A/N: So sorry for the wait on this! I often get blocked around the middle of a long story, but I've cleared up a few issues now, and I'm ready to start on Chapter 7 already - it will be an eventful one.

With the car's siren blaring, Stan and Kyle were both silent during the drive to Skeeter's, and on Stan's part it was both out of respect for the gravity of the moment and because he didn't know what to say about another murder while the taste of Kyle was still on his lips. Their kiss had seemed like the beginning of something, but now it felt snipped off and over already, a kind of delirious interlude. Stan was afraid this was the worst kind of omen for what he had hoped was re-growing between them, and also afraid that the victim on the scene would someone he knew. The radio had gone quiet. Though Stan knew that it was ridiculous and that Kyle would be insulted if he learned what he was thinking, he couldn't help feeling like he shouldn't be bringing Kyle, fragile after their talk at the motel and perennially in need of protection, to a gory crime scene in the dead of night.

There was a roadblock on the street that led to Skeeter's, and the officer stationed there waived Stan's cruiser through. Two units were already parked in the bar's small parking lot, sirens quieted but flashing, which was a phenomenon that Stan didn't typically find so eerie, as if he was seeing the blue and red lights through deep water. Witnesses were milling around too freely while officers attempted to corral them, some of them bar patrons who were holding bottles of Bud and cans of PBR. Stan cursed under his breath and hoped that more backup would arrive soon. He could see from the car that the crowd was a surly one, and knew that at least some of Skeeter's regulars wouldn't be eager to cooperate after a long night of drinking.

"Why is there no FBI on the scene?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know," Stan said, feeling accused.

"Your department has been instructed to report to us!"

"Well, Kyle, there's been a murder. There, now we've reported."

Kyle got out of the car as soon as Stan parked, already pulling out his phone. Stan left him to summon his troops and walked around Skeeter's, his heart pumping harder when he saw flashlight beams in the woods. Only when he noticed their K-9 unit on the scene did he think about the fact that the killer might still be in the area. The woods behind Skeeter's were dense, and they stretched back to the foot of the mountains. If the snow had come earlier this season, there might have been a footpath to track.

There were five uniformed officers beyond the crime scene tape that had been stretched from the Skeeter's dumpster and secured around a skinny tree, and the county coroner stood with the department's lead detective over the corpse of a young man who was propped against a tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. Stan was relieved to spot Bebe among the cops who were gathered at the scene, and he hurried toward the group. He stopped short when he saw the victim illuminated by a field light that had just been flicked on by the assistant coroner. He didn't recognize the man, whose tongue-less mouth was hanging open, but he was as angry and sickened as he had been at Gary's brother's house, and he had to turn away. This man's wounds weren't as precise-looking as those on the previous victims had been. It looked as if an animal had ripped him open from his gut to his throat.

"Who is he?" Stan asked when he reached Bebe. She had turned away from the body, but, like Stan, she kept looking back.

"His name is Mark Nelson," Bebe said. "Skeeter says he wasn't drinking at the bar. Nobody heard a scream, but it looks like he was killed here."

"But no witnesses?"

"Not that we know of. Skeeter's dishwasher saw the body when he came out for a smoke."

"How long, um." Stan had to turn away again. There had been a lot of blood at both crimes scenes prior to this one, but this was unreal. "How long ago do they think he was killed?"

"Nobody's told us," Patrick Stoley said. He was Kevin's younger brother, a rookie. Stan was typically friendly with the rookies, but he tried to avoid Patrick; anything Stoley-Donovan related made him feel guilty. "Couldn't have been more than a couple hours," Patrick said. "The witness, um, the dish washer? He gets a smoke break every two hours, and the victim wasn't posed out here when he had his ten o'clock break."

Stan heard the Chief's voice, loud enough to make out clearly from the other side of the building. Bebe shook her head.

"That'll be Kyle pissing him off," she said.

"Not necessarily," Stan said. "He, uh, called for backup."

"You saw him?"

"We came here together," Stan said, moving away from the others. Bebe followed.

"Good," she said, after a few paces, hurrying her steps to keep up with Stan's.

"What's good?"

"You and Kyle – never mind. See, I was right."

Kyle and Chief Yates were arguing in the parking lot, and Stan's heart got heavy when he saw that Kyle was trying to stand up taller without obviously going to his tip-toes, his shoulders back and his scrawny chest presented as widely as possible. Kyle looked almost like a younger, shorter and thinner version of Yates in this light. They both had bright red hair, and both appreciated suspenders.

"Allowing your men to interview my witnesses is a direct violation of your department's protocol," Kyle said. Stan wanted to ease him away from Yates, though not to protect Kyle in this case. He wanted to spare Yates' pride, and he knew that Kyle wouldn't.

"According to the FBI, I've violated my own protocol?" Yates said. He was pushing up the sleeves on his shirt. Stan knew he wanted to smack Kyle out of the way like a gnat, and that he wouldn't let himself get that out of control. "Good thing I don't answer to your interpretation of my protocol."

"This is clearly connected to the murders we're investigating!" Kyle said. "The tongue on the victim was removed. To treat it otherwise is asinine."

"It could be a copycat. Look how sloppy this was, out in public, completely different from the other two in that respect. I have the responsibility to investigate every homicide that takes place within my jurisdiction-"

"Even if it's a copycat incident, that still places this crime scene in my jurisdiction under federal law, and you know it! This is ridiculous." Kyle swung around to look at Stan.

"Dude," Stan said. "Calm down."

Kyle stared at Stan as if he'd just puked all over his shoes. Yates stormed off to bark at some witnesses who were creeping too close to the crime scene tape, and Stan wasn't thrilled to see Mac crossing the parking lot, wearing a suit and looking polished despite the late hour.

"The others are on their way," Mac said. "Why weren't we called?" He was looking at Kyle when he asked, but his gaze quickly shifted to Stan and Bebe.

"Personally?" Bebe said. "I don't have your number. That's above my clearance-level, I guess."

