Disclaimer: What? I don't know Vincent? But I have this receipt….

Vincent: What is that? Gimmie that. (He snatches the receipt)

Me: I got a thirty-five percent discount.

Vincent: That's not for me. That's for the job. Stupid Max, giving away my money…

Me: Well, I guess this day just sucks for you. You're not even in this chapter.

Vincent: What? You think these people read this stuff for your interesting characters? Or worse, for that Ray guy?

Me: Ah, well…maybe. But I know that some people will be happy to know that Jackson Rippner makes a kind-of-cameo.

Vincent: (bridling) Rippner? That idiot I caught in that other writer's room? You are not telling me that he's—

Me: Hey, you took off! Grabbed old whats-her-name and disappeared into the closet! You left me alone with him! You get what you pay for, toots!

Vincent: (dangerously) Call me toots again.

Me: Toots. Why, what are you going to do? You want to see the end of this fanfic, buddy, you'd better me nice to me.

Vincent: Sure, I'll be nice. Just wait until the fanfic is over, and I'll show you how nice I am.

Me: Ah…uh. (uncomfortable) Okay, well, I guess that's your cue (to the reader) to read on. And I hope I'm alive when this is over.

Vincent just smiles wickedly.

(If you're confused, go read a story in this section called "Not The Type," about chapter three or four or so. Actually, read the whole thing, it's pretty good)

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Chapter Two – Daughters

Callie had nightmares.

Dr. Gregg told her that it was normal. Dr. Martinez reassured her that they would fade with time. But it didn't make them less painful. Or less terrifying.

Some nights, she was driving the cab, and he was in the back seat. Those always lasted the longest. He was talking to her, about things, she couldn't remember. Just having a rambling conversation. They would argue, share things about themselves. She couldn't turn around, only glimpse him in the mirror. His voice was clear and distinct, as if right against her ear. It always broke down into a fight. These dreams would always end with her spinning the cab, and as it spun, her adrenaline surged and her body woke up.

Others, it was in the jazz club. She was sitting at a table, waiting for him to come back. When he did appear, he walked around, indiscriminately shooting people in the face. Everyone screamed around her, but she couldn't get away. She was tied to the seat, and when he finally reached her table, he wanted to pretend that everything was fine. She would get herself loose and he would chase her out into the street, where he would press her up against the wall, start kissing her, and then strangle her. Her inability to breathe was what would jar her from those dreams, and always with a sore throat.

The third one, however, was the worst. That was the one on the train. She was always crying hysterically in that one, running and screaming and begging Vincent to stop chasing them. Annie was in front of her, and sometimes Vincent would shoot Annie in the back of the head, and sometimes he would miss – it depended on the variety of the dream – and always they were running from car to car, a never ending stream of them, one to another. The train would stop and they couldn't get off, and then it would start again and they'd be running, endlessly running. That dream was the hardest to wake from because it just went on and on. Nothing stopped it.

She hadn't fully realized how badly that night had affected her. Even when Vincent disappeared through the security gate, she still felt him hanging over her. A ghost. She barely remembered digging out her cellular phone – she had to turn it back on and wait for a signal, as Vincent had turned it off after Ray called her that last time, bugging her about visiting her father – and no memory at all of the ride back into town. Her first clear memory was of hearing that Annie Farrell wasn't dead.

It didn't matter, Callie told herself. It didn't soothe her guilt one drop.

Sure, they tried to give her credit. One of the first things that Callie had told Ray was that Vincent had shot Annie, on the blue line going into Long Beach, and it was this information that allowed them to get to Annie in time to save her life. But she lay in a comatose state, and the doctors said that her condition did not give any hope for a full recovery. She was going to be lucky if she could talk again, let alone practice law. Vincent may as well have killed her, for all the good her surviving did.

Callie knew, rationally, that it wasn't her fault. Dr. Martinez told her that on the correct occasions, when it would penetrate into her brain. Vincent had been given the contract, Vincent had wreaked his havoc across the landscape of the city. She was an innocent bystander, sucked into his deadly game. But she had tried to rescue Annie. She had tried so hard, and she'd failed.

