Disclaimer: Continuing to play in Jonathan Larson's sandbox and continuing to borrow toys from the other copyrighted kids.

Author's Note: Don't make someone an obsession when all they made you is a choice.

--------------------

NIGHT FALLS

By Etcetera Kit

Chapter Three: A Trip

Mark Cohen pressed his forehead to the window in the helicopter. Air travel was tightly controlled now, and commercial airfares had skyrocketed. People didn't travel much nowadays, with the curfews, and IDs, and passes, and papers… No, it was easier to stay home and watch the news, stare blankly into the lies that were told. No one believed the daily news, but no one could say that aloud. This chopper was a special transport, government-issued and approved. That didn't always protect someone, but it was good enough while they were in the air.

Fuck. He hated his life, hated what he had become. Years ago, he had worked for Buzzline to pay the rent, and other expenses that kept piling up. The real reason he had started to work for Buzzline? Angel's impending funeral. The moment Angel's health took a nosedive, Mark knew they had to have money. They couldn't rely on Benny for spotty financial assistance. The first advance he got he cashed, with the intent of handing it to Collins. That hadn't happened. Trent and the cure, then moving into Joanne's townhouse…

It had been Trent's idea for him to work at the television station. He had a few semesters of film school before he dropped out, combined with his corporate experience with Buzzline… well, that made him an ideal candidate for a station that lied and gossiped. He didn't actually film anymore. He ran the lights for the news shows, and helped with the sound. His camera… he had taken a photography class in high school and one of the first things their teacher said was that a good photojournalist goes nowhere without his camera. Well, that was gone. Just like Roger's guitar. Just like their lives! Just like…

Mark stopped that thought before it went anywhere. Maybe, if he knew they were dead, this investigation wouldn't seem so… hard. Gill couldn't repeat anything over the phone. Cortland was acting like this was just another case. And Mimi… Shit, he knew how hard this was for her. She and Angel had been best friends. What was their biggest fear? Finding one of their bodies? Yeah… that might be worse than learning they had died.

He shifted in his seat, leaning his head against the uncomfortable headrest. His eyes met Mimi's. She gave him a tight smile.

Why did loss still hurt ten years later?

Bohemia. What was it Trent had said? You live. You dream. He never wanted fame or recognition. He just wanted to make a difference. Want… Sure, he had wanted to make a difference, but that had never become a need, a burning, all-consuming desire change the world. He had seen his world changed—shattered, and no one apologized for that. No one said, Oh, and by the way Mark, your friends are in an unmarked mass grave. Happy birthday.

Unity through conformity.

One slogan, and the America he had known was gone.

"Sergeant," their pilot called. "We're coming up on Alkali Lake."

"Good," Mimi replied idly. They were flying over a huge lake. The shores held the ruins of a large facility, some places still smoking from the fires. With a lake and dam that size… Fuck. Charlie Gill had found something underground—Mark would have bet a lot on it. Judging from the location of the facility, the basement could have extended into something under the lake. Even without the recent fire, he imagined that the place looked like an abandoned factory or something from above.

Hope. Why the fuck did that little word, and accompanying emotion, keep coming back to haunt the hell out of him? Ten years! A fucking decade, they had believed that the others were dead. Oh, there was a little flame that wanted them alive, but it wasn't practical. Now, that flame had been fanned into a bonfire, a great big fucking bonfire on the beach, complete with coolers and kegs. Jesus, he could really have gone for some Stoli.

Their chopper bumped to a stop on the makeshift landing field. A detective—Charlie Gill, Mark presumed—was standing by to meet them. He rushed forward the moment they hit the ground, opened the door and ushered them out.

"I'm Charlie Gill," he called over the noise. "Thanks for coming!"

"No problem," Mimi called back. "I'm Sergeant Davis." She motioned to Cortland. "Officer Cortland, and Mark Cohen," she ended, gesturing to him.

Gill gave them each a nod. They cleared the landing pad, the noise fading into the background as the pilot stopped the helicopter. Crime scene tape had been set up in various areas, while armed police officers stood guard at various locations.

"Give me a report," Mimi said, as they ducked under the tape, heading towards the blackened corpse of a building.

"Building is roughly the design of top security prison, each cell was designed to isolate the prisoners from each other and the outside world. Only thing in each one was a toilet." Gill motioned them to follow him to where several forensics were examining a destroyed lock. "Top floors were living quarters for staff and guards. Ground floor was offices, archives, things like that. But the floors below ground are where things get interesting."