"I was still with Stan when the call came over his radio," Kyle said. He frowned when no one said anything, letting that hang in the air. "So we should be able to salvage, um. This."

Kyle was staring between Mac and Stan's shoulders, distracted by something in the background. Stan was afraid he knew what it would be, considering where they were and that he'd thought he'd heard a familiar voice on his way past the rowdy crowd that had spilled out of Skeeter's. He turned and felt a sort of frightened drop in his gut when he saw Cartman, on Kyle's behalf. The sympathetic sense of terror quickly shifted into rage, and he was glad that he wouldn't personally be involved in interviewing these witnesses. Having an excuse to strong arm Cartman after what he'd heard in Kyle's motel room would not go well, for him or for Cartman. He just hoped Mac was clued in enough not to make Kyle take Cartman's statement. Kyle was staring at the group in front of the bar with a steely calm, looking as if plans were formulating.

"Everyone here is a potential suspect," he said, quietly and only to Mac, which stung. "I'm going to speak to the coroner for confirmation, but I get the sense this was a recent killing, and that it was committed here, or in the woods nearby."

"Hey," Stan said when Kyle walked away from Mac, toward the crowd. Kyle's eyes were cold when they met Stan's, maybe only because he had business to do. "Are you okay?" Stan asked, murmuring this.

"Of course I am," Kyle said. "Are you?"

"Yeah. I saw the crime scene, it's. Intense."

"Stan, just help me out, okay? My people are on the way, we're going on handle this, but we need at least some of you to be cooperative."

"What the hell do you want me to do, Kyle? Yates is my boss. Can't you understand why he's frustrated?"

"Um, no? Not really? I would be fucking relieved to have actual professionals handling this, if I were him."

"Actual professionals?"

Kyle's mouth dropped open, but his gaze shifted away from Stan before he could speak.

"Well, well, well!"

Stan turned to see Cartman approaching them, a beer bottle in his hand. He was sneering a kind of smile, his eyes heavily lidded and his gait not entirely balanced.

"I see the two original South Park butt buddies have reunited to, uh, fight crime?" Cartman said. "That's hilarious. Kyle, why are you wearing a fucking tuxedo?"

"It's not a tuxedo, idiot," Kyle said. "I'm with the FBI." He actually took out his badge and showed it to Cartman, which made Stan cringe. Fortunately, Kyle didn't seem to notice.

"Woo-hoo-hooo!" Cartman said, rearing backward so dramatically that for a moment Stan thought he would fall over. "They called in actual spooks to find this murdering clown? Well, good luck. He seems to be doing whatever the fuck he wants around here. Who'd he kill this time? Cops wouldn't tell us."

"Just get over there with the others," Stan said, pointing. "We – I mean, the FBI will need to take statements from everybody."

"'Ey, I didn't see shit." Cartman tried to swig from his beer, and he huffed at the bottle angrily when he found it empty. "How about you let us get on our with our evening while you search the woods for the madman, eh?"

"I won't hesitate to have you arrested if you don't cooperate," Kyle said. "Go ahead and test me if you feel like it. God, you reek of booze."

"That's what real men do, Kyle, we drink. We work for a living! Are you seriously – seriously in the fuckin' FBI? That's hilarious. What a night!"

Cartman drifted away before Stan could come up with a cutting remark, his mind too muddled by pure rage, and Kyle stormed off in the opposite direction. Stan started to follow him, concerned, but he stopped in his tracks as Kyle's comment about 'actual professionals' settled onto him fully. Kyle had never taken him seriously; at least not as seriously at Stan took him. He tabled his hurt feelings and refocused on his job, too weary to mentally organize everything that had happened in the past few hours. Most of the patrons of Skeeter's obeyed his reminders to stay in place. He avoided Cartman, who was sitting on the hood of his car and looking like he'd soon fall asleep there.

The sun was coming up by the time the last of the witnesses were dismissed. Cartman had given a statement to Mac before leaving, and Kyle had been busy with other witnesses and his cell phone, which seemed to ring every five minutes or so. Stan kept the corner of his eye on him, but had been careful to hang back, not wanting to hover where he wasn't wanted. He had orders to keep the street clear of traffic until the body had been removed from the scene, and he was drinking coffee to stay awake, doing his best to avoid Bebe's pointed questions.

"What do you mean it got emotional?" she asked once she'd dragged that much out of him. Stan shrugged and stared down into his coffee cup. He wasn't going to tell her, or anyone, about the Cartman thing, but it seemed like such vital information that saying anything else about what went on in Kyle's hotel room would be pointless.

"It's been eleven years and we used to be really close," Stan said. "What did you expect?"

"A slower burn, I guess. Kyle seems so closed up, and you're, um."

"I'm what?"

"Repressed, by nature."

"That's not true! Please, I can't talk about this now, I'm dead on my feet."

"I think we'll be able to go home in an hour or so," Bebe said, nodding to the coroner's van. The assistant was prepping the gurney that would convey the corpse to the morgue. "That is, unless somebody finds this guy and makes an arrest. He's got to be near, Stan."

"They've got the K-9 units in the woods," Stan said. "At least we're allowed to do that."

"Right, we're just too stupid to help them handle eleven drunks who didn't see shit."

"They might have noticed something important, even if they didn't witness the actual crime."

"You sound like Kyle," Bebe said. She took Stan's coffee cup and drank the last cold dregs from the bottom, then winced. "I knew the vic's sister," she said. "I guess you did, too. Remember Patty Nelson, from elementary school?"

"Jesus. Another younger sibling? What the hell is going on?"

"Mark was older than her, actually. But you could be right about this being some kind of pattern. It's a small town, but the fact that these victims all had siblings in our graduating class- it's strange."

"I'd forgotten about Patty," Stan said. He pictured her hearing the news, and tried to imagine what it would be like to get a call in the middle of the night about Shelly. "Didn't her family move away?"

