Broken Roots
Chapter Three: Turn of the Seasons
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,093
Disclaimer: I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Okay, I can, but only season 1.
Summary: Sins of the father are passed onto the son. Sins of the mother to the daughter. And somewhere in the middle of all of that lies the truth.
Pairing: Woody/Jordan (kind of sort of... ok...eventually :) )

Author's Note: So I had grand plans. They didn't really work out. They never do. I don't know why I keep thinking they might. :P

This will be a bumpy ride. The idea is to get to a happy (well... Happier?) ending, but it's not there yet. It's going to take time, possibly a lot. Bear with it...

If I could just stop picking on Woody... And if I could write Garret... :P

Turn of the Seasons

"Long time no see," Garret observed dryly as he opened his door to Max Cavanaugh. It was hard to be polite to a man who had taken off like Max had. It was irrational and unfair to blame the fallout of the last four years on Max's leaving, but it sure as hell hadn't helped.

"It has been a while," Max agreed, "but can you at least let me in?"

Garret moved aside and allowed Max to enter the house. He led the way over to the couch and offered Max a seat with his hand. Max took it, settling in with a groan. "These old bones of mine don't get around like they used to."

"Don't say that," Garret warned, leaning back against the couch, trying to get comfortable. "You're not that much older than I am."

Max laughed. "That's kind of you, Garret, but untrue."

Garret shrugged. He could really use a drink right about now. The burn of whiskey would drown the bitter taste in his mouth. "Why are you here, Max?"

Max smiled. "You're not the first to ask that. And you're probably less patient than he was, if that's possible. I understand. I came back to put to rest these old ghosts. It's time. Past time."

Garret rose and walked into the kitchen. He wanted to pour them both a stiff one, but he was sober. He had more than a year's worth of sobriety, and he wouldn't throw that away over one bad night. It hadn't even shown its true colors yet. Max's return shouldn't feel like the second coming.

He filled up two coffee mugs with the pot that had been cooling off for a few hours and returned to the other room with them. He passed one to Max, who smiled at him. "Coffee. Good choice."

"It's not what I want, but I'm sure you know that," Garret said. He watched Max, waiting for the other man to deny that he'd kept tabs on what happened in Boston while he was gone. The former cop and bar owner nodded. "Things have gone to hell while you've been gone, Max. She needs you. She's needed you for a long time."

Max sighed deeply. He took a long, slow drink from his coffee. "I can't give you a good explanation for where I've been or what I've done. I tried to keep an eye on things, but that wasn't good enough."

"No," Garret agreed coldly. "It wasn't. It isn't."

"I can't change what I've done," Max agreed. "There were things that I had to do, not just for my sake, but for Jordan's. My past is still hurting her."

"You should have been here, Max. I don't know what you did while you were gone, and I'm not sure I care what your reasons were. Jordan changed a lot in the last few years. Some of the changes were good. Necessary. She grew up. But it cost her a lot."

Max grunted. "You've never pulled your punches, Garret. I appreciate that. But we don't have the time to fix everything I've done wrong over the years. What happened to Hoyt?"

"You've seen him?" Garret asked, knowing that there was no way that he'd been Max's first stop. Even if Max hadn't gone to see Jordan—and Garret didn't think that he had—Garret was not at the top of the list of people he would go to.

"I've seen what's left of him," Max corrected. "He seemed like such a happy young man. Always thought the job—Jordan and the job—would chew him up and spit him out, but not like this."

"That wasn't the job. And the Woody you knew was some sort of front. A shield, someone who was what he thought everyone wanted him to be because he couldn't handle being who he was," Garret explained.

"This is about that trial. About Gibson and the others, those damn dirty cops and their sick sideline," Max said.

"That, and Cal shot him and accused him of killing their father."

"Bull shit."

Garret smiled. "That's what I said. Trouble is, Woody believes it. In part, at any rate. Nigel's organizing a murder night as soon as the files come from Kewaunee."

"Name the date. I'll be there."

"So... How did it go?" Nigel asked as Jordan came in the next morning. She looked better, actually, more rested, relaxed even. In fact, he hadn't seen Jordan look this good since before the explosion that unraveled Woodrow's life. This was good. At least, Nigel really hoped so.

"He took it rather well, actually," she said, putting her stuff down on her desk. She moved the coat to the back of the chair, dumped the purse underneath the desk. She picked up Lily's toy and smiled for a second. "He locked himself in the bedroom and stayed there for the rest of the night."

Nigel blinked. He studied Jordan for a moment. This couldn't be right. How did Jordan come in looking—well, perky—when Woody had reacted by locking himself in a room? No, there was more to this tale, and Jordan was about to confess. "So what's with the afterglow, then?"

"I said he didn't come out of the room," she said with a smile. "He fell asleep. He actually slept, Nigel. It was wonderful. He didn't wake up, not once, and I got to sleep with him in my arms... And Maddie didn't even wake up. She was perfect. It was a good night."

"Hmm," Nigel whispered after she finished, studying her thoughtfully. "If this is how you get after just sleeping with him, then I'd really like to see you after you have sex."