"What about the fire?" Cortland asked.

"Arson—gasoline and a match. They started it in the archives room with plenty of paper to make sure the sucker burned."

"Someone had something to hide," Mark muttered.

"That is the understatement of the year," Gill responded. The ground floor of the building was a mess of rubble and ashes. They walked past the forensics and headed into the actual building. "We could determine that all the cells were underground," Gill continued. "That's common practice in state prisons nowadays."

The detective led them to a side hall, just off the main entryway. Ten or twelve steps down and—

"Holy shit-fuck!"

Mark had to second Cortland's outburst. Various mechanical devices lined the walls—the most basic of which would have made medieval torturers jealous. The others were much more complicated, and Mark wasn't sure he wanted to know what they did. For a fleeting moment, he was reminded of that old movie, the Princess Bride, where there was that death machine that sucked years from people's lives. Then it was straight back to Nazi concentration camps…

Gill looked exhausted. "This isn't the main entrance to the cells. That door is further down the main hall and clearly labeled. There are a series of tunnels underneath that connect the cells to this. You have to either go up or across to get to the cells from here."

This was a bad horror movie. Jesus…

"There's an entire lab down here," Gill explained. "The rooms can best be described as torture chambers, but there's also a mini-hospital facility. No gas chambers or anything that we might expect here. It's like they tortured these people or tested new drugs on them, then nursed them back to health only to start all over again."

Mark wanted to say Gill was being dramatic, but he had seen Mimi's papers. For a place this big, forty bodies was nothing. Perhaps they were the ones that couldn't be transported in a current condition. "Have you swept for mass graves?" Mimi asked, her face carefully neutral.

Gill nodded wearily. "Nothing." He paused. "I have a theory. The forty bodies we found were too ill or weak to be transported. The autopsies showed weak immune systems, strange viruses ravaging their bodies… people as good as dead anyways. Tony pulled up some aerial scans from last week. They show eighteen-wheelers leaving the area." The detective looked grim. "I think, whoever was here, left in a hurry and took the prisoners with them."

Bile rose in this throat. Mark turned on his heel and hurried from the facility. Outside, he located the nearest patch of grass and leaned over as his breakfast came spewing back up.

--------------------

George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison

Breathe. In. Out. Just keep breathing. Concentrate on the next breath.

Oh sweet Jesus! That was another injection! You can hear the doctors talking, murmuring about how you've been non-responsive, in a coma. They talk about possible causes. Their voices are distant and sound like they're coming from a badly tuned radio. What the hell has been happening to you? The last thing you remember is falling asleep in your cell… after shivering violently and throwing up all food. You're on a cot with sheets, a pillow…

What the hell?

A nurse comes by and takes your blood pressure. How many injections had these people given you? There is a pinching sensation in your arm—an IV. What's the IV for? Not that any of the doctors or nurses will tell you what's going on, or ask you about symptoms…

James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, Martin van Buren

There was a truck. Lots of noise, packed in with other people. That had been strange. You hadn't seen a prisoner in a long time, and to suddenly be thrust into a truck full of them? Weird. No one said anything, just moved where they were told to and stared at the ground. A distant part of you thought about friends that would have started screaming, but you're too weak. It takes all your energy to concentrate on not falling over.

You never quite fit into their world—the Bohemian world the others' had. You went to Harvard, graduated law school, because a defense attorney, but jumped ship and joined the prosecutors, unable to stomach getting criminals off. What did you do, except try to make the world a better place? Try to put people behind bars that belonged there? Oh yeah, and, apparently, you being a lesbian put the final nail in your coffin.

"Take a deep breath."

Something metal and cold is put on your chest. You scream—that's the only sensible reaction in your mind. Why aren't you in your cell? Why do the doctors have you here? People throwing up and getting fevers is commonplace around here… wherever 'here' is anymore. After that little trip in the truck, you're not sure of anything.

"Escort Miss Jefferson back to her cell."

William Henry Harrison, John Tyler, James Polk, Zachary Taylor…

An initial trip was made after you were first taken. That involved a bus, full of other people. You couldn't see or talk to anyone—the guards had black bags over your heads, and your legs were shackled to the floor of the bus. The trip seemed to take days, but you weren't sure. Just the whisper of cloth, the rumblings of the bus, the smell of diesel fuel… and darkness. The bag was removed when you finally got to your cell… the cell you occupied until now.

