I kind of had a The Untouchables conclusion to this story, but went in a direction I wasn't really aiming for at first, because it's rather...oh, mawkish, but oh well. I liked it, because I can just picture it.

Thanks for the nice reviews. I've got another story idea simmering, but it's not boiling yet, so it's going to take a while. It's also Lassiet, so be warned. :)

Lassiter sat next to Juliet, forearms on the table, staring across at Andrej Cvitković, who was still saying nothing after almost an hour. He kept delaying and delaying, and so far the only thing he had said was that he was tired and would talk about what he had done tomorrow. It was starting to annoy Juliet, and from the tiny little twitch in the corner of Carlton's eye, it was annoying him, too. She glanced at her partner, who picked up a pencil and began bouncing it on the table, looking down at the file on the last victim.

"So you're tired and don't want to talk now?" Carlton finally asked.

"Yes."

"That's too bad, because I'm not tired. I had a good night's sleep last night. First time in…oh, months. Slept like a rock, not a single nightmare. Not even a dream." He leveled his gaze at Cvitković, who studied him. "Funny how a clear conscience can make a man sleep well."

Cvitković swallowed.

"Bet you haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

Juliet glanced at Carlton. He opened the folder, and she realized it wasn't the case file. It was Whitestone's profile. It had no title – she and John had discussed titles for his 'thesis' several times, but had never been able to agree on a good name for it. Finally, he had said he wasn't comfortable with even giving it one. He wanted to close the case as soon as possible, frankly, and breathe again.

"When was the last time you slept well, Mr Cvitković?"

The man shrugged slightly.

"All this preliminary stuff here…the FBI profiler wrote all this to basically make himself sound brilliant," Carlton said with a wry smile. He knew Whitestone was on the other side of the glass and was probably snickering. "And I'll grant that the guy is pretty sharp. More than the average tack." He turned the pages slowly and finally came to the first, most important part. "He writes here, 'The murderer of these girls had a psychologically terrifying childhood, beginning with abusive and neglectful parents. His early years were mainly spent in isolation, where his greatest inner fantasy was to find social acceptance and praise from his peers, particularly from members of the opposite sex'."

Cvitković looked directly at Carlton for the first time, who continued reading, his finger gliding down the page to the next marked paragraph. "'His sexuality, from the beginning, was at best described as 'stunted'. He was completely incapable of courtship or romance, however much he might have fantasized about such things, but it is entirely possible and in fact likely that the killer is married and has a family'." He looked up at Cvitković, who actually met his gaze for the briefest of moments before looking at his hands.

Juliet listened as Carlton continued reading from the report, his voice rasping only a little. She drew in her breath as he got to the part about Cvitković's methods of killing. "'Many of the victims – at least eight of them – had semen on their bodies, rather than inside, because it is the theory of the profiler that the killer was not able to actually ejaculate until the girl was actually in the final throes of her agony'."

At this, Cvitković drew in a shuddering breath and bowed his head, his forehead almost touching the table. Carlton only glanced up at him before he continued. "'The killer also gouged out the eyes of many of his victims because he believed in the Eastern European folk legend that the image of the murderer would remain on the eyes of her assailant." He looked up at Cvitković, who was shaking so badly that Juliet feared he might fall from his chair. He balled his hands into fists, and had his knuckles pressed together, sobbing, a line of drool spilling from his mouth.

"'The girls that were raped, of course, had very little or almost no semen inside their bodies, largely due to the impotence of the killer, whose level of savagery in his assaults of his victims is directly proportional to his inability to perform these acts. The only way he seems able to actually achieve anything approaching orgasm is by actually witnessing the pain and agony of his victim in her final, terror-filled moments'." Carlton looked up at Cvitković. "'And even then, he more often than not was unable to even achieve orgasm at all, and thus several of his attacks were even more violent than others'."

Cvitković was shuddering, his face as white as a sheet, and Juliet had to resist the urge to ask him if he needed a blanket, or something to drink.

