Note: Sorry about the confusion. I uploaded several documents on my laptop and selected the wrong one while uploading. Here's the full chapter. It flows better as one big chunk.

I have to wonder what Elizabeth has in a directory called "Untitled Folder 7" that's so embarrassing. Justin Beiber singles, maybe?

I have no idea what clothing a real police officer would give someone that doesn't have any.

Elizabeth's natural response to stress and pressure seems to be snark.

#####

Two Years Prior

It was just past 10 o'clock in the morning and it was already proving to be one scorcher of a summer day. Reese stopped at a gas station convenience store and bought a small case of bottled water. Opening one of the bottles, he took a long swig. He set the rest of the bottles on the back seat, started the car, and drove off, headed for the next address on the list.

The first Fandango property had been a bust. None of the workers at the modest warehouse had seen Tara Dodson in weeks, or so they claimed. "Detective Stills" had twisted a few arms, made several ominous smiles, dropped a couple of thinly-veiled threats, and gained access to the security camera footage. Only three vans had entered the premises in the past twenty-four hours and none of them matched the license plate number he was searching for.

Reese still hoped that he would be able to find Elizabeth Ruben, but he was prepared to face the very real possibility that she had been killed by Tara Dodson.

The phone rang when Reese was a few hundred yards out from the second warehouse.

"Yeah, Finch?"

"I've just returned to the library with the GPS unit. It's extremely damaged, Mr. Reese, but the memory chip appears intact. If we're lucky, I'll be able to reconstruct Tara Dodson's route."

"How long will it take?"

"An hour or two, if we're fortunate. I'll call you when I have news."

"Will do."

Reese pulled into the parking lot, stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket, pulled out "his" badge, and headed towards the office.

#####

The dark container around me creaked and groaned steadily enough to count time as it was heated from the outside. The wall against my back was warm, no longer frozen. The air within the container was heating up. It had reached "comfortable room temperature" awhile ago, but I knew it wouldn't stop there.

I was going to be baked like a turkey in an oven.

My mouth was dry. My arms ached, especially when I squirmed around to try and find a more comfortable position, so I did my best to hold still. I was too exhausted to move much, anyhow. A thick haze had settled over my mind, dampening my thoughts, my will. Part of me, a very small part of me, still wanted to fight, to struggle, to strain against the cuffs, but I just didn't have the energy.

I thought, I'm gonna die...

Somehow, that didn't disturb me as much as it should have.

#####

It was 11:41AM. Reese was at the third address on Finch's list. It had taken him a long time to drive there, and it was going to take him a long time to search. The place had been abandoned months ago. Weeds grew up through cracks in the asphalt and panes were missing from the warehouse windows. Reese's paper clip made short work of the door lock and he swept inside the sweltering building, his gun held ready.

It took him ten minutes to ensure that Elizabeth Ruben was not inside the building and another ten minutes to search the old truck trailers parked in a ragged row out back. Each time he slid one of the heavy rolling doors up, he called her name: "Elizabeth? Elizabeth Ruben, are you there?"

There was no answer.

Disappointed, he headed back to the car, turning the air conditioning up as high as it would go. He pulled out onto the main road, but before he got very far, his phone beeped.

"Mr. Reese," said Finch, "I've got it!" He spoke very rapidly. "Tara Dodson's last route should be on your phone now. I've highlighted the address where she stopped first after leaving the industrial park."

Reese glanced at the phone, pulled a tight U-turn, and floored the accelerator. The address was seventy miles away...

#####

By now my mouth felt like a desert. I couldn't believe how hot it was. I had never experienced anything like this before, not even when the air conditioning had failed in my apartment last summer when I'd had all my computers simultaneously compiling a massive application. The metal wall was like an iron pressed against my back and the floor seared my poor feet and thighs, but I couldn't move. Could barely breath. The air felt stiflingly thick, like I was eating it rather than breathing it.

I knew wouldn't be able to take this for long. I was done for. A goner. Dead, but still breathing—for now. This was how life ended for me. Not peacefully in bed, not in a car crash, not from being mugged, not from cancer, not from drowning, not from electrocution, not from a heart attack. No; I had the honor of being baked alive.

I'd accepted my fate, in a way. My only regret was that my mother would never know what had happened to her only daughter...

My body had enough moisture for a few last tears.

"I'm so sorry, Mama," I croaked. "Guess you were right. Should'a stayed with you in Colorado..."

#####

Reese slammed on the brakes, took the turn hard. The back tires kicked up a cloud of dust and gravel as he pulled into the driveway, screeched to a halt, and leaped out of the car. He rushed up to the gate.