It's almost sad that you're entertained by the idea of a 'new' cell. This one is the same as the old one, perhaps even danker and smellier. You suspect the previous inmate died here, but you can't be sure of anything. So little happens… just pain. Only pain… red…

Millard Fillmore, Franklin Pierce…

A black bag is thrust over your head. It doesn't startle you like it once did. You know that being unable to know the way from one part of the facility to another is a facet of their plan. If you did get loose, you couldn't escape. You'd be trapped in the complex. The nurse unhooks the IV, and the doctor with the stethoscope is long gone. Someone yanks you up, dragging you by your hands.

You try to comply, but stumble. The guard painfully jars your arm. No one cares about a dislocated shoulder around here. You're just the test subject for various things.

James Buchanan.

The guard growls and throws you over his shoulder. No doubt he thinks that will be faster. No doubt he doesn't wonder why he can feel every bone in your body.

Abraham Lincoln.

Bumping, bouncing… like the bus…

Andrew Johnson.

You hit the cold, stone floor full force. The door creaks and grates as it shuts. You don't see any of that, just try to clear the stars from your eyes from the fall. You're tired. You want to sleep. You wish you were still in that hospital wing with sheets and pillows.

At least you're alone—no needles or prodding.

Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes.

Sleep…

--------------------

"Mark, are you all right?"

He turned, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Mimi was standing near him, a concerned expression over his face. She frowned, putting two and two together. Hell, she looked as surprised about his weak stomach as he did. So, he hadn't thrown up in a long time—since the last election—but all this, the idea of what they did to these people. Most of it was too horrific to even articulate into words. Bits of images was all he had. God, what he wouldn't have given to have his camera back to document this entire investigation!

"Yeah," he said shakily.

Her expression clearly said that she didn't believe him, but she let that drop. Gill and Cortland were leaving the facility and walking towards them. Mark forced a wan smile. "Hope I didn't puke on anything that was evidence."

Mimi snorted. "They've already combed the area, remember? No mass graves or anything of note on the grounds."

"Well, that's good news."

They both knew that this entire situation was anything but good. However, they had spent so many years pretending that this made no difference. How did their lives come to hiding and forgetting that they knew anything of value? Collins had wanted to start a revolution. Of course, he had been planning revolutions since Mark had known him, but… the idea wasn't too far off the mark anymore. Roger had muttered something about a massive uprising last night. The rocker didn't like the idea of them going to Alkali Lake without him, but he didn't say anything.

"Fed at two o'clock."

Mark snapped to attention, following Mimi's gaze. An FBI agent was just getting out of his car, complete with removable mini-siren on top. "Great," Mark groaned. If the FBI was getting involved, that meant that someone from the top wanted this case shut down and silence. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had become nothing more than a brute squad for powerful government officials. They covered things up, at any cost.

Gill and Cortland joined them. Cortland clapped Mark on the shoulder, eyeing the patch of grass. "Thought about doing that myself," he muttered.

"Shit, feds," Gill groaned.

"Just be calm," Mimi instructed. "Pam still has the hard-drives in the clean room. She'll back up all information she finds and won't turn it over. We'll still know something."

"Not if they demand everything," Gill retorted.

"What they don't know won't hurt them."

The FBI agent was wearing an immaculate, expensive grey suit. His sunglasses blocked a view of his eyes, which was odd, considering the day was fairly cloudy. He had chocolate-colored skin and looked a lot like… "Shit," he and Mimi muttered in unison.

"Is that bad?" Cortland asked, confused.

The FBI agent strode up to them, pulling out his badge. "I'm—"

"Benjamin Coffin, the third," Mark interrupted.

Benny—his ex-roommate in a former life—took off the sunglasses, a large, false smile in place. He tucked the glasses in his suit pocket. Mark hadn't seen Benny in close to ten years, only briefly recognizing that he had gotten a job with the FBI once the government delegations of duties shifted. Shit, the Greys had enough money to get Benny any job he wanted. Mark had thought that particular aspect of his life was over.

He thought wrong.

"Mark Cohen?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Then his glance fell on Mimi. "Mimi Marquez?"

"Davis," she corrected, a stony glare in place.

The glare that made Roger cringe in a corner didn't faze Benny. "What are you doing here?" he asked smoothly, pocketing his badge.

"NYPD," Mimi replied. "We're here on an investigation."