"It was that way with the last…her name was Natasha Jusić. I paid her." His voice was shaking so badly it was hard to understand him. Or maybe she didn't really want to understand him. Juliet felt sick and wanted to curl up on her bed, covered with blankets, and cry. She was sitting in a room with a monster. A monster.

Carlton glanced at the window, and knew that Vick was already sending McNab upstairs to start tracing the girl's family.

"I could not…could not…and she laughed at me…" He wiped his eyes, and Carlton flinched at the cold light there. This broken man was still a cold-blooded murderer, and he spared him no sympathy.

"Mr Cvitković," Juliet finally said softly. "Are there any others?"

He looked at her, eyes like a shark's, and his shoulders lifted a little. Carlton swallowed then. Others. He sat back in his chair. The uniformed officer behind Cvitković came over and helped the man get to his feet. Juliet looked at her partner, still reeling. "My God."

The press had been barred from following them. Only a small flotilla of uniformed cops, CSU's and other detectives went along as Cvitković led them to six more bodies. All were within just a few blocks of Santa Barbara's malls. When the age of the last victim was revealed, Carlton felt his knees buckle slightly, and he had to turn away and walk up the hill, to be alone. Twelve years old.

He remembered what Marlowe had said about Civil War battlefields – about the futures and dreams lost there, and a whole generation wiped out. He had always felt a certain degree of detachment from those places, thinking instead of the cause they were fighting for, and the great generals leading them. He hadn't really let himself think a lot about those boys themselves.

As a child, he had played Civil War games with his brother and cousins, and they had always fought over who got to play Lee and Jackson and Stuart (Carlton, being the strongest and the toughest, was usually Jackson). None of them even bickered over who played Grant and Sherman, who were dull and dreary (or malevolent) at their best, and had never inspired anybody to great acts of daring courage.

It had not really dawned on Carlton or his brother or the other boys of those decades ago that thousands of young men in blue and beechnut grey had died on those fields, and sometimes their bodies were never even given proper, honored burials. What had been their dreams? What of their families? How had they continued on?

How were the families of those girls going to overcome this? What could ever be said or done for them to make it better?

Feeling a weariness enter his bones, and not sure if that exhaustion would ever leave him, he leaned against a squadcar and looked down the hill, watching as the twenty-second victim of Cvitković's rampage was gently removed from her hiding place. Just bones, a small gold necklace, and a backpack containing some personal items – she had been running away from home, if the contents were any indication.

Why? Why had Cvitković done this?

He doubted the question could ever be answered to anyone's satisfaction.

Marlowe sighed and settled in beside Carlton. He wasn't feeling well – he had thrown up everything he had eaten for dinner and had stretched out on the couch, watching television. Not surprisingly, he had avoided crime dramas and had instead settled on, of all things, Tangled. She had held his head in her lap, stroking his hair, watching as Flynn cut Rapunzel's hair and Mother Gothel fell from the towel, turning to dust before she even hit the ground. Now, the house was silent. The ghosts or whatever also occupied the house were silent tonight, maybe out of respect for the weary man in her arms now.

He turned to her, and she saw tears in his eyes, and she knew better than to comment on them. He would just become even more miserable. "He killed twenty-two young girls, Marlowe," he said softly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What kind of world are we living in?" he asked her wearily.

She brushed a tear away from his cheek. "A very confusing one," she finally answered. "But there's always hope, isn't there?"

He seemed to find that rather amusing. "Hope, huh?" he asked, smiling a little.

"Yes. Remember that story, about Pandora's Box? She opened the box and all that bad stuff – hate and cruelty and selfishness, murder, death - flew out, but she released hope, too, and so mankind has always had hope."

"Well, I lean toward the Judeo-Christian narrative, but I'm a lapsed Catholic with strong Protestant leanings. Don't tell our old family priest, Father Francis. He'd have a stroke."

She laughed softly. "I like that notion, too. The narrative, I mean. The light, the truth, the salvation. One little match, and it lights up the whole room. One life, and it gives everybody a chance. I think it has to be God - the source of hope, right? Hope can't come from a series of random accidents, after all."

