Song for this chapter: Metallica's Unforgiven.

Jack woke up the next morning in his bedroom with a renewed sense of purpose—not of hope—but with the determination to destroy Lawrence Alamain. He had stumbled upstairs sometime around 3:00 a.m. He quickly showered and got dressed. On his way out the door, he stopped off in the living room, scribbled out a note for his cleaning service and dropped it on the pile of broken glass: Do not clean. It stays as it lay.

He went into his garage and supply shed. Besides the living room, those were two other places on the grounds he hardly ever went to. He grabbed the necessary materials and tools, and headed to his car. He didn't need Sheldon today.

He went over to Lawrence's house and talked the driver into taking a long break by handing over $500 and telling him that he was an old friend in Alamania and wanted to play a prank. He was going to be Lawrence's driver today. He had everything arranged. A long time ago, he had sworn to himself that he would never be violent again, except to defend somebody. However, after hearing what he had done to Jennifer yesterday, he just could not hold to that promise.

Today would be judgment day for Lawrence.

Jack climbed into the driver's seat of Lawrence's limousine and waited. He had borrowed Sheldon's hat and pulled it low over his face; that way Lawrence wouldn't recognize him if he spied him in the rearview mirror.

He spotted Lawrence and got out of the car to open up his door. This would be the most critical moment of discovery, but he counted on Lawrence's sense of entitlement and the high likelihood that he never bothered to look at his servants. Jack was correct; Lawrence never noticed the difference in his drivers.

Now safely ensconced in the car, with Lawrence under his control, Jack drove on the rural road. However instead of turning towards Salem, he turned the opposite direction, further into the country and towards the cabin he had rented a week ago and still had reserved and paid up for his use. His left hand was on the steering wheel; his right hand on a canister laying on the car seat next to him. It was ready to use at the moment of discovery.

"Driver?" Lawrence asked when he noticed they were going the wrong direction.

Idiot. Doesn't even know his driver's name? It was Taylor. Jack talked with him for three minutes and he knew Taylor's name.

The moment had come. Jack pulled the pin on the canister and tossed it in the back and then quickly raised the partition. Lawrence was trapped with the thick cloud of white gas in the back and Jack was safe driving up front, fairly well protected from the gas that was currently overwhelming the bastard in the back.

Ten more minutes and ten more miles and they had reached Jack's intended destination. He pulled around to the back side of the cabin. Jack got out and opened the back passenger door, allowing the remaining gas to disperse. When the fog had thinned enough, he saw Lawrence in the backseat, unconscious. He now had Lawrence completely under his control. Jack thought that this had almost been too easy. He had Lawrence and it had only required a few lies, a few dollars, and a few minutes.

Of course, Jack knew well that crimes themselves were usually very brief in duration compared to the aftermath. The wreckage of the few minutes of his crime against Kayla had gone on for months—years, really. Months later, Jennifer was still enduring the after effects of Lawrence's crime against her and Jack knew her pain would continue long after today. Jack didn't want to think of the consequences for what he was about to do. He didn't want to feel anything today.

Jack grabbed his supplies from the front passenger seat of the limousine and dropped them by a fire pit in the back. He pulled a wheelbarrow that had been stored at the cabin around to the back door of the limousine and pulled Lawrence's unconscious body as best he could into the wheelbarrow. It would be tough work, but he didn't have to go far with him.

Jack dumped Lawrence's body out of the wheelbarrow over by the fire pit. On either side of the fire pit were two metal poles, which Jack had guessed were intended as support columns for a rotisserie spit.

That's where Lawrence is going.

Jack tied up the man's legs directly to one of the metal poles and his arms were tied to a rope that he attached to the opposite metal pole. That side also had a pulley to help him hoist Lawrence up so that he was now suspended by his feet and wrists over the fire pit.

Lastly, Jack pulled out a knife and cut off Lawrence's overcoat, suit coat, and shirt and then used the knife to split open Lawrence's pants, unavoidably making tiny nicks into Lawrence as he proceeded from Lawrence's socks up to his torso. Jack liked seeing the tiny droplets of blood fall from those inadvertent cuts into the ashes of the fire pit below. He dumped the clothes by the fire pit and then held his knife poised over the man's boxers as he debated about them. No, he decided. Those would stay for now.

He went for kindling, matches, and several buckets of water. It was cold outside in the crisp January morning. He could see his breath. A fire would be so warming…

Everything ready now, Jack picked up one of the buckets and dumped the water on Lawrence's head. Lawrence stirred and jerked, but didn't awaken. Jack pulled an ammonia vial from his pocket and broke it under the filthy pig's nose.