"Yes, years ago, before we finished high school. Mark Nelson didn't even live here, Stan. His driver's license is from Arizona. He was brought here. Lured back, or dragged against his will."

"This is fucked up." Stan thought of Ike, but surely the killer's tentacles didn't extend all the way to Europe, and Kyle might have already warned his brother not to respond to any urgent messages to come home. Stan would have to do the same for Shelly, though she would probably think he was crazy. It had been a while since they had talked at all. "I think we should put the remaining siblings who live in South Park under protective custody," he said, searching the lot for Patrick. He was glad to see him leaning against his squad car with his rookie partner, yawning. He thought of calling Kevin, but Patrick had a gun on his hip and probably didn't need his older brother getting hysterical with worry over Stan's unproven theory. "Text Kenny," Stan said. "Make sure he's watching over Karen."

Bebe confirmed that he was, and in less than an hour the coroner had left the scene with the victim's body. Kyle was conferring with Mac and two other agents when Yates gave Stan the okay to go home and rest up before his next shift. It seemed wrong to leave without saying goodbye to Kyle, but he looked busy, and Stan didn't want to interrupt and end up humiliated by a dismissive response. He climbed into his cruiser and pulled out his phone to send Kyle a text. Exhausted and still rattled by the sight of Mark Nelson's body in the woods, all he could come up with was you ok?

Fine, Kyle sent back. Stan waited for more, but that was it. He started his car, not sure if he should be worried or infuriated by Kyle's one-word answer. He told himself that Kyle was just busy, that he would get in touch later, that he was truly fine and that he might even be open to being kissed again, though the moments when they'd groped for each other in the motel room and the car already seemed more surreal that the third dead body he'd seen in recent weeks.

At home, he tried to get to sleep without a shower, but after he'd tossed and turned for twenty minutes he decided he needed the ritual of cleaning the awful morning off of his skin before he would be able to rest. He was quickly asleep once he got in bed, but his peaceful rest was brief. Then the nightmares came: a man in the woods, just out of sight, trailing blood that wasn't his own. Stan dreamed that the body they found at the base of that tree was Shelly's, Ike's, Karen's. The dream that finally shook him from his attempt to sleep through the day was one about Kyle. He wasn't a kid anymore, but he was trapped in Cartman's childhood bedroom, and Stan couldn't get him out. Every time he grabbed for the door knob it burned his hand, and even as Stan's skin started peeling away from his palm, melting and raw, he kept trying to hold the knob long enough to turn it. He could hear Cartman laughing inside, and Kyle crying.

When he got out of bed he had no appetite, still rattled by a stomach-churning combination of reality and those bad dreams, but he forced himself to toast a bagel and spread some cream cheese on it. After the first bite he realized he was ravenous, and he ate so fast that he gave himself a stomachache. He checked his phone, hoping for a message Kyle, but the only one he had was from Lola:

Heard the news. Hang in there. Kids are okay, but we're all a little freaked out.

Stan thought about calling her, but he just sat staring at his phone and feeling guilty for his seeming inability to do anything to stop what was happening. He planned to talk to Patrick Stoley later, when he was back on shift, about the sibling theory. In the meantime, he trusted Kenny to take care of Karen and Kevin. He sent Shelly a text message asking her to call him, and then realized there was one thing he could do, a kind of sly investigation of his own. After the way things had played out at the crime scene, he enjoyed the idea that Kyle would be annoyed if he knew whose number he was dialing, and why. Gary picked up on the second ring.

"I just heard," Gary said. "Another victim. Horrible."

"It's unreal," Stan said. "I thought for sure we'd be able to track the killer, because it looks like this murder was done almost in public, at the edge of the woods. So far they haven't found anything, but they've still got K-9 units and FBI agents searching the area."

"What a nightmare for the community. We're all heartbroken over here, praying a lot."

"We're going to catch him," Stan said, his voice flickering a little. "Gary, god, I'm so sorry I missed your brother's funeral. It's just been so crazy, at the station, and, um. Some personal things, too-"

"Stan, there's really no need to apologize. We were overwhelmed by the whole experience, I'd honestly forgotten you were planning to come. But I completely understand."

"Are you busy right now?" Stan asked. "I was thinking about getting some coffee, going over my notes. We haven't really gotten a chance to talk yet, you and me."

"Yes, let's do it. Maybe I could be helpful. I've been wracking my brain, trying to figure out how David could fit into this person's plan- because there does seem to be some kind of plan, you know?

"I know. Where do you want to meet?"

They decided on the Village Inn, and when Stan arrived he almost expected that old group of Goth kids to be sulking in their usual corner booth, but they had all left town years ago. Stan could only hope none of them would be dragged back, either for a sibling's funeral or to become a victim the way Mark Nelson had. It sat heavy in the back of Stan's mind as he headed toward the booth where Gary was waiting: Mark Nelson had thought he'd escaped South Park, left it behind, but something here had come for him.

"Stan," Gary said, smiling when he spotted him. He looked tired but good, like he always had, still with a full head of blond hair. Stan was surprised when Gary hugged him, though Gary had always been a hugger. They had reconnected in high school, and though they were never particularly close, Gary had been easy to talk to when Stan felt like he was unable to confide in Kyle about certain things.

"How are you holding up?" Stan asked after he'd ordered a coffee and a danish, still hungry. Gary was having tea.

"I don't think it's really hit me yet," Gary said. "Even with the funeral, it doesn't feel like he's gone. I guess I'm distracted by my mother, and David's wife- well, his widow, and their kids. Trying to be there for them, you know? I'm afraid none of us will feel any sense of closure until the person who did this is caught, and even then we may never know why. It's so hard to comprehend, the idea of taking a life. It's all just- senseless."

"I know," Stan said. "Has the FBI kept in touch with your family, about developments?"

"They've said they want to interview David's wife again, but it hasn't happened yet. With another murder to investigate, I'm afraid they may need to send more agents. How's Kyle doing, by the way? Is he optimistic about the investigation so far?"