He nodded, and pulled her into his arms, brushing his lips against her temple. "I love you, Marlowe. Just in case I didn't say that earlier."

"You didn't. You were too sick and exhausted to, but I understand. It's okay. And I love you, too."

"Good. Go to sleep."

"Good Lord, Marlowe," Carlton said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and holding her hair back as she vomited into the toilet. "That stomach flu is going around, isn't it?"

"I think I picked it up at work," she said, coughing miserably. "Everybody there is sick, too. We had to close up shop. No good trying to edit a documentary when there's vomit all over the film." He helped her up and got her a glass of water. She rinsed her mouth out and spat into the sink, washing the water away before letting him just pick her up and carry her back to bed. "God, I feel so miserable."

"Yeah, me too. Listen, you've been doing this all morning. You're getting dehydrated – I think you should go to the doctor."

"I hate doctors," she said, sounding just a little whiny, which was so out of character for her that he knew she really was sick.

"So do I, but some medicine might be useful right now. Anti-nausea stuff, and some antibiotics." He sat down beside her on the bed and turned the television on. "You're running out of clothes to wear, anyway, and pretty soon you'll be ruining my shirts, too, so…go to the doctor, and I'll go tomorrow if I'm still sick."

"Fine, fine…hey, wait, are you actually going to go to work?"

"I have to," he said.

"You have to?"

"Well, the serial killer case had us pretty well swamped, but now that that's over, there's lots of stuff to catch up on and O'Hara's about to be buried under paperwork, and she's developing a pretty bad cough as it is, so…"

Marlowe gave him a fisheye, and he sat down again. "Your concern for her and your duty as a policeman is admirable, Detective, but you will stay home today and go to the doctor with me. You're almost as dehydrated as I am, and I heard you throwing up this morning."

"That was…uh…yeah, I was throwing up." He wearily picked up the phone and called Vick to inform her that he wasn't going to be at work this morning, and to get McNab in there to help O'Hara with the paperwork. Vick was pretty understanding and told him to take as much time off as he needed.

"You have stomach flu, Detective," Woody said. Carlton glared at the coroner for a second, but his stomach did another lurch and he headed for the bog without any kind of smart remark. He had only snuck over to the station for a minute, to pick up a couple of files, and had run into the coroner at the front desk. Next thing he knew, he was getting his temperature taken and Woody was feeling the glands in his neck. Being examined by a coroner hadn't exactly been part of his Big Plan for the Day, and Dobson's comment about how he looked like death anyway hadn't helped.

His cell phone started ringing as he left the john, and he did a quick sidestep to avoid Spencer and Guster as they made their way down the stairs, both apparently off to visit the eccentric coroner. He leaned against the wall, took a few deep breaths, and answered.

"Carlton, where on earth are you?"

"Uh…" He looked around the station. "I'm…" He sighed. He couldn't lie to Marlowe. "I'm at the station," he finally admitted.

"What did I tell you about going to work, Carlton?" she said, sounding as irritated as a sick, miserable woman could.

"You said not to, and I didn't, I swear. I just had to pick up a file. That's all! Really!" He glanced over and saw O'Hara and Whitestone sitting at her desk, and she smirked at him.

"Well, the doctor's office is swamped with other flu victims anyway, and the doctor can't see you today. He'll see you tomorrow."

"Well, the coroner says I have stomach flu, anyhow, and he's gonna get me some…meds."

"Right." He heard the sink running. "Wait…the coroner?"

"Yeah. Don't ask."

"I'm afraid to. Anyway, maybe you can meet me for dinner tonight? We need to…uh…talk. Not like we'll be eating much anyway."

"About what?" he asked, feeling an immediate rush of terror.

"Just…some things. We need to talk about some things. Carlo's? Is seven o'clock okay?"

"Uh…yeah," he said, hoping he didn't sound as dejected as he felt.