That brought Lawrence around. The jerk jerked around, but his movement was limited obviously by being bound by his feet and hands and suspended in mid-air.

"What the hell?" Lawrence asked instinctually, looking around, desperate to understand what was happening. The curious, completely unfamiliar sensation of being suspended in mid-air, the painful feeling of his body weight pulling at the ropes around his legs and wrists. Those alien, foreign physical sensations called his attention first. Then his attention turned to the cold biting at his nearly stripped body. Then the cold, cold eyes of his captor.

Jack.

Jack was looking down at him with scornful, passionless eyes. He remembered how Jennifer had described Lawrence in the culminating moment of him raping her: I saw him as a monster. He was looking victorious, exuberant almost cocky in his power, like a wolf towering over his captured prey.

Jack hoped that Lawrence was thinking the same thing now.

"Jack, what are you doing? You can't get away with this." Jack said nothing. "You know if something happens to me that you'll be the prime suspect. Even if the law doesn't get you, then my men will. Not just you, but Jennifer, your brother Steve, his wife and your ex-wife Kayla, your niece Stephanie, your mother Josephine. In my country, we know how to extract vengeance."

Jack leaned down and spoke in Lawrence's ear. "You only rely on your men because you pay them. If you aren't around to pay them, then you are nothing to them. I have money. Francois Von Leuschner has money. Money to pay them for loyalty to us instead of loyalty to you. I'm not worried about them. You have no family left. And your father Leopold died trying to stop you from your vengeance; he didn't participate in it. You are quite alone. I don't think there will be anyone seeking retribution on your behalf."

"You're not a killer."

"I killed my father. The man who raised me my whole life because he was trying to hurt people I care about. You think I wouldn't kill you for the same reason?" It seemed so strange to Jack that he could speak so casually and cavalierly about Harper's death. At the time, it had been so cataclysmic and now, just a few short months later, it meant so little compared to everything Jennifer had gone through.

"That wasn't cold-blooded. This isn't you." Lawrence needed to turn this around. Convince him, play on the man's past and insecurities. And Lawrence could be convincing. Yes, he had made a lifetime work out of fooling people—Leopold, Carly, Jennifer.

Jack liked standing over him; liked the feeling of being all-powerful over another person—but only because this person deserved it so completely. "You shouldn't have messed with the people I care about. You have no idea what I'm capable of. But you will. Thank you for reminding me of all the people that I need to defend from you. Gives me more reason now for what must be done."

Lawrence tried another tactic, "Jack, cut me down now and I will leave Salem today. I promise I'll never come back."

"Tell me that you'll leave Jennifer alone."

"I'll never speak to her again."

"Tell me that Jennifer will get her divorce."

"Today, I swear it."

"Tell me that you never raped her."

Lawrence's eyes darted back and forth. Lawrence was stuck; he knew whether he denied or admitted it that Jack would get even more angry. Lawrence went with this gut, born out of lifetime habit—deny, lie, obfuscate until the danger had passed.

"I didn't."

Jack nodded and started building the fire in the pit beneath Lawrence.

Lawrence got even more petrified. He had taken a risk and it backfired disastrously. He tried salvaging it.

"I mean, I didn't mean to. Things just got carried away with the champagne and everything. You of all people should know what that's like." Lawrence was shivering from the cold and from his crescendoing fear.

Jack didn't comment on Lawrence's words, only on his shivering. "You cold? See if you like this." Jack took a match, ignited it and held it beneath the kindling. The fire was low and slow, but it was there.

"Jack, I swear…" Lawrence sounded desperate; his cool mocking defensive veneer was gone.

"Shut up! Shut up, you filthy pig."

Lawrence, for once did what he was told, and he shut up.

Jack kneeled down close to Lawrence's head. He was close to him and wanted to make sure that Lawrence understood every word.

"You said that I, of all people, should know what it's like. Well maybe that is true. And maybe I know better than most people, how much you need to be stopped and how much you need to be taught, now that you are under my power and my control. Now that I can do with your body whatever I want."

"Jack, I—."

"I said shut up. Every time you interrupt, I throw more kindling on that fire beneath you. Understand?"

Lawrence nodded.

"When Steve learned what I had done to Kayla, he called me a filthy pig. And he was right. So that's why I have you here now—up on a pig spit where you belong. I know what you need. I was what you are. And so that is what we are going to be doing here today. You, filthy pig, will be cleansed by fire and water. Understand?"

Tears were in Lawrence's eyes now, but he nodded.

The tears made Jack even more mad. Jack never cried. Never. He would not allow Lawrence to do it in his presence.