Vincent was a killer. Machine-like, cold blooded, ruthless. Dr. Martinez told her that it had only endangered her own life to thwart him the way she had, and that she was lucky to be alive. She could not take responsibility for Annie.

Callie heard it. She said she believed it. She wanted to. But somehow, she didn't.

Truth be told, she much preferred to talk to Laurie.

Her father, Ray Sr., had once been a cop, like her brother. Difference was, her brother liked being a cop, and her father had done it because it was what he was good at. When the opportunity for retirement came, he had taken it without hesitation, and there was no going back for him. He didn't miss it one bit. But during his time with the L.A.P.D., he'd made a few friends, and Dr. Laurence Gregg was one of them. Originally, Gregg had worked as a police shrink, the kind who worked over criminals, determined their mental states. While Laurie, as all his friends called him, had loved his job, the draw for bigger and better things was heavy, and before he knew it he was running an institute for the criminally insane.

Laurie was a good fifteen years her senior, but there was something youthful about him that drew her to him. Tall, lanky and mildly grizzled, with thick, graying brown hair that curled at the nape of his neck and facial hair that was barely kept neat, he walked with a cane, which he didn't hesitate to swing at people who annoyed him, because his right leg had been mangled in a car wreck when he was sixteen, and he had never fully regained its use. His humor was quick and cutting. He was brilliant, and he was always right, which made most people hold the opinion of him that he was an arrogant asshole.

The night Ray had brought her home from the airport, after the police station and then the hospital, she had charged into her father's arms. The sweet relief of being home had overpowered any urge she had had to play it cool. While she told Ray vehemently that she didn't want her father to know what happened, it came out. There was no help for it. And Ray Sr.'s first reaction had been to get her to a therapist.

Callie tried to fight. She claimed she was fine, but her father saw through her easily. She agreed to move back into the house and out of student housing on her college campus, and take a few days off from school, and even quit her job – she could never drive a cab again, she knew that. Then she locked herself in her room for three days, appearing only bleary-eyed through a partially opened door to accept trays of food, and when she came out, she had a two hundred page manuscript under one arm. She wouldn't let her father read it, although he wanted to. It was a detailed and intimate description of that night. Ten hours of hell. Ten hours of Vincent.

Still, she wouldn't go see a shrink.

Ray Sr., who was rather cunning, more so than either of his children gave him credit for, told her that she should consider one of the offers that were coming in. People wanted her story. She was the next movie of the week; she could be on networks or even on the big screen. He knew perfectly well that these things not only did not appeal, they repulsed her. But still, the offers came, and they were pestered until Ray Sr. considered selling the house and changing their phone number to unlisted.

If she had put so much work into writing about that awful night, her father pointed out, she should do something with it. Put these hounds to rest. And he knew someone who could help her.

And that was how she met Laurie.

A few days with Laurie had helped her come to a few conclusions. First off, she did need a shrink. He set her up with one of the women on his staff, a particularly talented woman by the name of Guadalupe Martinez, known as Lupe to her later on. And second, she did need to write a book, but not alone. He would take her under his wing. He had the know-how and experience to help her, and he didn't even want publishing credit, merely to be mentioned as one of her advisors. And slowly, the next week evolved into something resembling a real life again.

There were days with Laurie when they worked for six, seven hours straight. And then there were days like today, when Laurie came to the house, and they spent the middle afternoon hours in the living room of her father's house, psychoanalyzing the weirdos on the Steve Wilkos show.

"He's lying," Laurie said. He was sitting, his bad leg up on the couch, his other on the floor, giving him a sprawled appearance, the exactly same place she had sat that night. She was in her father's place, in his favorite chair.

"He's not blinking," Callie pointed out. "I mean, he's straight faced."

"Yeah, but look at that face," Laurie argued. "I mean, look at it."

Callie squinted. The particular participant, as they were known, was a man with little hair on his head but a great amount of it on his chin, frizzy curling masses of red on either cheek. He was young, maybe her age, maybe a bit older, and he'd just been accused of child molestation.