Carlton was attempting to get past O'Hara's desk without being seen, but he knew the jig was up the second he saw Whitestone's head rise. The rangy South African's gaze was on him, which made O'Hara pop up from a stack of papers they were pouring over, and she jumped to her feet, looking…good Lord, guilty? He looked between the two of them, trying to draw a conclusion but too mentally weary to really hook onto one. If she was dating Whitestone, then he would give the FBI profiler the same warning speech he had given Spencer a few months ago: if he hurt O'Hara, he would discharge his weapon…repeatedly.

Whitestone, however, gave him a grin and gestured. "Can we talk for a moment, Detective?"

"Uh…sure…just be warned I'm probably contagious and I might toss up my cookies on your shoes."

The FBI profiler shook his head, grinning. "Chief Vick's office is empty right now…" He gestured toward the door. Carlton trailed reluctantly after Whitestone into the room, and the agent shut the door. He took a seat at Vick's desk, which made Carlton's eyebrows rise just a little, but Whitestone didn't seem ill at ease at all. Instead, he leaned back in the chair and nodded.

"The DA's office called and said they're going for the death penalty," he said. He didn't look grim or happy about it. More like…indifferent.

"Oh. Right. Well. That's…"

"Do you remember, Detective, when we first met?"

"Uh…"

"That I told you that 'fabulous' was not the word the director the FBI's profiling unit director used to describe you. I was being very honest."

"Well. Great…" Carlton felt his anxiety about Marlowe twisting in his stomach and now being joined by another miserable knot: a sense of being kicked while he already felt down. He glanced back at the door and wished he could just make a break for it.

"He actually said that, per your record as a policeman and then as a detective, that very few superlatives could be used to describe you properly. We spoke today about your running this case against this…monster, along with the derision of certain members of the press and the small-mindedness of the local authorities, and he wished to express his admiration and respect."

"Oh….uh…what?" Carlton blinked against the bright light coming in through the window blinds. Any and all light made his eyes hurt. He frankly just wanted to curl up in a ball and whimper.

"He wanted me to convey to you that in his opinion he has never come across a detective who is as pains-taking, meticulous, honest or as determined as yourself. He wanted to remind you, of course, that within his department, profilers and investigators of serial killers are rotated on a six-month basis, to avoid the inevitable mental and emotional exhaustion and even breakdowns that can occur due to too much frustration while investigating such cases, particularly those cases that involve the very young and the very innocent."

Carlton nodded, feeling a lump in his throat.

"He was made aware, of course, of the week that you took off from this investigation, and felt that he ought to reprimand your commanding officer, Chief Vick, that you were not required to take more time off. He spoke with her at length about that, actually, and came away with the same conclusion that she has about you – that you have no limits of your endurance. I must say that I concur, Detective."

"Oh…" Carlton nervously tugged at his collar. "But I can't take all the credit…"

"Yes you can, and you will," Whitestone said with a grin. "I'm aware of the hard work and dedication of Detective O'Hara, and she is also to be highly commended for her exemplary work. She is very young but she has a brilliant future, so long as she continues working with you and learning from you." He cleared his throat. "The director of the profiling unit also wishes to say that, should he ever find himself on the run from the law, the very last detective he would ever want to have chasing him would be you, because you are relentless, unyielding, and do not know the meaning of the word 'quit'. Again, I felt right in agreeing with his opinion."

Carlton stared down at his shoes. Whitestone laughed.

"Not used to being praised?"

He shook his head.

"Well, get used to it. Detective O'Hara had to be restrained from calling every newspaper in the country about what you did, and what you've been through. I did not restrain her from calling a particular 'newspaper' in Santa Barbara and demanding they issue a public apology to you for their mistreatment of you during this case and in the past. I think she threatened evisceration if they did not immediately publish said apologies and retractions."