The lock had been cut.

He tore it off and swung the gate wide, forcing it up against the overgrown weeds on either side of the driveway. Getting back into the car, he drive as fast as he could safely do so on the winding gravel road.

There were only a few structures in the middle of the field: an uneven row of old cargo containers, an outhouse, a transformer, a rusted radio tower, a few streetlights, and a squat, one-story building missing all of its windows. Heat radiated off the container in visible waves. Reese parked the car in front of the building and got out, gun at the ready. He approached the building.

"Elizabeth Ruben?" he called. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?"

#####

When I heard the voice, I was sure I was hallucinating. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't anymore.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth, can you hear me?"

I moaned. Every breath was a nightmare burning in my throat. I wanted to stop breathing. I wanted to die.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth Ruben?"

Maybe it's an angel, I thought. Maybe somebody's finally come to take me up there to see my little brother again.

Gravel crunched outside, and I realized: it wasn't a hallucination, and it wasn't an angel. Someone was here.

I opened my mouth, tried to speak. I was quickly overcome by coughing. Drawing in a deep, gasping, breath, I wheezed, "Help! I'm in here."

There was a rusty creak, a screech of metal on metal, and the doors were flung wide. A man stood there, outlined by sunlight like something holy.

"Elizabeth," he breathed, running forward. "Hold still, hold still." He knelt next to me, leaned over my body, grabbed one of the handcuffs. I saw a paperclip in his hand, and then I didn't see the paperclip in his hand because he'd stuck it in the lock, and a few seconds later my arms dropped to my side like limp sacks of potatoes. He didn't bother unlocking the other wrist. The cuffs dangled as he scooped me up, cradling me in his arms like I weighed nothing more than a little girl. He carried me out into the sunlight, and suddenly, I could breath again.

Wooooow, I thought once my eyesight had adjusted to the light. On second thought, maybe he is an angel.

"I've got her," the man said. "She's alive." I didn't know who he was talking to. God, maybe?

There was the sound of a door opening and I found myself staring out the windshield of a car, seeing nothing but blue sky and a lonely security camera hanging from a metal pole. I couldn't move my head to see anything more. The man leaned across my body, reaching towards the steering wheel. The engine grumbled into life and air blasted from the dash vents; cold air, heaven incarnate.

I panted, relishing the breeze against my bare skin.

"Here," the man said. He held up a water bottle, but I was too weak to raise my arms. He pressed it to my lips. I drank gulp after gulp, but soon began to sputter and cough. Water dribbled down my cheek, ran down my neck, dripped from my chin onto my chest and breasts. I didn't care. It felt wonderful.

"Take it slow," the man said gently, pulling the water bottle away. "It's all right. You're safe now, Elizabeth."

I reached for the bottle like a helpless baby, and a moment later he guided it into my shaking hands. The whole forcing-myself-to-drink-slow thing was a joke. I would've emptied the bottle in seconds if he hadn't taken it away again.

"W-who are you?" I gasped.

"My name is John Reese," he said. "I'm here to save you."

"You sure I'm not hallucinating?"

He held up two fingers. "How many fingers?"

"Twenty-seven. And you have three noses."

He chuckled and said, "Sit still for awhile."

I didn't have much choice. I was paralyzed by shock...and awe.

He brought out the paperclip again and removed the cuffs from around my other wrist. He tossed them into the back, then closed my door. Walked around the car and settled into the driver's seat. Pulled a first-aid kit from beneath his seat and two water bottles from the back.

Reaching into the first-aid kit, he fished out a little packet and poured its powdered contents into one of the bottles. It turned the water bright orange. He replaced the cap, turned it over several times, and shook it before handing me the bottle.

"Drink it slowly," he said. "You're dehydrated."

It tasted disgustingly like liquid fake-orange candy, but I drank some anyway.

"Hold out your hands," he said. "I need to clean your wrists. It might sting." With the other bottle, he splashed water on my bloody wrists, then wiped away the dried blood with a soft cloth. His movements were gentle and sure, but just as he'd warned, it stung. He was lucky I was so weak, otherwise I might've punched that beautiful, rugged face of his, bopped him right in the nose. When he was done, he dabbed soothing antiseptic ointment on each wrist and wrapped them both in gauze.

"Let's get you home, Elizabeth," he said.

#####

The ride back to New York was very long and, at first, very quiet. Wherever Tara Dodson had dumped me, it seemed to be a long way from home. I didn't recognize the countryside rolling past the window. So far, it had been empty fields and abandoned industry.