"Why do people agree to this stuff?" Ray Sr. asked as he entered the room. Even though he was retired, he still looked and smelled like a cop. He had thin brown hair, pushed back like his son wore his, a craggy face, and the wide blue eyes his daughter had inherited from him. Ray Jr. had somehow gotten brown ones, which was a bit of a genetic anomaly. He was in black pants and a white button down shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. If he'd been wearing a tie it would have looked like he was heading to work.

"Money," Laurie quipped dryly. "People do all kinds of humiliating things for money."

Callie flinched. "I'm not going to have to go on one of those things, am I?"

Laurie turned and looked at her. Her tone, which before had been lighthearted, had sudden cooled into a somber one. She'd been approached, he knew that much. Oprah, Maury, Dr. Phil…they all wanted to interview her. Even Sixty Minutes had given them a call.

"You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to," Ray Sr. said, his mildly gruff voice reassuring. Callie looked a bit relieved, but not much.

"All right, I have to get back to work," she said, standing up. "That paper isn't going to write itself."

"Hang in there, only a few weeks to go," Laurie said. He stood up, stretched and turned off the television.

Callie gave him a mildly amused grin over one shoulder, made her way down the hallway to the spare room her father was letting her use as a private study, and shut the door softly.

"Thanks again for helping her out," Ray Sr. said as Laurie limped into the kitchen, cane firmly clenched in his hand. "I don't know if that old wacko in the psych department would have let her write that paper if you hadn't strong-armed him."

Laurie nodded, looking down. Raymond Fanning was older than him by twenty five years – when he'd started with the L.A.P.D. he'd been a fresh-faced naïve little punk who thought he knew everything. Ray had been quick to show him he didn't. And from what he'd heard, Ray Jr. had inherited the same kind of wisdom, the knack for following procedure and always getting it right. There was a lot to be said for doing things by the book. Even though Laurie still allowed that certain amount of rebellion. Perhaps Callie was more like her mother. He'd only met her a few times, and hadn't even met Callie until all this unfortunate mess had happened.

"I wanted to talk to you," Laurie said, moving deeper into the kitchen. He watched as Ray Sr. went into his routine of sandwich making. He was a master at it, no doubt. The older man paused, however, at the tone of Laurie's voice.

"What is it?"

"I was approached by someone," Laurie said, seeming a touch uncomfortable. He shrugged it off – Ray had a right to know, it was too important. "It seems that some people have taken interest in the world Callie is doing…that I'm doing with her."

Ray grunted. "Well, she's been given pretty specific instructions not to talk to anyone yet, not until the Justice department gets done with her," he reminded him. "You know you can't get your book published without the all clear from them."

"True, but we can field some offers," Laurie mused. "I just have some concerns, Ray. About her safety."

"My son is already way ahead of you," Ray Sr. assured him. "He recommended some private muscle. We're going to be talking to some guys tomorrow."

Laurie nodded. "Good. But…" It bugged him. That conversation over the phone bugged him.

"What is it?" Ray pressed.

"I got a phone call yesterday evening at my house. A man named Jackson Rippner. He said he represented some people who were interested in purchasing Callie's story. I asked him if he was a publisher, but he said he wasn't. He implied that it might be better for everyone concerned, especially Callie, if the whole ugly matter just went away. He said they understood that she had suffered considerably and they were willing to compensate her financially. He even named some numbers, and…" Laurie paused, feeling awkward. "They were considerable."

Ray's eyes had narrowed at him. "Did they threaten her?" he asked, his voice tense.

"Not outright," Laurie said. "I had some feelings like this when you came to me, Ray. All this business with the Torrena indictment. I'm surprised they haven't put Callie in witness protection."

"The D.A. told me," Ray said, struggling to keep his tone calm, "that if they could figure out a way to use her, it might come to that." He suddenly looked pale, much older than 65. "If that happened, I'd go with her, you know."

Laurie nodded again. "I know. I'm just worried that she's already a target. Maybe you want to get someone in sooner."