Carlton only shrugged. O'Hara was tiny, but she was like a little wolverine when crossed, and particularly when somebody hurt him – he was the same way about her, except he was capable of far greater damage. Whitestone shook his head. "Anyway, we're moving Cvitković this afternoon to Sacramento. He'll likely be tried up there. The local jury pool isn't exactly very likely to be ignorant of this case, after all. Thank you, sir." He stood, shook Carlton's hand, clapped him on the shoulder, and left. Carlton sat back in the chair, too stunned, really, to know how to process Whitestone's words. Finally, wiping his eyes and clearing his throat, he stood up, knees shaking a little, and left.

At least he had his career. After tonight, he doubted he would have anything else.

"You look terrible," Marlowe said, watching him settle wearily into the chair opposite her.

"Thanks," he mumbled back, feeling more and more miserable.

"I'm sorry. Probably not helping. The coroner said you have stomach flu, huh?"

"Yes, and somehow, that ended up being pretty appropriate. But hey, my career's going well." He sat back in the chair, rubbing his temples. "So…uh…you wanted to talk…uh…talk?"

"Yes. I hope you don't mind meeting in a public place, because while I know you're sick as a cat, I figured you wouldn't freak out here." She picked up a menu, looked at the items offered and paled before putting it down.

"I won't freak out," he said. "I didn't freak out last time. Just…just signed the papers and said goodbye."

"What?"

"That's what this is about, right? You're ending it. I don't blame you. I'm no prize, that's for sure, and the past few months have been pretty crappy, what with the serial killer and all and trying to live in a house that may or may not be haunted, and now I look like something that passed through the system of a sick old woman. Plus I'm old and tired and I have bad knees and I'm cranky all the time…"

"I'm ending it?" she asked, looking confused.

"Well, yeah. I don't blame you. I'll try to stay out of the house while you gather up your stuff. I know you didn't move much in. If you could leave a bra behind, that would be appreciated…" He immediately felt horrified. "Uh…sorry. Fever talking, I guess."

"I am not leaving you, and I am not breaking up with you, silly," Marlowe said, staring at him with an expression that was half annoyed, half amused. "I have no intention of going anywhere without you, thank you, except that in about six months I'll have to spend maybe a day or so in the hospital after the baby is born."

"Oh. Right." He snatched up his glass of water and chugged it down. "What?"

"A baby, Carlton. I'm having a baby."

"Oh." He blinked at her, her statement not sinking in completely. He figured his fever was spiking now. "You're…wait, you're pregnant? With…with a…with a baby?"

"No, with a trash compactor. Yes, a baby!" Marlowe said, looking concerned now. "Oh, God, you really are sick! I shouldn't have made you come here."

"'s'all'ight," he mumbled, feeling woozy. "But we always used protection…"

"Well, apparently, one of your little guys got over the wall. And no form of protection is foolproof, as should be pointed out in every sex ed class in America. Not that I was going to abstain when you were sitting there looking so gorgeous…"

He stared, wide-eyed, at her. "So that was what was causing all the vomiting and…geesh, am I pregnant too?" He waved at a waiter. "Double shot of Jack Daniels and an orange duck, please. I'm ready to eat."

"Eighty-six the Jack, please," Marlowe told the waiter. "He's in no condition for hooch right now, much less a duck. Neither am I, actually. Water please."

"Thank you, Gunga Din. I'm a father." He blinked against the candlelight. "A baby?"

"Yes, Carlton."

"Dear God, a Lassiter spawn."

"A beautiful baby," Marlowe said, laughing. "God, when the doctor said I was pregnant, I figured I should be freaking out, scared out of my mind. Instead, I was just so…happy. Still am. Kind of in shock, I guess, but this is the most exciting thing that's happened to me since…well, since we conceived this little guy."

"Guy?" Carlton wheezed. He was still reeling, the reality of this situation sinking in. "And you're not dumping me?"

"Carlton, please focus," Marlowe said, sipping her water and shaking her head. "I think it'll be a boy."

"God help her if it's a girl. God help me…" He rubbed his face. "My God…"

"Yes, I can see you sitting there, cleaning your gun, the second some boy comes near any daughter of yours. And if it is a girl, we'll just keep trying until we get a boy."

"Lassiter's no name to carry forward," he muttered.