No need to mention that Mark wasn't NYPD. "Ah, yes, the supposed New York man that was found murdered at the scene." He shook his head. "As for your investigation, that's over. The FBI is taking over. You can pack up and go home."

"What?" Mimi sounded outraged. "We just got assigned the case!"

Benny pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "My orders."

Mimi grabbed the paper, sputtering as she read the contents. Cortland read over her shoulder, frowning and looking equally as angry. They were leading a proper investigation. The FBI would just shut down any progress and cover things up. Damn, everyone had called this back when they ventured into this thing! Roger, Mimi, Cortland… who hadn't said that the government was going to shut them down and cover this up?

"You can all clear out now," Benny said, snatching his orders from Mimi. "Your helo is waiting over there." He jerked his head to the makeshift landing pad.

"Who assigned you this case?" Mimi asked, her eyes flashing.

"What?" Benny didn't look like he cared overmuch.

"What bigwig assigned you? Who wanted the FBI to destroy our investigation?" Mimi closed the space between them, getting in his face. "What the hell has gone on that no one wants us to know about? Huh!" She poked his chest. "How much of a hand did you have in it!"

Benny stepped back, rubbing his chest. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't!"

Mark caught Mimi's arm, shaking his head minutely. The last thing they needed was for Mimi to kick the crap out of Benny—and lose her badge in the process. She had worked too hard and too long to get to where she was. She didn't need it cut out from underneath her. She let out a long breath, acknowledging that she needed to back down.

"Collins, Benny," Mark said softly.

"What did you say?" Benny snapped.

"Collins," Mark repeated. "He was your best friend. He's gone—disappeared ten years ago." He paused. "Do you just not care?"

"He's a convicted criminal. You'd do best to not bring up traitors to the nation."

"What nation?" the former filmmaker shot back. God, all the old resentment was bubbling to the surface, starting with the fact that Benny, asshole that he was, had wanted them to pay a year's worth of rent, breaking his word. Alphabet City, the industrial loft… it was like another lifetime, but old grudges die hard. Benny was just lucky that Roger wasn't here. The former rocker wouldn't have hesitated before rearranging Benny's limbs.

"This isn't a nation," Mark continued. "This is tyranny. Collins told the truth. He loved another man—and he was arrested for it."

Benny took a deep breath. "Cohen," he said in a dangerously soft voice. "You are treading on thin ice. I'm going to forget everything you just uttered." He jerked his head towards the helo. "All of you get the hell out of here. I'll expect all copies of reports to be destroyed by tomorrow morning."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the forensics.

"Bastard," Cortland muttered, flipping off his retreating back.

"Hasn't changed," Mimi growled. "Still thinks about himself and saving his own neck."

Gill was watching, looking anxious. "He's going to tear apart my whole case!" The detective hurried after Benny, obviously being ignored. Mark shook his head, turning towards Mimi and Cortland. Both looked livid. After all, they had gone through hoops to get clearance and priority on this case, and Benny had just taken that away in one fell swoop.

"He's a coward," Mark agreed with Mimi.

The trio began walking towards their chopper. God, they hadn't been here half an hour, and Gill hadn't been able to expand on all that he found. Well, Pam still had the hard-drives. There was a chance that she would recover something.

"Can we take the rest of the day off and go to a bar?" Cortland asked.

"You have the stim-credits?" Mark replied.

"That beer tastes like piss," Mimi added. "Hell, it probably is piss."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

They fell silent as they got into the chopper. There had been a time when Benny was "one of them" so to speak. He had lived with them in that industrial loft—him, Roger, Collins, Maureen and Benny. He and Roger were all that was left of that group. Collins and Maureen had been taken. Benny had joined the government to save his own ass, and had turned his back on friends. That had been the first time Mark had seen him in a decade.

When had they danced on tables, starving and freezing in their rent-free loft? Like so much from that time, it seemed like a dream, another life.

Adventure, tedium, no family, boring locations…

He settled into his seat on the chopper. Mimi and Cortland were talking in hushed tones, probably trying to think of a way to keep their case. Mark had been there as a media representative in case something huge came up. They were trapped, like animals. All leads, all hope… shut down by ignorant idiots like Benny, who didn't care about former friends. God, Mark had hoped that playing the Collins card would work… the pair had been close until Benny married Allison and moved away, and, seemingly, up from them. And Benny had continued to respect Collins, simply because he had higher degrees.

Now…

"Do we have any hope of finding them?"

Not anymore.

