losing your baby was a completely different one. Now she knew she would have never been able to get through with that idea of terminating the pregnancy. But now it was too late.

"Just deserts." The thought terrified her. "No, no, God is merciful; there is no an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," she parroted her Sunday school lessons, not quite convinced.

All of a sudden, she got the feeling that there was something else behind the 'just deserts' remark. Some hidden meaning she couldn't grasp. Something that had to do with the victims. She forced herself to look at those gory black and white photos, which covered the walls of her prison. Apart from Madison Moore and Julie Cohen, there were two women she hadn't seen before. She tried hard to remember all the details she had ever heard of Moore or Cohen. Closing her eyes, she relived the sight of Nigel in Trace, telling her about Julie.

"Woody," she winced when Nige mentioned the name and hoped that he didn't notice, "says she was an ordinary suburban housewife – white picket fence and everything. She was quite involved in charities, as it seems. She contributed to various children's homes. It seems she couldn't have kids, poor thing…" Misty-eyed, Nigel turned to the mass spectrometer, changing the subject, "So,…"

Jordan gasped. That was it! At first it seemed impossible, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. There was Madison Moore – married to her job, not planning any children, then Julie Cohen – unable to have any, and now herself – pregnant and not wanting the child. So, this was some kind of a missionary killer – set out to free the world of those seemingly contributing, but actually useless (in his mind) members of society - those without offspring. Was it? She shook her head, it all seemed overly dramatic to her. Then again, this whole situation was dramatic. And that was an understatement. But something else was bothering her. She knew it was there, but couldn't put her finger on it.

"I'm missing something." She was pacing the room. Crossing the distance between the bed and the wall for the umpteenth time, she realized, "Nobody knew I was pregnant. This wasn't it. This was random," she concluded. After giving it a second thought, she wasn't sure, though. "Was it? I was like Moore… But I had a relationship and I may have wanted kids…"

After some more pacing and trying to understand what could not be understood, at least not with the little information she had, she finally gave up.

"Nothing seems to have sense," she sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then she remembered something else. "How long have I been here?"

It was impossible to tell since she didn't even know if it was night or day. She did know one thing, though. She took Saturday off – nobody was going to notice she had gone missing by Sunday afternoon. At least. And he was going to kill her on Monday if he hadn't changed his pattern. She shivered. Woody was going to find her. He had always managed to find her. And Garret and Nigel and Bug. They would all help him and he would find her and he would bring her home, bring them home. He had to.

"He will find us," she said loudly, seeking the way to reassure herself. She had never been the one to believe in fairy tales and miracles, but she had to keep hope alive. For her baby.

A sharp noise startled her. It resembled screeching of nails across a blackboard. She frowned, wiping the residues of tears away with the back of her hand. The son of a bitch was coming and she was not going to give him the pleasure of seeing her cry.

A small ladder found its way through the door on the ceiling. Almost instantly, a sharp steel blade appeared. Usually, Jordan would do something. She would probably run to the ladder, tried to fight the attacker. But now she just stood there – because of her baby. She couldn't risk her baby. There was one other thing, though. She had been shocked upon seeing the person who was now approaching her.

"Don't try to do anything stupid, bitch," the killer said. "After all, you'll get only a sneak preview tonight. But don't you worry; the next two days will be a real thing."

Jordan still just stood in the same spot. She wouldn't be able to move even if she wanted to. She was numb, looking at the murderer's long golden hair and cruel pearly white smile. The Dark Dahlia killer was a woman.

And another A/N :): This chapter should have included some discoveries of our beloved gang, but I decided to leave that for the next one (I know, I know, I'm repeating myself) and get some sleep. Anyway, I'll risk being spoilerish and tell you that not everything is as it appears...