"Remember all those conversations we've had about your low self-esteem?" she said firmly. "Lassiter is a proud Irish name…"

"I'm descended from a guy who burned a Georgia farmer's house to the ground and shot all his cattle. He was no hero – he was a damned Yankee asshole. I have a great-uncle who burned a café down in Arkansas because his eggs were runny. I have an great-aunt who may have murdered her…"

"Carlton, hush," Marlowe said, rolling her eyes. "We're going to be just fine. And this is going to be a beautiful baby. I guarantee it."

"How can you guarantee something like that?" he asked, looking skeptical. "I mean, if it looks like you, fine, but me…"

"If he looks like you, he'll be breaking hearts. It's that silly hope thing, really, and then there's that other thing…faith. Besides, if the baby's ugly, what are you gonna do? Leave it on somebody's porch, or sell it to gypsies? C'mon. We're having a baby. The very symbol of hope."

"H-How far along are you?"

"Three months. I should have realized something was going on, but what with the serial killer and how stressed you were, and how that was sort of stressing me out…"

"I'm sorry about that…you're…uh…otherwise in good health?"

"It's okay, and yes, the doctor said I'm very healthy and so long as I do everything I should this will be an uneventful pregnancy. I just didn't really realize I was late, and I've never really had heavy…uh…you know, periods, so I didn't think anything of it. Then I get this stomach flu and go to the doctor today and…hey, guess what, Miss Vecchillio, you're pregnant! Stomach flu's pretty mild. Just can't take antibiotics, of course. I just have to tough it out and drink gallons of water."

"So most of that was morning sickness?"

"Yep."

"Have you told your parents?"

"Not yet." She took another drink of water. "We'll tell them. And by the way, now that you've caught the killer, I seem to recall you saying we would go to Bimini for a vacation. I am holding you to that promise."

He sat back, the notion of fatherhood still only halfway settled in his head, and stared at her, his soulmate, the one person he felt he could really confide in about anything, and she was pregnant, and willing to actually give birth to his child. He fumbled with the silverware, crumbled up his piece of bread, slid his finger around the rim of his crystal glass until it started to 'sing', and finally he dug into his coat pocket and put the little ring on the table.

"I bought that two weeks ago," he said. "It's not…much. I mean, it's not cheap or anything, but it's just…"

Marlowe picked up the ring and examined it. "Should I get one of those little eye-bally things jewelers use?" she asked, peering at the setting, and got a grin from him in return. "It's beautiful." It was a simple antique silver ring with an amethyst setting, and she let him slide it on her finger, noting that his hands were shaking just a little. "So you've been thinking about proposing, Carlton?"

"One of us was going to have to," he said, swallowing nervously, blue eyes almost violet in his nervousness.

"I guess I'll just have to make an honest man of you and marry you then, Carlton."

"Okay."

"Good! Then that's settled. Church or city hall?"

"Uh…well, oddly enough, my mother thinks God lives at church, so if she finds out about this, she'll insist on a church, but it doesn't really matter to me. What you want is what counts."

Marlowe smiled. "I would like a church wedding, actually. Small and simple, but…with an acknowledgement of Him, because I thank Him every day for you." She looked upward and smiled. "And I think you should order some nice, soothing chicken noodle soup."

"Names?" he asked, picking up the menu and looking upward as well. He felt a strange calm settle on him. There really was nothing to fear, aside from the final puddle-jumper flight they would have to take to get to Bimini.

"For chicken noodle soup?" she asked, looking at him over the top of the menu.

"Baby names."

"Oh. Right. Something Irish, obviously."

"Eh…" He made a noncommittal gesture. "How 'bout Italian?"

She shook her head. "I'm pretty far removed from my Italian forebears, Carlton. I'm more Cajun than anything else. How 'bout Shawn?" she said, grinning.

"Dear God, no."

"Okay…Logan?"

"Too trendy."

They settled into a quiet, gently teasing debate over good names for a boy or a girl. The debate didn't end that night, and they didn't reach a mutual agreement until the day after their first son was born.

FIN