"Nigel!" Jordan exclaimed, her face flaming. He smiled at her.

"I want details, love. Lots and lots of details," Nigel told her as he left the room, heading back into the crowded office area to torment Bug. It would just gall the little man that his daughter had been so well behaved for Woody. Bug was so jealous of Maddie's affection for the burned out tragic hero that Woody had become; teasing him was quite priceless. Nigel rubbed his hands together with delight. "Buggles!"

Bug looked up from his computer, frowning. "What do you want, Nigel?"

"So, I heard an interesting little tidbit from Jordan about Maddie," Nigel began, sitting on the edge of Bug's desk and leaning over him. Bug rolled his eyes. "You want to know what it was?"

"Nigel, please, I have work to do," Bug muttered, standing up and walking away. Nigel followed him. He wasn't finished yet. He had lots more to do.

"Nigel!" Dr. Macy barked, causing him to stop mid-step with a wince. He turned around with a full, forced smile.

"Dr. M. What can I do for you?" Nigel asked brightly, ignoring Bug's snickering.

"The results from the Horn case weren't on my desk," Macy said. "If they're not on my desk, they should be in your hand on their way to me. I don't see them."

"About that, Dr. M, there was a slight snag—"

"I don't want to hear about any snags, Nigel. I want the results," Macy insisted. "And let me know as soon as those files get here from Kewaunee"

"Will do, Dr. M," Nigel promised and quickly made his escape, past Bug, who was still laughing. Oh, he would get Buggles back for this.

Later.

Woody let himself into his office, wondering how he would get through the next few days. He had to find a way to do it without going out of his mind. Not that he really was in his right mind to begin with, but he had to keep what little was left of his fragile hold on sanity. He couldn't stand waiting. He should have gone to Kewaunee himself, gotten the files in person.

But he knew that he couldn't handle going back to Kewaunee After that horrible meeting in the cemetery, with the words echoing in his head and the memories flooding back to him, he had stared at the town for hours, watching the people and wondering if any of them knew what his father had done, if they even suspected it, and if they did...

Why had no one done anything? Why had they let it go on?

He shook off the thought. He didn't want to think about small towns and their collusion when it came to crime. He'd had enough of that. He didn't know what else to think about, but he had to find a way to keep his mind off of what had happened all those years ago, about the files that he was waiting for, about whether or not he had killed his father.

He took off his coat and slung it on the back of the chair and stopped. There was a metal box on top of his desk. One that had definitely not been there yesterday. He'd been drinking, yes, but he knew there was no box yesterday. That wasn't his.

He looked at the door. The lock was a piece of crap, and Woody had never cared until this moment. He shuddered. He knew that the fear was ridiculous. None of the people who hurt him could get to him now. His father was dead. Rumos was in prison. Cal was in detox.

Then what the hell are you so afraid of?

Woody lowered himself into the chair, trying to get a grip. Max had been here yesterday. And Max no longer had a house or a bar in the city. Coming back to Woody's office was a logical step. The box was Max's. It was not a threat.

He stared at it for a long moment. Damn it, he had to know what was in it, or he would never have any peace. He reached over and looked at the lock. A padlock, old, and rusted, the key probably long gone. He wasn't sure there was any way to open it besides cutting it off, but he opened the bottom drawer and took out the lockpicks that Jordan had given him as a present. Every private detective needs a set of lockpicks. These are yours.

He set to work on the lock, jimmying unsuccessfully for a few minutes before it creaked and popped open. He smiled with grim satisfaction and took the lock off, setting it aside. He opened the box slowly, finding a folded paper, yellow with age, the lead from the pencil only a faint impression now. He set it to the left of the box, and then reached in for the other item. It was an old film case, dusty despite its confinement, and he blew it off as he picked it up. A video, and an old one.

Unsure what possessed him to do it, he shoved the film and the paper back in the box and closed it, shutting the lock again. He couldn't do this. He didn't know what Max expected to find on that video, but Woody couldn't have any part of it. He just...couldn't.

The damn thing scared the crap out of him. He wanted to throw it out the window and hope it bounced off a semi and into the Charles. He couldn't. It didn't belong to him.

The thing was, that video was probably something to do with Emily Cavanaugh's murder. It all came back to that for Jordan and Max. It wouldn't surprise Woody one bit if that was the final piece, the missing link needed to find Emily's killer.

So why did it scare him so much? Jordan deserved to know. Max deserved to know.

But Woody's fear of being his father's killer must be translating to the damn box. He wasn't Emily's killer. God, he'd been eight years old then, and he was in Wisconsin at the time. He had been... No. No, that was too soon for one of his father's road trips.... Wasn't it?

Woody didn't know for sure. His memories of those times were mercifully indistinct, and he preferred it that way. He didn't know how old he'd been when it started, and he didn't want to know. Knowing meant remembering, meant details, things that he would rather not have in his memory.

You were eight years old when Jordan's mom was killed. You couldn't have done it. With an anguished cry, he picked up the box and hurled it across the room. Then he lowered himself to the floor and wept.