--------------------

I haven't seen another prisoner in years. God, I'd almost forgotten that we were all processed together—stripped, put into some kind of decontaminating shower that hurt like hell, given our orange 'uniforms', had our heads and faces shaved, thrown into our cell… We had all been in one long line, like in those Holocaust movies I watched in school. I remember those school days, wondering why the teacher bothered. That was never going to happen again. Ah, to be an ignorant youth once more. Those who don't learn history are doomed to repeat it, I suppose.

But Christ, another prisoner! Not a guard or a doctor… someone like me. This incredible feeling, like I'm not alone. It's so easy to pretend that the screams are pieces of forgotten nightmares or that I'm hearing things. I know there was some hubbub about people coming from another facility, and processing them here… Easy enough to put two and two together. These people must be from Alkali Lake… perhaps they didn't kill everyone there. Maybe Angel…

This prisoner isn't Angel. Despite being starved, beaten, infected, I'd always be able to recognize her. Those eyes… dark and mysterious, full of emotion… No, this isn't Angel. It's a woman, near as I can tell. Everyone starts to look alike. She's wearing the same burlap sack as me, and her head is shaved. Gaunt, starving… well, probably what all the rest of us look like.

The guard taking me to Paul stops, obviously upset.

"New guy," he says, a heavy Brooklyn accent in his words. "You're supposed to take 'em to the med facility through the tunnel, not upstairs. This is the psych ward."

The 'new guy' looks a little flustered. "Thanks, man. I'm used to the other place, where everyone went the same direction."

"Didn't have a psych ward, that's why."

Dear sweet Jesus, how can these people sit here and gossip about these facilities when they hurt, kill, beat… traumatize people? This isn't a game nor is it a normal assignment. These guards will all be silenced, just like all those people from the Roswell case. I guess they'll either be paid off or have their family and friends threatened. Right. I'm pretty sure these idiots live here. Maybe they hold their families hostages so they'll work and keep quiet.

Definitely should have been a novelist.

The guards are exchanging notes about an upcoming ball game that they're attending. Huh. So they get to go out and have fun, while I'm stuck here. Bastards. I focus on the other prisoner. Maybe I can chat with her for a few moments before they take us away. Yeah right—I'll just get beaten up by the guard and I don't really want another broken wrist, not after the med center. That place is incentive enough to stay away from provoking the guards.

She looks vaguely familiar, like someone I knew… holy fuck!

"Joanne?" I say softly, trying to keep the guards' attention off us.

She looks up, meets my eye. There's no mistake now. This is Maureen's lover, our neighborhood friendly lawyer, a good friend to all of us, the one that let us all stay at her townhouse when this insanity started. "Collins," she replies, no question in her tone.

I don't know what to say, at all. I couldn't have imagined this situation.

Joanne reaches forward, gently touching my hand. She's so thin, scars over her face attesting to the diseases she's been a test subject for. But her touch is gentle, beautiful, something I haven't felt in a long time. Love shines in her eyes. I return the gesture, wanting her to know… I don't know what I want her to know. We're not alone. Perhaps that's all that matters.

"Separate!" one of the guards barks.

We're roughly yanked apart. I can see the farewell, the sorrow in Joanne's eyes. "You fucking bastards!" I scream, all that I've wanted to shout coming forward in one flood. I suddenly don't care, if I'm beaten or killed. "You took our lives away because you hate difference! What the hell did we ever do to you? Nothing!" I kick, struggle against the guard. "You gave up liberty, and now you're repeating history because of it! Why! Why!"

Shiny shoes are before me. Something jabs my neck. Instantly, I begin to feel woozy. Shit, someone just gave me a tranquilizer. Great—now I'm an animal. I sink to the ground, unable to keep my footing anymore.

"Him and the woman know each other, sir," I hear distantly.

"Interesting. Something we haven't thought of."

Then blackness surrounds me.

I wake up back in my cell. That's not unusual, expect that the little flap where they push in my food is propped open by something. Someone is watching me. What the fuck? I rub my temples, trying to dispel the rest of the drowsiness. I have a feeling that drowsy is the last thing I want to be right now. Or at all. Jesus, what is happening?

There's commotion outside my cell. Okay, lots of weird things go on here, but there is never, never noise or shuffling outside in the halls. Things are quiet, eerie… My heart pounds uncomfortably in my chest. This is bad… I don't know why or how, but it's bad.