"Mhmm, probably. He's pretty arrogant these days." Stan felt bad for saying so, but it was also a relief, after what Kyle had said at the crime scene. Gary smiled.

"He was always a confident guy. But that's good, and I know he's smart. I'm not surprised that he ended up working for the federal government."

Stan laughed. "Me either," he said. "When you put it like that- yeah."

"I'm also not surprised to see you in local law enforcement. And I hope you'll take that as a compliment. It's a very important job."

"Well, sure. I like it, most of the time."

"It must be taking a toll, seeing this kind of horror happen on the job."

"I'm okay." Stan wasn't going to complain about his nightmares to a guy whose brother had just been violently murdered. "I did want to talk to you about the investigation, though, if that's alright. I just want to feel like I'm doing everything I can."

"Of course, sure. What do you need from me?"

"I know you don't have any idea who would did this to David, or why, but what about other factors in his life recently? Anything strange at all that you know of? Have you talked much with his wife about what their daily routine was like before the murder?"

Gary sighed and turned his teacup between his hands, shaking his head.

"We've poured over recent events with her," he said. "My mother and I have even talked to the kids, asking them if anything strange had happened recently. I went through David's emails, his phone- it's something to do, you know? But I haven't been able to find anything. The phone's with the FBI now, of course. His computer, too. Maybe they'll see something I didn't."

"Damn." Stan crumpled a napkin into his fist, feeling foolish. He'd been naive to think that having coffee with Gary might result in some kind of breakthrough that the FBI had missed. "Has Kyle talked to you about my theory?"

"Which theory is that?"

"I just noticed that the first two victims had younger siblings in our graduating class. And now this third guy, Mark Nelson- his younger sister was Patty. Remember her?"

"Oh." Gary's face fell, and he slumped back against the booth. "I didn't, um. They hadn't released the latest victim's name to the public yet. I didn't know it was- it was Mark, really?"

"You knew him?"

"We played baseball together." Gary gulped from his tea. His eyes got pink-rimmed for a minute, and Stan looked down to study his empty plate.

"I'm so sorry, Gary," he said. "We're going to find whoever did this, I promise." He scoffed when he heard himself. "I mean, the FBI will. With our help, if they need it."

"I'm sure they'll need your local knowledge," Gary said, and he cleared his throat. "That's valuable. Oh, hey." He nodded toward the door. "Speaking of them."

Stan turned to see Kyle and Mac walking into the diner. Kyle was talking quickly and at a low volume; Mac leaned in to listen, nodding. Stan grunted and threw back the rest of his coffee, not sure if he was pleased that Kyle would see him here with Gary or not.

"Hello!" Gary said, waving them over. "Stan and I were just talking about the awful news."

"Yes, it is awful," Kyle said. He glanced at Stan, then looked back to Gary.

"Mark was a friend," Gary said, more quietly. Kyle's eyebrows went up.

"You're disclosing information about the case to the general public?" Kyle said, frowning at Stan. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours!"

"Kyle, that crime scene was crawling with witnesses. I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't thinking, but. Gary is, you know. Involved."

"And you're interviewing him?" Mac said, his tone as humorless as Kyle's. They both had bags under their eyes.

"Oh, no," Gary said. "Don't misunderstand, please. Stan and I are old friends. Kyle, you know that."

"Right," Kyle said. He gave Stan an appraising stare and straightened his tie.

"You look like you need sleep," Stan said. It came out a little more sharply than he'd intended. He wanted to grab Kyle, to coddle him after that hellish night and the encounter with Cartman, and to spank him on the ass for being such a petulant shit in the presence of Mac. Imagining the latter scenario was unexpectedly arousing; Stan wished Kyle and Mac would leave. He wanted to see Kyle, needed to talk to him and try to parse what had happened, but this wasn't the place for that, and he was tired of the way Kyle was looking at him, as if he was some kind of errant hillbilly.

"We're getting our coffee to go," Mac said, tugging on Kyle's arm. They shared a look that pierced Stan's heart; there was a time when he'd cornered the market on communicating things to Kyle without speaking. Kyle nodded once and sighed.

"Sorry," he said. "It's true, I'm overtired. Gary, I'm sorry you lost a friend. That's horrible, after, um. Your brother. We're doing everything we can."

"I'm sure you are, Kyle. You guys let me know if you need anything from me, okay? Not that I've been much help so far."

"We'll be in touch," Mac said, and he pulled Kyle away from the table, toward the to-go ordering counter. Stan didn't like it, but not because he didn't think Mac had Kyle's best interests at heart. He hated the thought of that guy taking Kyle back to the motel, making sure he ate something, helping him take off his jacket.

"Are you okay, bud?" Gary asked when Stan hunched over his empty coffee mug, fighting the urge to turn and look at Mac and Kyle while they waited for their order.

"I'm fine," Stan said. "Just a little rattled, I guess."

"Of course. What a nightmare." Gary shook his head, and for a while they sat in awkward silence. "How's your sister doing?" Gary asked.

"Shelly's fine. She's, you know, she lives up in Washington, in Spokane. My mom's up there now, too."

"I'm sorry again about your father's passing."

"Thanks."

Gary had sent a card when Randy died. Kyle hadn't. Stan ordered another cup of coffee and stewed over this while Gary talked about his wife and kids back in Utah. Not hearing from Kyle back then had made Stan mad, but it hadn't really surprised him, and he'd been too preoccupied with his mother's grief to fixate on it at the time. Now it seemed egregious, and he planned to bring it up later, if Kyle was even willing to talk to him privately again. What had happened in the motel room and by Stark's Pond already felt like part of some bizarre dream Stan had been having since he busted into Ruby Tucker's apartment with Bebe.

Shelly returned Stan's call just as he was pulling into the station's lot for his shift. She sounded exasperated and spoke to Stan as if he was still a kid, as usual.

"Mom's freaking out," she said. "She wants you to call her."

