LAte again, I know; I've been in the car so often the last few days, it's not even funny.

A bit extra for the devoted fans this time. Tryt o suspend disbelief... its all in good fun.

And, as always, read, smile, and review!

5. And the Hero Will Drown

"If man were immortal he could be perfectly sure of seeing the day when everything in which he had trusted should betray his trust." – Charles Sanders Pierce

It was not a nice house, to be sure; the quaint ranch-style might have been in fashion a good thirty or forty years ago, but those times were long gone, and the intervening years had not treated it well. Water stains marred the wooden trim, flaking the paint, and the stucco seemed eroded and brittle. Even the mailbox seemed tired, leaning at a depressed angle as it slowly lost its battle with gravity. Don had been careful not to help it on its way down when he had first pulled in. Standing at the front door, he rung the doorbell, stepping back to survey the fifteen or so identical houses that served as its neighbors. The only distinguishing feature that told him this was the right house was the set of shiny brass numbers on the front door: 418.

The sound of the door opening made him turn; catching sight of the answerer, he was at first taken aback.

"Can I help you?" asked the man gruffly. Perhaps the only thing that time had abused more than the house was its owner; he looked to be in his late forties, and, judging by his expression, wasn't too happy about it. The roundness of his stomach, straining to break free from the collared shirt that had been stretched over it, suggested that a great many beers had helped to console him on the subject. Gray eyes that Don remembered as alive with drive and reason now seemed emptied of everything but boredom. His face was ruddy and hard, framed with a slightly out-of-control, gray-tinted fringe of hair that at some point had been a buzz cut. Don took off his sunglasses and squinted in disbelief.

"Jason…Anderson?" he managed.

With his glasses off, the man seemed suddenly hit with recognition. "Well, well, well, if it isn't little Donnie Eppes." Anderson clapped him on the shoulder, looking him up and down. "Fifteen years look better on you than on me."

"If you say so," joked Don, taking it in stride. "Actually, I was wondering if I could talk to you."

"Sure, sure," Anderson assured him, stepping back to allow him entrance. Shutting the door behind him, he led him down a long entry hall which emerged onto two rooms. The one into which Anderson gestured him was well-lit, due to the large bay window, although, between the dry, sparse furniture and bare walls, there was little in it worth lighting. Anderson, on the other hand, ducked through the other door, calling out so his voice would carry into the living room.

"Want a beer?"

"Uh, no thanks," he called, pacing in the living room. A moment later, Anderson returned, clutching a perspiring Bud Lite in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other.

"You sure?"

Anderson brandished the bottle enticingly, but Don waved him off. "I'm on duty."

Anderson's brows went up as he handed over the ice water and flopped in a chair, his beer opening with a hiss. "Hmmmm," was all he said before taking a swig. He eyed Don for a minute as he awkwardly did the same.

"You've changed," Don remarked.

"Fifteen years will do that to you," commented Anderson. "What've they got you doing now? ATF?"

"Still with the FBI. Field agent."

Anderson tutted. "I guess you changed too, Eppes. FBI field seems a bit tame for the hot-blooded kid I had to deal with."

"I was fresh outta Quantico," argued Don, adding a smile as an afterthought. "Probably would have been dead in a week without you."

"You know it," replied Anderson with a grin. "Still FBI, though? Where'd all that eagerness go, all that 'takin' things hot' and 'haulin' in ass'? Cooper'd be disappointed."

The words stung a little, and Don's grin evaporated. "Actually, that's why I came. A few days ago, narco found a body in a motel in South Central. Suicide. It was Coop."

Anderson froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. "Aw, jeez," he breathed. "I'm sorry, Eppes, I didn't mean…"

"It's fine," Don interrupted. Turning away from Anderson, he started in on the second half of his message. "Anyway, I wanted to find them – the jumper team – for the service." He turned back to Anderson, pulling a stack of photos from his coat pocket. "You know what I found?"

The smile on Anderson's face flickered and died at his tone; he set his beer on the table and leaned back as Don approached, tossing Coop's picture onto the table first.

"They're all dead, Jay," he said, tossing the rest down in a heap. The garbage man and the fashion bigwig stared up at them all, merely actors in costume. "Lee, Mei Ling… all of them. All suicides. All in the last six weeks."

Anderson didn't speak; whether this was a choice or not, Don couldn't gauge before he turned away once more. He continued.

"The name Coop was checked in under was Kel Bacci. That spells 'black ice'. Black ice was Coop's distress word." He ran a hand through his hair. "It was the same for all of them – they were all checked in under false names, spelled from distress words."

"Have you told anyone about this, Eppes?" asked Anderson.

"I want to test a theory first." He should have turned, but he didn't want to be looking at Jay for this part. "Now, access to that information was very limited, so the only people who would have known that name would be Coop, me…" he ran a hand through his hair, "…and you, Jay."

Instead of the reaction he had been expecting, indignation or otherwise, Don heard nothing from Anderson except a small, metallic click. He spun around just in time to hear the gun go off. Something small and hard and very alien punched into his chest, right below his heart, and though the force was not enough to throw him back, the shock did topple him, his face meeting with cheap Berber carpet with a resounding thud. Gasping for breath, he heard Anderson approaching him, watching the shadow fall over him, created by that beautiful bay window. Anderson bent to whisper in his ear.

"It's better this way, Eppes," he hissed quietly. "I've seen what they do to them once they get a hold of them. You'll look down from your pedestal and thank me once you see what they'll do to me."

With a quick jerk, Don snapped out his foot, taking Anderson's legs out from under him. Rolling out of the way, he stumbled to his feet, wrestling his weapon from its holster and planting a firm foot on Anderson's chest. He lay on the floor like a beached whale, staring dumbly at the hole in Don's shirt where the bullet had passed through, and with even more bewilderment at the Kevlar that peeked through via this hole.

"You sold them out," spat Don. "What was the price, then? A shitty house in Santa Monica? The 50,000 you just put in you bank account? Tell me, what does it take to buy Jason Anderson?"

Anderson wouldn't meet his eyes, shaking his head and holding up a hand to protect him from the accusations. "It wasn't like that, Eppes. I swear."

"All right, then, what was it like?"

"I had a choice: be dead or be rich. It wasn't a hard one."

Don was incredulous. "You killed five people to save your own sorry ass?"

"I didn't kill anyone. I just gave names."

"Knowing full well what would happen," exclaimed Don. His blood was pumping; he wanted to hit something, and Anderson was an appealing target, but he resisted. "Who did you tell?"

Anderson seemed suddenly smug. "Don't worry. I expect they'll be here soon."

Don froze. "What?"

Cheekily, Anderson patted the foot that held him captive. "You said earlier that they were all dead," he said, gesturing towards the table. "But there's one left… Eppes."

Suddenly it hit him; a strange dizziness invaded his brain, scattering his thoughts like a gunman could scatter a crowd. Pin-wheeling with his arms, his gun went off once, then twice before he lost his grip on it. Running gracelessly into an obstacle, he slid down the wall as his legs gave out. The last cognitive capabilities his brain was capable of were spent registering the half-drunk glass of water on the table. Not even Kevlar could protect him from this.

As his eyes closed against his will, he prayed the SWAT that he'd called on the way here would arrive before Anderson's mystery contacts. Briefly, he thought of Katherine, imagining her taking him by the hand and leading him into the darker parts of his own mind, where she and the rest of his mistakes lived…