I crossed my legs, shuffled my bare feet against the floor mat. The only clothing I wore was a suit jacket that John Reese had loaned me—right off his back. It hung loosely off my shoulders and did little to conceal my body. I didn't really care. I was too busy enjoying being alive.

God, I'd never realized what a miracle air conditioning was.

John's voice—that mysterious, enticing half-whisper of a voice—broke into my thoughts.

"You hungry?" he asked. "Gas station coming up."

"No," I said.

"It's shock. You're still running on adrenaline."

"Yeah, well, nearly dying does that to you I guess."

I glanced at John—the man who had just saved my life, although it hadn't really sunk in yet that I wasn't about to die—and said, "How did you know where to find me? Not—not that I'm ungrateful or anything..."

"Tara Dodson had a GPS unit in her van," John said. "It showed where she left you."

"Did you arrest yet her?"

John smiled. "No, but the police will find her...in a day or two."

Startled, I said, "You're not a cop?"

"No."

"What are you, then? How did you even know about Tara?"

"I'm just a guy in the right place at the right time," he said.

"Seriously, how'd you know I was in trouble?"

A smirk. "I have my methods."

"Okay, Batman. What do you do for a living?"

"I've been known to lounge around my expansive manor sipping ginger ale."

"Uh-huh. Really, John. What are you? What do you do? How'd you even find me?"

"I...help people, Elizabeth. People like you, who've gotten themselves into bad situations."

"You are Batman. Where's your mask?"

"Left it at home."

I rolled my eyes and went back to watching out the window.

#####

The shakes started about the time we crossed the New York City limits late that evening. At first, it was just the slightest tremble in my arms and legs, but by the time we pulled into a parking garage, I was shivering as thought I'd been left outdoors in a blizzard.
John pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine.

"Where are we?" I said. Like my body, my voice shook.

John put his warm hand on my arm and said, "Detective Carter is going to be here in a few minutes. You can trust her. She's the finest police officer I know."

"Oh," I said.

There was silence in the car for several minutes.

"I don't know how I can possibly thank you," I whispered.

"There's no thanks necessary," he said.

"You saved my life. I—I don't know how to thank you. I owe you my life."

"You owe me nothing, Elizabeth."

"Seriously. Anything I can give you—name it. I—I make a lot of money, and..."

"Just be careful what friends you pick from now on." He nodded towards a Crown Vic that had just pulled into a nearby parking space. "Here comes Detective Carter. Roll down your window and stay here for a moment." He unbuckled his seat belt, pushed open the door, and stood. I watched him walk over to the Crown Vic. The driver—a woman with black hair and deep chocolate skin—had gotten out of the car. She had a large paper bag in her hand and a badge around her waist. John talked to her. She glanced my way, then back at John. Handed John the bag. He walked back over to the car.

"Detective Carter brought you some clothes," John said, giving me the bag through the open window. Inside, there was a pair of white briefs, a short blue bathrobe, and a pair of black flip-flops. Touched, I began to dress myself in the confines of the car. John, a true gentleman, turned his back when I shed the jacket. I was surprised to find that the briefs and flip-flops both seemed to be in my size, but in the grand scheme of the crazy things that had happened today, it wasn't very weird at all. I chalked it up to coincidence.

I felt a little better with the bathrobe wrapped around my body. It went down to my knees and was thin enough to wear on a hot summer's night like this. I opened the car door and stood, but I found myself reluctant to move. My quaking legs began walking only when John set his warm hand on my back and guided me towards Detective Carter.

"Elizabeth Ruben," he said, "meet Detective Jocelyn Cater. Detective Carter, Elizabeth Ruben."

"Nice to meet you," said Detective Carter. She shook my hand.

"Hello," I said.

"I have to go," John said. "But first, Elizabeth, I want you to listen to me." His eyes—those captivating, intense, soul-melting blue eyes—seemed to be staring right into my heart.

"I'm listening," I said.

"It's going to get worse," he said softly. "You're gonna have nightmares and insomnia, and panic attacks, and the shakes, and phobias. Maybe you won't be able to look at a cargo ship ever again. Maybe you'll never want to go out at night. You're gonna have days you beat yourself up for being so stupid—not that you did anything stupid—and days you feel like you just can't take one more step."

"This isn't very encouraging," I mumbled.