"I know," Stan said. "I got her messages. I've been busy, there's a lot going on."

"Yeah, no shit. I saw it on the national news this morning. Seems like somebody's in a hurry to wipe out the whole town."

"It's not totally indiscriminate. Not by my accounting, anyway. That's why I called you. Everybody who's been killed has a sibling in my graduating class. Well, I guess it's more like, my old elementary school class? Because one of them moved away before graduation, but-"

"Stan, what the hell are you rambling about? Are you trying to say I'm in danger?"

"No, but. Maybe? I don't know, just be vigilant. Steer clear of South Park."

"Yeah, I was kind of planning to already. You should watch your back down there, if someone's killing off your old classmates like it's 'I Know What You Did Last Summer' or some shit."

"Not my old classmates, their siblings."

"That's really weird, Stan."

"Yeah, no shit!"

"How are you, by the way? How are the kids?"

"They're fine. Wayne got in trouble for drinking beer with a friend. But they're fine."

"You'd better watch that, with him."

"I know," Stan said. He had no idea why he'd brought it up; he was going to be late for his shift and needed to wrap up the call, but with everything that had happened he was actually feeling a little nostalgic for his sister's sarcastic remarks.

"'Cause, you know- Dad," Shelly said. "And the whole family has a history of addictive behavior. The men, anyway."

"No kidding! It's under control, trust me. I gotta go. Tell Mom I'll call her soon."

"Alright. She wants to know if you're seeing anyone."

"Ugh." Stan thought of Kyle, then the Kevins. "No."

"How's Lola?"

"She's fine. Why?"

"Why? Why not? You were married to her for eleven years. She's the mother of your children."

"You never liked her, though."

"I didn't dislike her. She just bored me, like most South Park people. I thought you had to get off the phone?"

"I did- I do! Bye."

"Later. Stay alive."

After clocking in at his computer, Stan headed directly for Yates' office. He knew he would probably get barked at, possibly laughed at, but he wouldn't feel right if he didn't make every effort to keep the remaining siblings safe. He paused outside the office door and considered conscripting Bebe to back him up, then told himself to stop being such a noodly wimp-ass, as Shelly might have said, and knocked.

"Sir?" Stan said when he poked his head inside the office. Yates looked murderous already; probably he hadn't slept. Stan remained in the doorway and reconsidered his plan.

"Marsh," Yates said, running a hand over his face. "What now?"

"It's about the murder investigation," Stan said. Yates sat up straighter when Stan closed the office door behind him. "It's a pattern I've noticed about the victims. I mentioned it to the FBI."

Yates scoffed, and Stan wondered if he shouldn't have disclosed that part. He'd always gotten the sense that Yates liked him but also didn't expect much out of him.

"What kind of pattern?" Yates asked.

"They all had siblings in my year at school. Mine and Bebe's, um, and Kenny's-"

"Kenny?"

"The funeral director, Kenny McCormick."

"Oh, him. I thought you were talking about another officer. Well, if the FBI knows your brilliant theory, I suppose you've done your job. Since they run the investigation and my whole goddamn jurisdiction, as far as they're concerned."

"What I was thinking," Stan said, "Is that we could do something ourselves to protect potential future victims. Our department could, I mean. You know, so we'd still be doing our part." Stan cleared his throat when Yates just stared at him, frowning. "There are three other siblings from my class still living in South Park. Karen and Kevin McCormick, and Patrick Stoley."

"The rookie?"

"Yeah. His brother Kevin graduated with us." Stan's face got hot when an unwanted mental image of Kevin riding his dick while he was still in full uniform flashed through his mind.

"This is not making a lot of sense to me, Marsh. Why would the killer target siblings from a particular group?"

"I don't know, sir. Why would he cut out their tongues? I'm sure he does a lot of things that don't make sense to you and me. I mean-" Stan's face got hotter, and he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose when Yates continued giving him an unhappy stare. "I mean, obviously."

"How big was your graduating class?" Yates asked.

"We had fifty-three in high school, but that's the thing. Mark Nelson's sister had moved away by then- that whole family had. I think the last grade his sister and I were in together was fifth, but it was the same kids all through elementary school. I think there were were about twenty of us- twenty-four, twenty-five? And out of that twenty or so people, three of us have had siblings killed in the past ten days."

Yates was quiet for a while, tapping the cap of a pen against his desk. When he began to nod slowly, Stan wasn't sure if he should be relieved or concerned.

"That's interesting," Yates said. "Interesting line of thought, Marsh. I have to admit, I don't see how it lines up with motive, unless there's some kind of history with one class member harming another's sibling?"

"No, nothing like that. Nothing serious, anyway, that I could think of. I'll admit, I can't see how it lines up with motive either. I thought it might just be a coincidence when David Harrison was killed, but now the third victim is also a sibling from our class, and one who didn't even live in town anymore, as I understand it. It's alarming, um, to imagine that the three others who live here could be in danger."

"Shit." Yates sat back and puffed out his chest, folding his hands behind his head. "I'm tired of this asshole always being one step ahead of us. Maybe you're on to something, maybe not. Couldn't hurt to put three people in protective custody until the FBI takes their heads out of their asses and finds this perp. And with one of the people going into custody being a cop, we wouldn't have to give up a uniform on duty to watch over them, except when he sleeps. Unless you think the rookie couldn't handle that?"

"Patrick probably could."

"Get him in here. Let's see what he thinks."

Stan could tell right away that Patrick didn't like the idea, and that he wasn't going to show it in front of the Chief. That Yates did a poor job of re-explaining Stan's theory didn't help. Yates sounded like he was desperate to have something to do with the investigation, even if it was just massively inconveniencing three people who had something in common with the victims. Patrick nodded a lot during their meeting, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

"I'll work out the mechanics of this tonight," Yates said. "Marsh, you get started on the paperwork. Inform the other two- the McCormicks, right?"