"Stop your crying or I will give you something to cry about." Jack held his knife near the man's boxers, the implied threat obvious.

"So like I was saying, when my brother learned the truth about what I had done. That I had committed this vile, disgusting rape, he called me a filthy pig. Which was true. And he tossed my cowardly butt off the roof of a building. Fell three stories. Fell onto the hard concrete. Lost my kidney. Almost lost my life. And that would have been justice for Kayla—in its own way." Jack stood over him and looked into his Lawrence's eyes, looked into the eyes of his former self. "Taught me a lesson that I'll never forget. Was a huge favor for me actually. And that's what I'm doing for you."

Of course Jack knew that the fall off the building had been an accident and not Steve's fault, but it was far more effective storytelling with the revision.

Although Jack hadn't added more kindling to the fire, the wind was strong and fierce and had made the fire stronger as well. The flames were growing higher and almost reaching him. Occasionally, an errant flame would be higher than the rest and would contact Lawrence's bare skin. He would instinctually yell, while recoiling or jerking away from the flames.

Jack liked the show; he didn't want to like it, but it felt like justice. "You can yell all you want. No one will come for you. Just like none of your employees came for Jennifer when she was screaming."

"Oh God, Jack, please! I'm sorry! Tell her I'm sorry."

Jack looked down at Lawrence from above as a few flames reached up and burned him again. Jack knew those eyes. Those were the eyes of a bully and a coward—eyes that would be hard and unfeeling for anyone else's suffering and yet weak and pain-filled if he was affected by so much as a paper cut. Yes, he knew those eyes. Jack used to have those eyes.

"You're not sorry. But you will be."

Jack straightened up, crossed his arms, and waited.

Jack continued to wait, occasionally looking over Lawrence to check the fire. He circled round to avoid the smoke and held out his hands over the fire to warm them. Lawrence was coughing from the smoke and had his eyes tight to keep back the tears; he knew Jack had been serious with his threat if he saw Lawrence crying. The pain was sharp and intense. The fear of not knowing was worse. Would Lawrence die today? If he did survive, how many scars would Jack leave him with? If he did survive, it would be war. An absolute fight to the death. Lawrence bit his lip from the pain and the blood rolled down his cheek and sizzled in the fire below.

Finally, Jack grabbed one of the waiting buckets of water and poured it onto the fire, effectively dousing most of the flames, and the sizzling and smoke overwhelmed Lawrence's senses.

Lawrence scrunched up his eyes and was about to say 'Thank you,' but when he opened them, Jack had his knife out again. Jack held the knife on Lawrence's chest, dragging it along his chest and up to his throat. There was no pressure so Lawrence wasn't cut. Lawrence didn't bleed from any cuts. Jack did want to make him bleed though. Jennifer had bled; she described her blood getting on the wedding gown though she didn't say how Lawrence had made her bleed. He wanted to know, but knew he wouldn't get the truth from Lawrence and wouldn't allow Lawrence this satisfaction of knowing something that Jack wanted to know.

Jack finally released Lawrence from the very great threat of having the knife at his throat.

Jack moved the knife close to Lawence's left eye. "My brother lost his eye in a fight. Got a glass eye and had that second eye irreparably damaged by a greedy, ruthless jerk—someone who is a lot like you actually. I could easily gouge out both of your eyes with this knife. It would be messy, but you would never be able to hurt anyone or any woman ever again. I hope the memory of what you saw of Jennifer will be worth never seeing anything ever again."

"Jack, please, I'm begging you. Please?"

Jack's knife was still poised at Lawrence's left eye. "Jennifer begged you, she said. Didn't stop you."

"Then be better than me, please. I'll do anything."

Jack held the knife for several moments longer, staring at Lawrence, regarding him. He then moved the knife up the metal pole holding the rope that had secured Lawrence's hands. Jack cut the knot tying the rope to the pole and the upper half of Lawrence came crashing to Earth. Lawrence coughed again; he had trouble breathing from the smoke remaining from the extinguished fire and the ashes that were sent airborne as he dropped to the ground His legs were still suspended up on the opposite metal pole. Lawrence was still bound, still tethered to the poles, but he was no longer held taut. Jack kicked his body away from the still smoldering coals.

"I'm not done with you yet Lawrence."

"Jack, please no more. Have mercy. Show me your mercy and how—and how to be a better man. Like you."

Jack rolled his eyes. Those were just words. The punishment and penance were now—the atonement wouldn't come until later, if it ever came at all. "Have mercy, why? I suppose you showed mercy on Jennifer because you only raped her once?"