"A solider comes home from shooting up bad guys, and suddenly the only enemy he has is his own mind. But it happens to normal people too, Elizabeth—people like you. It just takes time to overcome. It gets worse, then it gets better. You can survive it. You're tough, Elizabeth."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Detective Carter will take care of you," he said, patting me on the shoulder. I wrapped my arms around his chest in a tight hug. I didn't want to let go, I really didn't—but after several seconds, John extricated himself from my grip.

"Stay strong, Elizabeth," he said. "Another time, Detective Carter."

John got into his car, backed out of the parking space, and drove away. His car turned a corner and suddenly was gone. I stared after it until Detective Carter put her arm around my shoulder and guided me to her car.

"Come on, hun," she said. "It's alright. Let's go."

#####

Detective Carter took me first to a quiet little medical clinic on a quiet little New York street. The young doctor wore her black hair in a tight bun and looked like she was just out of med school. She wasted no time in examining me, but focused her attention on my wrists.

"Good, it doesn't look like there's any infection," she said. "Keep these clean and change the dressings every day, and they shouldn't scar. You're still dehydrated. Keep your fluids up and take it easy for the next few days. Chicken noodle soup is good, if you have it. Lots of water, orange juice. Remember to drink more water if you drink tea or anything with caffeine—it dehydrates."

She didn't ask about where I had gotten my injuries.

Detective Carter then took me to the police precinct. She was both understanding and efficient. She took my statement without interrupting my story, which was good, because I worried that if I stopped telling it I would never be able to start again. I didn't want to re-live the hell I had just gone through any more than absolutely necessary.

My legs wouldn't stop twitching the whole time. I had to hold my hands tight together in my lap, otherwise, they trembled like crazy.

When I finished telling my story, I asked Carter, "Did you find Tara yet?"

"No, but believe me—we're looking. We'll find her."

"Good," I said.

For several minutes, she filled out paperwork, then set the pen and papers aside.

"We're officially done," she said, smiling.

"Great, can I go home now?"

"Hang on," she said. "I wanna talk to you for a minute before I drive you home."

"Okay."

Detective Carter leaned forward and lowered her voice. "You heard what he said in the garage. PTSD is a horrible thing, and it can hit anybody—war veteran, police officer, bank teller, or computer programmer."

"I heard."

"I know some damn good counselors. It helps to have someone to talk to, you know?"

I looked down at my lap. Played with the fabric belt on the robe. Chewed my lip. "I just wanna get back to my life," I said.

"I know, hun, I know." I heard the sound of a pen scratching, then Carter slid something across the desk to me. It was a business card. "But if you change your mind—if you need someone to talk to, there's the phone numbers of a couple damn good counselors. My number's on there too. You can call it anytime. I mean it. Any time you need it, you understand?"

"Thanks," I said. I picked it up and slipped it into the pocket of the robe.

#####

By the time I got back to my apartment, it was well into the night. Detective Carter walked me to my front door and handed me a key.

"I had the super make you a new one," she said. "'Cause we haven't found your wallet yet. You sure you're alright?"

"I'll be fine," I said, hoping that I sounded more confident than I felt. I fingered the unfamiliar key and used it to unlock my front door. Clicked on the lights. "Thanks for everything, Detective Carter."

We hugged. She walked to her car and drove off. I stepped inside my apartment. Slipped off the flip-flops. Locked the door behind me.

For a moment, I didn't recognize where I was. I mean, I knew it was my apartment—but it felt alien, unfamiliar, even though I had been here less than forty-eight hours ago, getting ready for another routine day at Landis, blissfully unaware of the ordeal I would be forced to endure.

I stood there in the entryway. I didn't know what to do. I was exhausted. I was starving. I craved a shower. I needed to pee.

My stomach and bladder decided for me. I did my business in the bathroom and headed straight for the kitchen. I had a few cans of soup in the back of one of the cupboards. I usually ate only half the contents of a can and put the rest in the refrigerator, but tonight, I ate it all. Mechanically. Like a robot. Insert spoon, raise to mouth, eat soup, swallow, lower spoon, repeat until bowl is empty.

After supper, I headed for the shower. I ran the hot water to give the shower time to warm and stripped off my clothes, hanging the blue bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door. I spent a long time washing dirt and dust from every square inch of my body, especially the bottom of my feet, which were blackened with filth. It took awhile. (It didn't help that my feet were a little too ticklish.)

And that's when my adrenaline high finally came tumbling down, down, down. One moment I was trying to balance on one leg to scrub the opposite foot, and the next, I realized: I shouldn't be here right now. I should be dead.