"Right." Stan glanced over at Patrick, but he kept his gaze pointed at Yates' desk. There were moments in Stan's life when he felt acutely like the man he'd once viewed his father to be: over-reactive, melodramatic, reckless. He reminded himself that this was a precaution worth taking and pushed the thoughts of Randy's antics away. Yates dismissed them, and Stan followed Patrick back out into the station.

"Um," Patrick said when they were twenty paces away from Yates' office, and he turned to Stan. "Just what the hell, now?"

"I know it's a long shot." Stan also knew that he shouldn't let a rookie talk to him like that, but he'd never been big on pulling rank. "And I'm sorry, man, but it's better safe than sorry, with the way things have been going."

"How long is this going to last?" Patrick asked. He was frowning, incredulous.

"I don't know. Just think of it as safehouse duty, right? Or paid vacation. A little of both."

"This is nuts," Patrick said. "No offense."

He spoke sharply, as if he did want to offend, and Stan was surprised. He'd never seen Patrick get cocky around senior officers.

"Well," Stan said. "You have your orders. So complaining to me isn't going to make a difference."

Patrick was fuming, and Stan could see him weighing whether or not to risk saying more. He was better looking than Kevin, and taller, and according to Kevin he got around. Stan assumed Patrick was thinking about the weeks of celibacy involved with protective custody, among other disruptions to his normal routine.

"I know about you and my brother," Patrick said, quietly. Stan was so taken off guard by this that at first he just nodded, not really hearing it. Then his heart dropped, and he had a moment of panic wherein he wasn't really sure what his terror was for- Kyle knew, Kevin McCormick didn't care, and Clyde's potential heartbreak was guilt-inducing, but Stan wasn't the one who'd made a commitment to him. He'd been single during the whole affair.

"Well," Stan said. He glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. "That's. Neither here nor there-"

"Like hell it's not," Patrick said. "You want to put the McCormicks on lockdown until this is over? Fine, but I'm a police officer. I don't need that shit."

"You've been assigned to guard them," Stan said, lowering his voice. "And I don't care what you think you know about me and your brother, you need to start watching your tone unless want a write up in addition to an assignment that you don't like."

Patrick scoffed and walked away, probably to vent to the other rookies, who would certainly take his side. Stan's heart was pounding. He still had an hour before rounds with Bebe, but he slipped outside to make a phone call instead of starting the paperwork for the protective custody order. He was relieved when Kevin Stoley-Donovan didn't answer his phone, but couldn't resist leaving a message.

"Hey," Stan said. "Just found out you told your little brother about the situation. What the fuck? What's the matter with you, you want to get caught? This is done, okay? I guess you don't give a shit about your husband's feelings, but I've got kids who don't even know about me- and I thought part of our arrangement was that neither of us wanted to be gossiped about. Jesus. Sorry, I'm just- really confused. Bye."

He hung up, hating that he'd described himself as 'confused' to Kevin, because Kevin would probably use it against him somehow. He was still preoccupied with this revelation during his shift, and was annoyed when Bebe's response to his fury was an eye roll.

"Stan, who cares?" she said. "Tell the little prick that he should be protecting his brother's privacy, and that if he thinks he can threaten you with exposing your affair, he's wrong."

"That is what I told him. Thanks for the sympathy, in the meantime."

"You slept with a married man! Get over yourself."

"What's your problem?" Stan asked, though he knew she was right.

"I'm over-tired," Bebe said. "And frustrated by what's going on. But I think it's good that we're putting Kevin and Karen into custody. Patrick, too. I'll take some of the shifts at the safehouse, when Patrick needs to rest."

"Kenny's going to want to come with you, with his brother and sister there."

"Maybe."

Stan waited to hear more, not sure what the status of Bebe and Kenny's whatever was at present, but she didn't elaborate. She seemed annoyed with Stan, who in turn got annoyed with her, and they were both quiet for the remainder of their uneventful shift.

Back at the station, Stan did a half-assed job of finishing the night's paperwork and headed home without saying goodnight to Bebe or anyone else. He felt like he would be tired for the rest of his life, like this miasma of confused exhaustion was simply his new mode of existence. It had been that way when Wayne was born, and again when they brought Evan home. That was different, though; Stan had felt so capable even during his most sleepless, disorienting days. He'd had a single goal then: get the baby and Lola what they needed, be there for them, be as awake as possible so that everyone stayed safe. Doing that successfully had made his lack of energy almost pleasant at times. He was working toward something then, selfless and driven. This was different: there was nothing he could do beyond suggesting that the McCormick siblings and Patrick were somewhere out of harm's way. He couldn't stop the killer from finding other people to hurt, or shake the feeling that whoever had done this was only getting started.

He thought he was hallucinating when he pulled into his driveway and saw Kyle sitting on the steps of his small front porch with a six-pack of beer in his lap. Kyle had his jacket but no coat, and he was hunched around the beer like he was cold, his shoulders curled inward. He looked small, sitting under the halo of Stan's front porch light by himself, like a kid. Stan hurried out of the car, and he felt like an idiot when Kyle smiled at the sight of him jogging up the front walk.

"What's the matter?" Stan asked.

"Nothing," Kyle said. He stood and held out the six pack. "This is an apology," he said when Stan took it. "For being short with you this morning, at the crime scene and in that diner. I was able to get some sleep, earlier. You look like you could use some."

"Come in," Stan said, fighting the urge to hug Kyle. "You shouldn't be out here, uh. Where's your car?"

"Mac dropped me off."

"How long were you waiting?"

"I don't know, not long. Half an hour."

"Jesus, Kyle! It's cold out. C'mon, get inside."

It was strange to flip on the lights in the foyer and have Kyle be able to see Stan's house, the way he lived now: it was sometimes strange even to Stan, coming home to a place where the kids and Lola weren't there to greet him, everything dark and belonging solely to him, all the rooms quiet until he returned to wake them up. Kyle walked ahead of him and looked around, shamelessly interested. Stan put the beers in the fridge and wondered what Kyle's apartment in Denver looked like. He pictured something out of a slick crime procedural show: carefully decorated and spotless, stainless steel appliances, framed paintings of modern art. Stan still hadn't gotten around to hanging pictures.