Jack got a burlap sack and dunked it in the water in the third bucket until it was soaking wet. He held it over Lawrence's face and then picked up the bucket and poured more water through it into Lawrence's mouth. He had learned this trick from his time in Washington, hearing Harper discuss with other U.S. Senators about the government tactics to get people to talk. The whole procedure was supposed to simulate drowning. The wet cloth over the face limited the person's breath. Yes, Jack had definitely learned a lot from his father.

As per procedure, he stopped for a moment and sat the bucket aside. Lawrence spit out some of the water and was gasping, grappling for air.

"You told Jennifer the morning after you raped her that she played a dangerous game and got off easy. If you really think she got off easy after what you did to her, then let's just see how you feel when I'm done with you. I don't play games."

Lawrence couldn't speak. The pain from the burns on his back, the struggle to gasp for air—it was all just too much.

Jack let him have a long enough break. He picked up the bucket and started pouring water again down Lawrence's throat. Lawrence struggled against him, fought in vain, with his hands bound above him. Lawrence had held Jennifer's hands over her head so she couldn't wipe away her tears, Jack remembered her saying.

Jack knew it was time for another break and sat down the bucket; the idea was to simulate drowning, not actually do it. Lawrence had started to spasm for a few seconds and then his body went rigid, unmoving. No, he didn't want to actually kill Lawrence, just give him a taste of his own medicine. Now worry flooded through Jack. He tossed the bucket far away and pulled off the soaked burlap sack from Lawrence's face.

But it wasn't Lawrence's face; it was his own. He was staring, incomprehensibly, at his own lifeless face laying tied up and unmoving on the ground. Jack scrambled to his feet and recoiled back five feet not understanding the image before him.

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Jack woke up startled. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was still in his living room and it was still dark outside. He had fallen asleep in the chair that he had been sitting in since Steve had come and gone. The couch was still overturned and there was still the pile of glass. There was no note to the cleaning lady on top of the glass like he had remembered doing—dreamt doing, actually.

He had been dreaming.

The whole thing with Lawrence had been a dream. Kidnapping Lawrence, stripping him, the fire and water torture had all been in his mind. However, the dream also served as a stark reminder for Jack of what he was capable of within the darkest recesses of his soul.

Jack realized the significance of the dream. He wasn't just fighting against Lawrence, he was battling against his former self. All those things he said to Lawrence in his dream, he was saying to the Jack from three years ago. He wanted to punish that Jack, torture that Jack, get justice from that Jack too. He wanted justice for Kayla as much as justice for Jennifer. Lawrence was providing too much of a mirror into Jack's past. He wanted to destroy that old Jack as much as he wanted to destroy Lawrence. But also, he knew that anything he tried to do to Lawrence, he would do to himself as well.

The dream was also a warning. He had his fathers dwelling inside his mind and soul. He battled them and their legacy constantly. His fathers had victimized innocent women and they never fought against their worst selves, they had never tried to control the worst parts of themselves. They indulged their demons and now their demons had taken up residence in Jack's mind.

He must win this fight against his fathers.

He must win this fight against Lawrence.

How could he do both?

He was determined to destroy Lawrence Alamain—but would not allow himself to be destroyed alongside him. He needed to be able to have a life with Jennifer when this was all through. Jack had to give Jennifer that choice. He knew that Jennifer would choose a life with him over complete and total revenge over Lawrence. And yet, and yet, he could not allow Lawrence to escape unscathed. Too much had happened. Too much was known. He doubted that Lawrence would ever follow Jack's path and would ever need redemption and forgiveness as Jack had. He couldn't rely on Lawrence's conscience to bring him justice as it had for Jack. More likely, Lawrence was like Harper, always convinced in his own superiority, entitlement, and self-righteousness. Only prison and death stopped Harper.

What should Jack do now? The darkness, the hatred, the anger that lurked deep within Jack and that he had buried deep was resurfacing. He wanted it, he needed it to destroy Alamain, but could he control it? Could he resurrect his fathers' demons, use those demons to destroy Alamain? But could that be tamed so he could destroy Alamain the right way and not destroy himself and his future with Jennifer in the process?

He remembered a saying of Confucius that 'Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves' meaning that one of the graves is for oneself. Jack wanted instead to embark on a journey of justice and dig only one grave—the one for Lawrence. He hoped he could do that.

He stumbled upstairs to his bedroom to sleep for the rest of the restless night. When golden morning light finally streamed through his bedroom window, he got up and prepared for the day. On his way out the door, he stopped off in the living room, scribbled out the same note for his cleaning service that he had dreamed about doing the night before and dropped it on the pile of broken glass: Do not clean. It stays as it lay.