The door to my cell opens. The guard that had been escorting me somewhere appears, now sporting a black eye. Shit… they did something to him too? On instinct, I scramble back against the furthest wall in my cell. Rationally, I know that move is stupid, but rationality is gone. He glares at me for a moment before someone else enters… Paul?

"Thomas," he says in that oily, disgusting voice of his. "I wasn't aware that you were previous acquainted with Miss Jefferson."

"I'm not," I automatically lie.

"Your file says otherwise," he counters smoothly. He conjures up a manila folder and flips it open. He lifts a sheet of paper. "Here it is—your lover's will, co-signed by you and witnessed by Miss Jefferson." He shakes a head, a creepy smile wandering over his face. I really expect him to start cackling at any moment. "I'm amazed we haven't thought of this experiment before—we've just been trying to analyze your mind." He snaps his fingers.

Someone is pushed into my cell, stumbles and falls. She looks up—Joanne. I reach out, steadying her, wondering what this means. Her eyes meet mine. She doesn't know what this means anymore than I do.

Then, suddenly, between Paul's evil smile and Joanne's presence in my cell… I do know what this is all about. We were both committed for being homosexual. Paul wants to find out if we can be aroused by a member of the opposite sex… if we can get it up. He wants… he thinks… I know there's no use in explaining to him that I can be aroused by women, I just don't prefer that. I find men more sexually appealing than women… Christ…

"She is sterile," Paul says. "From all the experiments she's under gone. So there will be no consequences of this. You have until morning."

Paul and the guard disappear. The door shuts and locks with an ominous 'clank.'

Joanne cries, one hand covering her mouth. I crawl forward so I'm sitting next to her. Gently, I move her hand and wipe away her tears with my thumb. She's so thin, so wasted… For once, I know I'm in better shape, despite being starved. "Collins," she sobs.

I wrap an arm around her shoulders, letting her lean against me. "Shhh," I soothe. "At least we know each other—we're not strangers."

I don't add that my entire heart feels like someone plunged it into a bucket of icy water. Angel… Maureen… what about them? We don't know where they are, if they're alive, but I still feel like I'm cheating on Angel. Fuck, why? I know that Angel would understand, Angel would know this was out of my control… I feel sick.

"What if we didn't?" Joanne whispers.

"I don't know."

And still… there's the letter…

--------------------

Mimi's cell phone rang just as they got off the helicopter in New York. The landing pad was on top of the police building and the vehicle was just taking off. Mark adjusted his bag on his shoulder, wondering if he should go into work or just go home. Nothing had changed. His boss would probably want him to work the evening news shift, then the morning… less than five hours of sleep. Fantastic, and when he was already in a pissy mood? This didn't bode well.

"Pam, hang on," Mimi was saying. "Can you wait until I get to my office? Then I'll put you on speaker phone so Mark can hear this too?"

His heart leapt. Pam… she was still working and hadn't heard their order to destroy their investigative reports, and if she recovered something from the hard-drives.

Mimi gave him a meaningful look as they headed for the stairs from the roof. Cortland looked curious beyond belief, but also knew that he was about to get sent on a mindless mission. Mark almost felt sorry for him, but he was too young to have had friends taken in the original raids. Maybe what Mimi said about him was true, that the kid really would have come out of the closet if the circumstances had been different. They'd never know now.

The main floor of the building was buzzing with the usual life. Cigarette smoke, ringing phones, shuffling paper, people rushing around… like a long shot from an old movie. The two detectives would be holed up in their office, smoking and trying to figure out a case. With all the restrictions on food items, Mark was amazed that cigarettes were still readily available. Maybe that was the safest vice for people to enjoy. Hell, even things like birth control and medications were harder and harder to come by. Godly government… no birth control, just praise Jesus for all the babies that you had, never mind if you couldn't afford or support them…

He followed Mimi into her office.

"Cortland," she barked. "Go find our case files and put them in archives—then pull everything on the New York man. ID him. That much is still our case."

"On it," the officer replied, grabbing the case file and leaving the office. His furtive glance back at them was enough to suggest that he would be asking questions. Cortland reminded Mark a lot of himself at that age—looking too young and just a little too eager to please people. For Mark, that had lasted until he met Roger and Collins, dropped out of Brown and moved in with them. Now this was the part of the movie where the two detectives had some kind of breakthrough that let them solve the case. Starring as the two detectives—him and Mimi.