"Was there any new evidence found?" Stan asked, popping open two beers at the counter.

"No," Kyle said. "But there will be another sweep of the woods in the morning. Look, um. Do you mind if we don't talk about work? I spent all day with blood splatter analyses and ten witness statements from drunks at that bar-"

"Fine, yeah." Stan thought about the fact that Cartman was one of the drunks who gave a witness statement, and he squeezed Kyle's shoulder after handing him his beer. "I'm glad you were able to get some rest."

"Stan," Kyle said, very softly, and Stan closed his eyes when Kyle touched his cheek. "Fuck, I should have waited until tomorrow. You don't have to host me or whatever. You're tired, I know."

"Just let me take a shower," Stan said, and he gulped from his beer, wondering if Kyle wanted a shower, too. "Stay, though. Will you?"

"Of course." Kyle grinned and took his hand from Stan's cheek. "Last night, when we got called to the scene at the bar- I felt so unfinished. With everything."

"I know." Stan wasn't sure if he should kiss Kyle yet; it still seemed like something that should be worked up to during each new encounter, and it was possible that Kyle regretted what happened at the motel room and in the car and had come here with beer to apologize for that, too. Stan looked around the kitchen, wanting to offer Kyle something to eat. "I think I have some raviolis in the freezer," he said.

"I already had dinner. Go have your shower. I'll entertain myself."

It was weird to undress in his bedroom while Kyle was out in his kitchen, drinking beer and looking at his phone. Stan left the bedroom door open just a little, as a gesture of trust. He didn't take his boxers off until he was in the attached bathroom, however, with the door closed. Standing under the hot water, he looked down at his cock and imagined Kyle seeing it, having an opinion about it, maybe liking it. This made him hard, but only partially. He was nervous; Kevin Stoley-Donovan had been slobbering for him by the time they finally got together, and Stan had always been confident that he compared favorably to Clyde. Kevin McCormick was the least judgemental person Stan had ever met and had been patient enough to endure teeth scrapes when he taught Stan how to give a blow job. Stan had never been with a man like Kyle who would have standards and expectations. Plus, he was Kyle: the Kyle, Stan's Kyle, even after all this time, and that was a different kind of pressure that only compounded the other.

Stan walked out of his bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, and he wasn't sure if he was surprised to find Kyle in his bedroom, sitting on the bed. Kyle had removed his jacket and was smiling, sheepish. His suspenders were navy blue, and Stan tried to remember if these were the same ones he'd worn in the motel room.

"That guy today," Kyle said when Stan stood in the doorway of the bathroom, not sure how to proceed. "The victim, the dead man? I don't know, dude, life is short. I thought about you all day."

"Me too," Stan said. "About, you know. How we kissed."

Kyle stood. Stan felt like an idiot for being afraid, but he couldn't deny that he was. It was the same fear that had stopped him that morning when they were in high school, and he was terrified that Kyle would ask him again, 'do you want to?' and that he would again say the wrong thing. The night before had been different: they'd been drinking that wine, and the motel room had felt like a stage in some play. This was Stan's house, his actual life, and Kyle was here in his bedroom, putting his hands on Stan's naked waist.

"You're still so fucking good looking," Kyle said, and he seemed a little angry about this when he looked up into Stan's eyes. Stan's hair was wet, his bangs dripping onto Kyle's face when Stan pulled him closer. Kyle blinked and let Stan wipe his cheeks dry as if he was brushing away tears.

"Every time I see you I'm afraid you can't be really be here," Stan said. "Which is so weird, because you used to be my most familiar thing. I rolled over or turned around and you were always just there."

"Yeah." Kyle's eyes darkened, and Stan leaned in to kiss his nose. "I was just there, back then. I know. I felt that, from you."

"Dude, shut up. You know you were the most important person in my life since the fucking cradle. I never thought I could lose you. And then you were just gone."

"You needed it. We both did, I guess. Look, now we're all grown up." Kyle's hands were on Stan's towel, then on his stomach, his fingertips brushing through the damp trail of hair under Stan's belly button. "Let me suck your dick," Kyle said, whispering this. "I think you need it."

"Yeah," Stan said, because suddenly he definitely did. Kyle surged up to kiss him, and when Stan sighed into Kyle's mouth it felt like the first time he'd been able to exhale all day.

It occurred to Stan, when Kyle sank to his knees, that he'd never had his cock sucked by someone wearing a tie, let alone suspenders. It was exhilarating, and he was shaking with an adrenaline-heavy head rush when he dropped his towel and showed Kyle his erection. Kyle tipped his head back and gave Stan such a serious look that Stan was afraid he would say he had changed his mind.

"I don't do this often," Kyle said. "Or ever, really. It's just, you know, we're both stressed out. Let's give each other a pass and do what we want."

"Yes," Stan said, though this left him feeling frightened again. He didn't want to give or get passes. He wanted to start making claims and plans together. "Okay."

"Because you do want me," Kyle said, tracing his fingertips up the length of Stan's dick, then around his cockhead. "I know you do."

"Kyle-"

"I knew back then, too."

"Yeah, I did, you just, you're so-"

Kyle put his mouth on Stan's cock, and that ate up his thought process. Even in the middle of speaking, he hadn't known what he was going to say: you're so what? He'd never had the right words for Kyle, or for the particular combination of security and excitement that flared in his chest when Kyle was near. This was a whole new level: his dick was in Kyle's mouth, Kyle's lips were stretched around the width of it, his red eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks while he bobbed his head. Kyle's mouth was very wet, and Stan didn't last long against the silky heat of his tongue. Feeling Kyle swallow his come made his eyes burn. It seemed both impossible and like a prophecy that had finally been realized.

"Jesus," Stan said, pulling Kyle up to kiss him. "Was that, um. Part of the apology?"