Ray suddenly brightened. "Hey, look, I know that this might sound nuts, but…do you think maybe she could stay at the institute?"

Laurie scowled for a moment. St. Anthony's Institute for the Criminally Insane, known affectionately by some and not-so-affectionately by others as "Crazy Ant's," hardly seemed like a bright, happy place where Callie would feel comfortable. "Why?" he rasped.

"Well, first of all, I know you have some staff rooms, places for people to stay and be comfortable, some for your resident doctors, so it's not that far-fetched that she'd be comfortable there. Second, it's secure, isn't it? I mean, it's guarded like a prison."

"To keep people in, not out," Laurie said. "You want to throw her into a building with some of the worst nutjobs in L.A.?"

"You could stay with her, help her finish her work, get her college degrees settled, get this book written…it'd be safer than her staying here. Ray and I have been taking turns around the clock, he's got a couple of his friends helping too, but even if we hire armed guards, I still don't feel safe."

"So putting her in a prison will make you feel safe," Laurie said dryly.

"She wouldn't be in a prison and you know it. Some of your facilities make the Hilton look shabby."

Laurie chuckled. "In the executive wing, I guess that's true. I don't know, Ray, I'd have to pull strings, and it'd be improper for me to use the institute's resources for personal reasons--"

"Screw improper," Ray said, slapping his open hand on the counter top. "Forgive me if I get a little reckless when it comes to protecting my daughter."

Laurie considered him thoughtfully. "I could arrange an early internship. There might be a few things I could do. Give me a couple of days. In the meantime, get your security. You'll want to have them at the house, anyway, whether she's here or not, to protect yourself. These people don't respect family."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Ray sighed, weary. "I never liked my job, you know that? I did it for thirty-odd years and I didn't like a single damn thing about it. Know why? I hate criminals. I mean, they just turn my stomach. Car jackers, robbers, burglars, rapists, murderers…I don't know where my kids get the fascination for it from. Not from me, that's for sure." He paused. "I can't believe that man had the nerve to come into my house and terrorize my baby girl right in front of me."

Laurie didn't say anything, just looked at Ray, sympathetic.

"I'd like to get his gun away from him and get him into a closet for five minutes alone," the older man finished with a growl. "Show him what it's like to have someone bigger than you treat you like a punching bag."

Laurie winced. It was just as well that Ray was retired. He may have been a good cop, but he had no understanding for psychology. Someone like Vincent, from what Callie had told him, had probably already had that done to him, when he was young. By a father or an uncle or even an older brother. People who embraced violence usually did so because they wanted to prevent violence from happening to them.

That was his theory, anyway.

"All right, I'll be in touch," Laurie said, and limped out his exit.

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"Dad would kill you if he knew about this."

Callie pulled the gun from the holster secured to her belt. It had long since been made to fit comfortably – she was used to its weight, used to the sleek silver and black instrument inside of it that slid out and into her hand. Her palm no longer sweat as she held it. And her arm muscles no longer ached after firing. She was used to the recoil, used to the sound, used to the vibrating explosion as if it were happening right inside her own chest.

The first time she had fired this gun, she'd nearly wet her pants. She'd been shaking and nervous and looking at her brother pleadingly, not wanting to do this. Not like this, anyway. She knew weapons training would come at some time in her career, but Ray was insistent that it be now.

"You can't have a concealed weapons permit if you don't know how to handle a weapon," he said.

Her first shot had been miles off target. The recoil had gone down into her knees. Her stomach ached and she threw up afterwards. Ray wouldn't let her eat lunch until practice was over after that.

A few days later, it was gone.

The nightmares fed her, she knew. Whenever she didn't want to go to practice, she would just remember one of them, a moment, a flash. It was all she needed. She would never be a victim like that again. Never.

Now, she stood on the range, her right arm bent so that the elbow was flush against her ribs. Her left was also bent, only so that it cut across her chest, fingers of her left hand extended over the right one, shielding herself as the weapon fired six rounds, emptying the small clip, sending particles into the air toward her face. They scraped against her palm.