Mimi shut the door to her office, locking it behind her. The cacophony of the main room faded into a dull hum. She set her cell phone on the center of her desk, taking her normal seat. Mark sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk, watching as she put the cell phone on speaker phone.

"Go ahead, Pam," she said. "You're clear."

"It's you and Mark, right?" Pam asked. Mark recognized her strained tones—she always sounded like she was close to a breakdown or hysterical laughter. Perhaps that was just her nature. She had been like that for a decade, since she had gone to the same Life Support meeting that they did.

"Yes, m'am," Mimi replied.

"I've managed to get the data off the hard-drives in the clean room," Pam said. Mark felt his heart leap. "They had all kinds of stuff—prisoner lists and records, e-mails were automatically backed up to the drives, facility information, employees—"

"Prisoners and e-mails," Mimi interrupted. That was a strategy one used when dealing with Pam. She was a genius, but, without prompting, would give the entire minute breakdown of something, not the short version. The short version was what they needed right now.

"There are four other facilities that I can see," Pam continued. "Portsmouth, Great Lakes, Death Valley and Sing-Sing." She paused. "I'll have to analyze the e-mails further to get a general location of each one. I think we can get those locations, though."

"Once we get their locations, we can hack into their systems better," Mark murmured. "They've got to be connected on a network."

"Probably a government network," Pam supplied.

"What about the prisoners?" Mimi asked.

"Of the eleven-hundred and eighty-five records, exactly forty are deceased, according to their files. Cause of death isn't listed on any of those. All of these prisoners were admitted between December 13, 1989 and February 25, 1990." That made sense—those were the dates when most of the round-ups had occurred, when people started disappearing. "There were no deaths before just a week ago—people are recorded as having serious injuries or illnesses, but they were always successfully treated and re-processed into a normal routine."

"Names."

Pam continued as if she hadn't heard Mimi's interruption. "All of these prisoners were reassigned to one of the other four facilities—that's how I have the names of each place. Locations aren't listed, that's where the e-mails come in." She paused. "In other words, the eleven-hundred and forty-five prisoners left were divided into four groups and placed at Portsmouth, Great Lakes, Death Valley or Sing-Sing."

"Wasn't there a prison here called Sing-Sing?" Mark asked.

Mimi nodded, one hand rubbing her forehead, while the other tapped a pen against the desk in impatience.

"Speaking of Sing-Sing," Pam said. "I've got a match on one of the four people that you guys wanted me to keep an eye out for."

"Who?" they said in unison.

"Joanne Jefferson, former lawyer, African-American female, thirty-eight years old—according to her file."

Mark met Mimi's gaze. That had to be the Joanne Jefferson that was their friend. Hell, she had been Mark's lawyer, barely out of law school, but fighting for the underdog. "That's her," he whispered, not trusting his voice any louder. His chest felt tight, like he was afraid to breath, like this all might be a dream. Joanne might not have been found…

"She's listed as having a pretty bad chest cold—treatment is ordered as soon as the transport is over." The tech woman paused again. "She's been moved to Sing-Sing."

"Have you backed all this up?"

"It's on my personal hard-drive now and I've e-mailed it to myself at the secure network at the complex. I'll spend some time later tonight analyzing the remaining data."

"Thanks Pam."

Mimi disconnected the call, sitting back in her chair. Mark met her gaze. Joanne was alive… How long had they told themselves that the others were dead? He had been hoping for so many years. He had kept up the search, even though he knew what would happen. Christ, how long had he continued to hit dead-ends, until now? And he couldn't stand up and start dancing. They had to figure out where Sing-Sing was, plan an extraction without getting themselves killed, then smuggle Joanne out of the country to Canada or, preferably, England.

Have you ever doubted a kiss or two?

This is spooky—did you swoon when she walked through the door?

Every time, so be cautious.

Bonding over Maureen's tendency to flirt with everyone and everything, he and Joanne had quickly come to respect each other. She was his lawyer when he worked at Buzzline. He heard all the sob stories about Maureen's inability to commit. God… she had truly been one of his closest friends and now they had a chance of finding her. And there it was again, the idea of hope, coming back to them again and again.

There was a chance.

I think we need an agent!

We?

That's selling out.

But it's nice to dream.

Selling out… God, he had sold out, first to Buzzline, and now to fear. What could they have done? Would the government have come after them if Trent hadn't found them first? What could they have done differently? If they had been taken, they wouldn't be here to find the others and get them out. They all should have gone to Canada or England when this first started.

What if?

Push, pull.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

To be continued…