I set the soap down, feeling nauseous. Hung the washcloth on the faucet handle. My knees quaked, and before I knew it, I was down on the tiled floor of the shower stall, my back pressed to the corner, my arms wrapped around my knees. The hot water flowed around my feet to the drain.

"Oh my god," I whispered, rocking myself forward and backward. "Oh my god." My face was wet, and not from the shower. I wiped my eyes. The tears kept coming, and they wouldn't stop, and that was perfectly all right with me because I needed to cry, a lot. No one could hear me. No one could see me. I was free to let it all out. I didn't have the words to describe the emotions swirling around in my gut, but the tears did a decent job. It felt good to cry, to wail.

It felt good to be alive.

I stayed in the shower for a long, long time.

#####

Later that evening, I clicked off the bedroom light, plunging the room into darkness. I felt funny right away, before I'd even had time to crawl beneath the sheets. I began to drown. My heart surged and I began to hyperventilate. My fingers scrambled for the lamp on the bookshelf next to the bed and by the time I managed to find the switch my entire body was trembling.

You're kidding me, right? I thought. I've never been afraid of the dark.

Taking a deep breath, I turned off the lamp again and pulled the covers over my head, but every moment in the blackness was like being back there. I rubbed my wrists, tried to remind myself that I was free now, I was alive, I wasn't in any danger of roasting to death—but it was useless. I needed light, even a little bit of light. My little brother had always slept with a tiny nightlight. I had used to make fun of him for it. Now I understood why he'd freaked out when I'd hidden it from him one night.

I'm so sorry, Gray, I thought as I clicked on the light again. I kicked the covers away and stood. I wore nothing but my underclothes. Stepping around the computer parts that littered the floor, I padded over to the desk, grabbed the wireless router, and ripped the electrical tape away, revealing the green LED power lights beneath. I found it rather ironic that, months ago, I had covered the router so I could sleep without the lights shining in my face. Now I was uncovering the lights so I could sleep without feeling like I was dying.

I removed the tape from the indicators on the network switch as well, just for good measure. A piece of tape fell onto the desk—on top of my notes. The notes for the algorithm.

Suddenly I didn't feel like sleeping, even though it was two in the morning and my body was exhausted.

I sat down in my chair and powered on the desktop. It had been the first computer that I had restored from backups after the attack on my network—I wondered, had that been Tara's doing too? Had she been that desperate for my work on elliptic-curve cryptography? After having witnessed what she was capable of, it didn't seem unlikely.

The desktop presented a login prompt. I entered my username and password and waited for it to decrypt the partition. I pulled up a file browser, navigated to my projects directory. To the elliptic-curve directory.

My fingers shook as I double-clicked on the algorithm's source code file. I scrolled down, reading the familiar code. When I came to the suspicious function call, I gasped. I had been right. The ampersand was missing.

I held down the shift key and slammed my finger down on the number 7. Saved the file. Brought up a terminal. Compiled the file.

This was it. This was the test. After all, it might've still been broken. There might've been other stupid bugs in the code still. There was only one way to find out.

I ran the application, generated a public/private key pair, then told the program to encrypt a message with the public key. Anything I encrypted with the public key could only be decrypted with the paired private key.

It prompted me to input the message text.

After some hesitation, I typed: "I owe my life to John Reese." Pressed enter. The console spat out a block of seemingly random alphanumeric characters. There was no way to tell if it was correct until I tried decrypting it with the corresponding private key.

My hand had a hard time moving the mouse. The pointer was jiggling around and kept missing the text I was trying to select. After several seconds, I managed to select the encrypted text, copied it to the clipboard. I ran the program again, loaded the private key. Told it to decrypt a message.

I pasted the encrypted text in the terminal, took a deep breath and pressed enter.

The terminal printed: I owe my life to John Reese.

Jesus Christ, I thought. I did it. It worked.

I went out to the kitchen to celebrate with a cookie. Then I printed out the console log. I was going to frame this and hang it on the wall—my first ever successful elliptic-curve decryption.

I didn't sleep that night, but not because of the dark. I didn't sleep because I stayed up the entire night writing a proper front-end application for my encryption system. It felt good to write code. It felt good to be alive to write code. By concentrating on the application, I didn't have time to worry about the horrors of the past few days.

I fell asleep at my keyboard and didn't wake up until 2PM. If it hadn't been for the paper sitting in the printer tray, I would've thought I'd been dreaming.

#####

Tara Dodson hummed to herself as she unlocked her little sportscar in the garage early the next morning. She slid into the front seat, closed the door, and started the engine.

She didn't notice the suited man sitting in the back seat.

Not until it was too late, that is.

#####