"Good, very good," Eddie said, coming around. He waited until she had holstered her weapon before walking to the target at the end of the range. The bullets were neatly clustered in the middle. "You're a natural."

"No, I've been doing this every day for almost eight days now," she said. "I'm just a fast learner."

Ray came around, dressed down in his jeans and white T-shirt, his own gun holstered to his hip. "Don't think it's going to end anytime soon," he told her in a low-key voice.

"Well, you'd better use public ranges from now on," Eddie said, coming over to them with the target neatly rolled up. "Here, for your bedroom wall," he said, handing it to her. "Yesterday, Daniels was asking about what we were doing here every day. He wanted to talk to you, Ray, but I told him it was your day off."

Ray chuckled. "Well, I guess it couldn't last forever. But I appreciate what you've been doing, Eddie."

The two shook hands as Callie pulled off the protective glasses and yanked the baseball cap off her hair. The tail, which had been shoved through the back, flopped in the humid breeze. Eddie flashed her an extra grin – he was cute, she had to admit. He was young, newer to the force than her brother, but already he'd been given a lot of responsibility helping the SWAT guys train on this course. The fact that they were on it now spoke to how big a favor Eddie owed her brother.

"What have you been telling Dad?" Ray asked as they left, checking back in their equipment, referring to her earlier remark.

"Self defense training," she said. "Hand to hand, I told him."

"Ah, a half-truth. Always better."

"I don't like lying to Dad but he's already upset enough." Her voice was low, almost bitter, as she said it.

"And what about you?" Ray asked. She could hear the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Me?" she said with a loud sigh. "I'm sick to death, that's what I am." She quickened her pace, and Ray had to hurry a bit to catch up with her.

"Why did this happen to me!" she shouted as soon as she was in his office, the door shut behind them. "Why did he have to get into my cab?"

Ray watched as Callie nearly exploded. She was trying to hold it in – a blossoming mushroom cloud that didn't want to expand.

"I had a life once. Now I have this!" She shook the empty holster at her waist. "I had my own place and now I'm living at my father's house again! I had a job and I was going to get my degree, and now people have to go beg my professors to accept independently written papers so I can finish my courses! AND I CAN'T EVEN BEGIN TO GET BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A CAR!"

Ray hissed between his teeth. That last outburst had rattled the windows.

She shut her eyes, squeezing back the tears. "I hate him, Ray," she said, her voice cracking. "I hate him so much. I just burn inside with how much I hate him and I can't do anything about it."

He crossed the room to her and put his arms around her. She didn't respond at first, just let her arms hang limply, but she rested her head against his chest. She breathed deep, trying to get the tears under control.

"Is this the first outburst you've had?" Ray asked after a quiet minute.

"Second or third. The first one I had with Dr. Martinez in our third session." She sniffled. Her voice was gravelly.

"So she knows about the anger."

"Shooting the gun helps," Callie replied. "She says to keep doing it. It's good anger therapy."

Ray nodded, his chin against her hair. "It's going to get better, you know," he said in a calm, reassuring voice. "It will."

She sniffed again. She squeezed him, closing her eyes, just quiescent against him for a moment. "And I hate that I'm being such a damn baby about it," she whispered.

Ray almost burst into a laugh, but instead it came out more like a quick bark. "Callie," he said soothingly, "you're not being a—"

"Yes I am." She pulled away, wiping her eyes. "I am. Worse things have happened to people. I mean, look at Annie."

"That isn't your fault."

"I know, but…I was there. I feel responsible." She gritted her teeth. "And here I go whining again."

"Right now, it's fresh. It's raw." Ray was talking like a cop now, being rational. Almost impartial. "You have to give it time, Opie." She gave him a quick grin at the familiar nickname.

"All right, Junior," she replied. "Will you give me a lift over to the hospital?"

Ray nodded. "What are you reading now?"

"Lord of the Rings," she said. "Second volume. I think Annie likes Aragon. Her heart-rate goes a touch faster when I read his parts."

"I was always a Gandalf fan myself," Ray said, holding open the door.