There was an edge of sunshine at 1:05pm and it skirted around a cloud hopefully as they made their way back from Lake Earl Market with roast beef sandwiches and a few bags of necessaries. Nectarines, oranges, two peaches, grapes, lemons (big fat ones, on the sweet side), and a few blushing apples. He'd stopped for crabs, too (which were not up the road, but further in town), while Reese dozed in the passenger seat, battered and worn. He was worried about the finger-shaped bruises already blossoming against her neck, but she wouldn't let him take her in to get them looked at.

Stubborn Reese.

His chest was tight and heavy as he glanced at her. In some ways, this felt worse than Arrowbear, worse than when Roman had her. In some ways, he blamed himself for even agreeing to this. If he hadn't, they'd be in Los Angeles working the case at their own desks and probably getting nowhere, but they'd be safe. He sat at a red light and rubbed at a throbbing temple as another car idled beside him. He heard the sound of a power window going down and glanced over.

Crews froze.

Carter Manning.

Corrections officer. Pelican Bay State Prison. Dark hair, a little swarthy, his nose too big for his face, his teeth slightly gapped, white like paint. Crews blinked and his fingers tightened around the wheel as the man gestured. He could hear the shout through the window and carefully turned his head the other way.

"Hey convict," Manning called, "you come back for more? Couldn't stay away from my baton, huh? You like it, huh?" He ribbed another man and Crews almost winced. John Gauteman, pale, rat faced man, black hair subtly graying, scraggly eyebrows. He could feel the toes of their boots in his gut and the way their batons had come down. He could feel the cold, wet concrete on his cheek. You like that, convict? Do it again, Manning. Fucking convict, now, aren't you? Maybe we should let Blank play with him, yeah? Maybe we'll leave you in the yard for awhile, convict. Maybe you'll miss your yard time. You listening, Crews? Reese was out cold and didn't stir as his chest heaved, panic sliding in like the rain against the windshield. This was Crescent City. This was Pelican Bay. This was Hell. Why? Why was he back here? Why did he come back?

For Reese. For Ballantine. For this case. To catch a killer named Victor Nabbas. That was why. There was a good reason, a very, very good reason.

Calm. He had to.

Be clam.

His teeth grit and he fixed the men with an icy stare, refusing to give them the satisfaction of breaking him down. They jeered for a moment longer and then took off, tires screeching as the light changed. He pulled himself back together, swallowing the knot in his throat down. Crews stayed there for a moment longer, watching the rain bleed and sheet as thunder rumbled around him.

"If we live, we live; if we die, we die; if we suffer, we suffer; if we are terrified, we are terrified. There is no problem about it," he said very softly, quoting Alan Watts, as he breathed through the panic, and breathed through the fear. He pressed the accelerator and kept them moving until the tires hit the gravel drive of Ballantine's house. "Reese," he whispered, leaning across the car to brush an errant wisp of hair from her cheek. His voice was still a little shaky, but it wasn't too bad. She stirred and blinked.

"Fell asleep," she said, her voice cracking slightly as she scrubbed at her eyes.

"It's okay," he murmured. "It's fine. We're back." Crews watched a bright yellow banana slug work its way across the rail of the front porch and felt her fingers close around his wrist. She brought him home, just like that, and a curl of a smile touched his lips. The world could press in on him, guards could stab at him and shake him and all she had to do was touch him. He glanced at her, at her wide, dark eyes, at what lie behind them and found it impossible to stifle the sound that worked its way from his lips.

"I missed something," she whispered, letting go of his wrist to lean her fingertips against his cheek as she studied his face. "Charlie?" He shook his head slightly. It was nothing. It's over. "Charlie," her voice dropped and he closed his eyes as her thumb eased over his bottom lip.

"Guards, just guards," he said very quietly, no traces of the cop or the prisoner, just the man. Just Charlie Crews. "I knew their faces. It's fine, now, it's just fine. They were just being--" Crews gestured wordlessly. Assholes. Reese grimaced. "Should get the fruit inside, eat lunch. We'll have to rush a little to make that interview." Her eyes caught his and held. Once again he shook her head. "I'm not walking. This is my job. All of this is connected to Ballantine. We establish motive, we tie his movements down, we make it airtight, get Nabbas and Ballantine in the same place at the same time, establish a chain of events. We nail Nabbas down tight, we close the case, and it never comes back. Never, never comes back. I wish it would stop raining. I think it should stop raining."

"It'll stop raining, Charlie," she said simply, letting her fingers fall away. "It always stops raining."

"Does it?" he asked, hoisting bags out of the car as he grabbed the sandwiches. Under the cover of the porch, as he worked the key into the lock, he caught her eyes. The look he found in them made him still as she shifted on her feet. She smiled just a little and nudged the door open with her knee before slipping past him. When there wasn't any sun, like now, Reese was full of it. She was full of everything at exactly the right moment and she burned fiercely.

He saw that.

He saw it later, too, as she drove them into the gates of Pelican Bay State Prison, her expression hard as she stared down the guards. The guard towers rose above him and he could feel the weight pressing into him again as he locked the fear away. They had a job to do. Weaselly faced Brody Harrick flashed an even grin at him as they walked, single file, with Reese behind him (protecting his back, he realized), through the noisy halls of the prison. The spit-shined floors were cold beneath his shoes, and Reese's boots were gunshot echoes as they worked their way through.