"No," Kyle said. He was hard inside his pants, adjusting his belt. "That was for me. For sixteen-year-old me and current me. They have the same taste in small town cock, turns out."

"Don't call me a small town cock," Stan said, but he was grinning; he couldn't help it. He palmed Kyle through his pants and put his lips against Kyle's ear. "Get on the bed," he said. "I want to do you."

"Do me?" Kyle snorted. Stan could see his cheeks getting red even in the low light that spilled into the bedroom from the bathroom. "I hope you mean you're going to suck my dick."

"Of course that's what I mean."

"Good. I was afraid you thought you were going to get to fuck my ass. Like you've earned that yet." Kyle was backing toward the bed, loosening his tie. Stan's cock throbbed when he let himself hear that yet, like Kyle's ass was already forthcoming, pending negotiation.

Stan hadn't actually seen Kyle's full-grown cock before, but he felt like he had when he knelt on the floor and yanked Kyle's legs open around him, like Kyle's leaking dick was another familiar artifact that had been returned to him. Kyle was stretched out on his back, his pants open but not pulled down, his cock poking out through the slit in his boxer briefs. Stan teased him in little licks, watching Kyle's face. He was breathing through his nose, eyelids fluttering, his hands opening and closing around Stan's unmade bedsheets.

"Tell me you haven't done this for fucking Kevin Stoley," Kyle said just as Stan moved up to take him in fully.

"I have," Stan said. "But not often. He was more of a rim job guy."

"Ugh, Stan!" Kyle sat up on his elbows, his chest heaving under his still-buttoned shirt. "That's disgusting. I mean, not the act itself. The idea of your mouth on Kevin's- ugh.

"What? I like doing it." Stan smirked when Kyle's face blazed.

"I'll just file that information away for now," Kyle said.

"Kay," Stan said, and he took Kyle into his mouth at last, liking the taste of him even better when his whole mouth was full of it. He felt it all the way down his spine when Kyle groaned, and Kyle shivered when Stan pressed his flexing hips down to the mattress.

It's so good with you, Stan wanted to say, but his mouth was full and he wasn't willing to pull off yet. He was also afraid he might get emotional if he said that out loud, because it was so true that his ribs ached.

For swallowing Kyle's come, Stan earned the right to undress him. Kyle stayed on his back while Stan carefully removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, both of them beginning to breathe more evenly. Between every newly opened button, Stan kissed Kyle's pale chest. Kyle had his hands in Stan's hair, and Stan wanted to believe that his grip was possessive.

"Would you sleep here?" Stan asked. "I need the company. I hate being alone here at night. I'm five years old."

"You're sweet," Kyle said, and his hands dropped to the mattress when Stan pulled his suspenders down. "Of course I'll stay. That motel gives me the creeps."

Kyle sat up and unbuckled his belt. Stan flopped onto his side and watched Kyle shrug his shirt off and push his pants down, transfixed by his presence and trying to memorize how he smelled, post-orgasm. Kyle got under the bedsheets quickly, still wearing his boxer briefs. There had been a considerable red bush poking through the slit of his briefs when he had his dick out, and Stan wanted to run his fingers through it, but maybe he hadn't earned that yet.

"I'm going to leave the light on," Stan said, referring to the one in the bathroom. "So that you won't be confused when you wake up. If you have to pee, or just. If you don't know where you are for a second."

"How thoughtful," Kyle said, scooting into Stan's arms. He was teasing, but he melted against Stan so completely that Stan took this as a sincere compliment. Kyle used to be so impressed by the dumb, childish things Stan did. Stan had always been waiting for Kyle to figure out that he wasn't impressive at all, and had assumed that was part of Kyle's disillusionment as high school ended and their friendship fizzled into nothing. He squeezed Kyle against him and kissed his hair, stroked his back.

"You didn't call when my father died," Stan said. He'd intended to be angry about this when he brought it up, but he was too calm and cozy to be anything but curious now. "You didn't even send a card."

"I know," Kyle said. "I didn't hear about it until a few months after the funeral, and then I just felt like- Like no gesture would be big enough. Like you had so many people around you who loved you, and I was just this stranger living in another part of the country. This is stupid, but I think I was afraid you would be mad to hear from me. Like you'd think it wasn't any of my business. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. God, I missed sharing a bed with you." Stan buried his face in Kyle's hair and closed his eyes, confident that he would finally sleep through the night. He considered telling Kyle about his last really bad dream, the one about Cartman's bedroom, then thought he'd better not. "I wanted to kill Cartman," he said instead. "At the crime scene this morning. Did you?"

"Want to kill him?" Kyle shrugged. "No, he's not worth it. But I'm still looking into the fact that he might be involved in this."

"Was it horrible to see him?"

"Well. It wasn't great."

Kyle clutched at Stan more tightly, and Stan did the same, gathering Kyle in until his breath was hot against Stan's throat.

"It's crazy," Stan said, not wanting Cartman to be the last thing they talked about before sleep. "You're here. You're back."

"You know what the problem was, back then, with me and you?" Kyle asked, and Stan felt him stiffen. "It was always too big, too special. It was goddamn unwieldy, how much I wanted from you. I didn't have a shelf to put it on. It couldn't be on a shelf, it had to be everything or nothing. That's why it was nothing, when I got confirmation that it couldn't be everything."

"Kyle." Stan wished he was more awake for this. He was fading fast, his muscles loosening around the shape of Kyle in his arms. He'd never been more tired or more ready for sleep.

"No, but it's okay," Kyle said. "That was back then, I was a kid. I've lived now, you know. I've matured."

Stan was going to ask if this meant that he could now be put on a shelf, and that he would be when Kyle was done here, but he was too drowsy to make sense of that question in his own head, let alone out loud. He sighed into Kyle's hair and let himself drift to sleep, allowing everything upsetting to peel away, until all he could hold in his head was the distant knowledge that Kyle was with him like a nightlight, glowing around the edges of everything dark.