"Prisoner incoming!" A guard yelled and all activity ceased while an inmate passed by on a catwalk, guards with rifles above, guards with guns escorting. He felt Reese's palm touch his back and heat of it soaked through his shirt. They moved again and another steel door rattled open to give way to an austere room and the thin lipped face of the current warden. He wasn't a bad man. Paul Harris had beliefs, but he was just a man. A man who stared Crews down for a long moment.

"Detectives," he said crisply and gestured to the chairs. Both guards stood at attention inside the doorway, their eyes riveted to Crews. He could feel the weight of their stares on the back of his head. Reese began the questioning, each one familiar and routine. Each one getting them nowhere on a long list of nowheres. The guards were next. Same questions, different answers, nothing conclusive until they were almost out of people. Just one more. Reese looked exhausted, like the walls were trying to swallow her down, too.

"You're here about those guys what killed Blank in cell number six, ain't you?"

He glanced up at the voice, surprised. The woman was short, stocky, her thick honey blonde hair pulled back from her face, her oddly colored brown eyes almost reddish in the florescent light. Candice Blockman. She'd worked nights. He remembered her face for its uniqueness, and for the minute thread of kindness she'd shown him. The Zen book. He'd always suspected she'd left it for him.

"You know something about that, Candice?" Crews asked softly.

"Nope," she said, but scratched gestured for the pad Reese had been taking notes on. "Nobody knows about that. You ain't gonna find a damn soul who knows about that. I'd go on home if I was you." She slid the pad to Crews, her face serious, but he saw the glint in her eyes.

Saw that man you be looking for. You come talk to me outside these walls.

He smiled and jotted down a few words before pushing the pad back at her.

You like crab? Blockman's face broke into a smile. Ballantine's. 9pm work? There was a slight nod and then she stood, brushing her Corrections issue pants off and re-tightening the way her bun was wrapped in a secure knot. She nodded to Reese, who managed a surprised, if polite, smile.

"Well, I guess that makes us done, then," Crews sighed and rose, stepping around the bolted down chair as Reese got to her feet as well.

The long, dark procession outside was slow and painful. The guards took their time, stopping at five different intervals as prisoners passed. Crews felt dizzy by the time the rainsoaked air finally greeted him. He felt the rifles pinpointing him square between his shoulder blades and heard a guard hiss boom at his back. The car was safe and he closed his door before the shakes began. Reese said nothing the whole way back to Ballantine's, but her warm hand closed over his, grounding him, connecting him to her as he shook Pelican Bay off.

The worst was over.

Candice had times, dates, logs, all the movements, and the security tapes that covered the times that William Blank had been taken in. They weren't Pelican Bay issue, they were tiny. Almost FBI issue. The quality was decent and they watched Pullard and Raine move Blank and march him out. Another tape showed the licence plate of the vehicle used to transport the man. Reese caught it first--recognized his eyes--and identified Nabbas. A soft conversation followed about the wheres and whys and hows. Candice had everything about Ballantine down to a tee and she'd done it because Ballantine had asked her to do it. They had Nabbas and Blank in the same place and same time, but not Nabbas and Ballantine. There was no direct physical evidence linking Nabbas to the man. By the time Candice, who said she would testify to all of the facts, left, Reese looked so faded that he had to scoop her into his arms.

He expected protest and got none.

"Hey," he said quietly as her fingers curled against his chest.

"Hey," she said, her voice a soft mumble as her lips brushed his neck. Crews pulled his fingers through her hair, gently untangling knots when he found them. "Charlie." He hmmed, brushing a thumb over her temple. "Call Rayborn. Get the jet. Gotta go home before shit goes down."

"We'll leave in the morning," he said, moving down the hall into the guest room. "Early. I talked to him while you were in the kitchen talking to Candice." She was silent. "Reese?" He shifted her against his chest and she murmured, wincing slightly as he set her down on the bed and worked her boots off. "Sleep." The sigh he got in response told him that he didn't need to insist and he curled himself around her. It was a long while before he slept at all.

"All rise." There was a dreadful sound as people stood and then he stood, getting to his feet with the desperate weight of the world on his shoulders. Jennifer didn't look at him, in fact, she turned away to stare at the judge. "Charles Crews. It is my duty to sentence you to be remanded into the custody of Pelican Bay State Prison for the remainder of your natural life for three accounts of murder in the first degree. On this day..." He didn't hear the rest, not a word of it as the world he knew spun and crashed and fell away.

It fell into pain and violence and death.

It fell into fire.

He slept and woke to white walls and blood spattered moments, to shivs and darkness, to the flickering lights, to an empty yard. He died and lived thousand, a million times. Over and over, each day the same, maddening, unrelenting, his thoughts circular. I'm a cop, I'm a cop, I'm a cop. He was innocent, he was guilty, he was innocent, innocent. Connie was supposed to get him out. She didn't come. Reese was supposed to be there, she was gone (he could hear her screaming, somewhere). The cell was cold, and he bunched up against the wall, trying to breathe. This was wrong.

He was free. God. Oh God. He was free, he was free. He'd gotten free.

A guard slammed his baton into his face, an inmate pulled a shiv, and there was pain, so much--

Crews bolted upright, gasping, cold sweat rolling down his spine. Reese was awake in an instant, her grogginess shaken, and he stared at her for a long, wild-eyed moment. All he could hear was his own breath, ragged in his ears as she pulled him close, wordless. He shook bodily and couldn't stop, his fingers buried in her hair, his lips against her neck. All he could hear was her voice in his ear, over and over.

"I'm here. I'm real. Charlie, Jesus," her lips brushed his ear as he clung to her, "I won't let go, I won't let you go."

He needed to get back to Los Angeles.

Now.