He went into his garage and supply shed, grabbed the necessary materials and tools, and headed to his car. He didn't need Sheldon today.

While Jack was driving, he couldn't stop thinking about his dream. Most of the times in his dreams, his fathers were there and they were taunting him and teasing him and telling him how weak he was and just generally discouraging him against his fight to reform his life. In this dream, he was the one with the power and in control. He was no longer fighting against his darker nature, but instead he was indulging in it, glorying in it, and simultaneously feeling so superior to the person he was torturing.

That worried him. He had enjoyed it too much. His fathers weren't taunting him these days. His fathers were awakening. He needed to get a grip. He needed Steve. He needed to act normal and hopefully he would then feel normal too.

Jack drove over to Steve and Kayla's place, bound for the porch swing, not the front door. He was intent on fixing the swing, replacing the wooden slats with the ones he had kicked out and broken the other day. That was the credo he lived by these days, if you destroy it, then you must fix it. At least fix what he could, he could never fully fix things with Kayla. The scars were too deep and too great. And there are some things that may possibly be repaired and still workable, but never fully fixed.

Kayla heard the commotion and came out. She smiled when she saw Jack figuring out how to fix the swing; she had never seen him with a screwdriver or drill ever.

"I appreciate you fixing that, but Steve was going to get to it this weekend," she said to call his attention. "You will really do anything to avoid coming in our house, won't you?" she said it with a smile. She hoped too that the past and unspoken tension didn't need to be embedded in every single sentence ever spoken between them. She hoped sometimes they could just be brother and sister-in law.

Jack looked up and saw her mood and intentions, "Well, the next time I feel the need to break something, I want it here and ready."

She wanted to ask about Jennifer, but didn't. He wanted to ask her a hundred questions that had been raised in his mind since last night, but didn't. He wanted to ask her if he really did rip her heart out like Steve had told him in the hospital all those years ago. He hadn't really believed it at the time; he had dismissed Steve's comment as his attempt at being 'poetic.' After hearing Jennifer last night though, he knew it to be true and didn't really need to ask Kayla to confirm it.

"Do you want Steve?" Kayla asked.

"Please."

"I'll go get him," Kayla turned to go back in the house. Jack called her attention again.

"Kayla, I—." Jack stopped. Anything he could say would be crossing over into forbidden territory or would just sound incredibly trite. He remembered the long ago conversation he had with Steve in the hospital in the aftermath of the rape when Steve had avowed that they would get past the rape and that he and Kayla would be happy one day. That hope had been fulfilled. Jack thought of a better way to say how he felt, he lifted his hands and started using sign language.

"Kayla, there are so many things I would like to say, but for good reason will remain unsaid. However, by telling you this way, I hope it's a better way for my spirit to reach your spirit. And though this may seem trite, I mean it with profound sincerity. I am truly glad for the happiness you have now and that you were able to find that happiness with Steve."

Kayla was stunned that Jack knew sign language and then surprised at the content of his message. She knew he would feel compelled to say something to her with all the turmoil he was witnessing within Jennifer and it was bringing up comparison and memories of the past. She was okay with this transgression. All things considered, what he had said wasn't as imposing or nosy as she had feared.

"When did learn to sign?" Kayla signed back.

"Three years ago."

Kayla nodded, processing everything, not commenting on the implications. The conversation appeared over so she said aloud, "I'll go get Steve."

A minute later, Steve was at the door. His arms were crossed; he wasn't going to make this easy for Jack. "Steve, I just wasn't in a talkative mood last night."

"And now?"

"Now neither, but I want to get Alamain. I really just can't let him get away with everything." Remembering his dream from last night, remembering the depths he was capable of, he was grateful to have Steve to keep him from straying too far down that dark path and to keep him from sinking too far into oblivion. "However, I know it needs to be done the right way so that Jennifer and I still have a chance for a life together when this is all through."

Steve sat down on the front steps; he knew how revenge could take over one's life. He learned that lesson well from everything that had happened with Bo. "He has the ambition and the money to do a lot of damage. With Alamain, take the money or kill the ambition or both. He reminds me a lot of Victor Kiriakis, ruthless and cruel. But Victor has family now—Isabella for instance, that is taming him. A year ago, he had kidnapped Kayla as leverage for Marina's key, but six months later you had to be aligned with him and work with him to get off that island and protect Isabella."

Jack was impatient; he wanted Alamain neutralized now. Steve continued, "Well, Franklin isn't going to hand over the Von Leuschner money so at least Alamain isn't going to get any richer. I talked with Bo and he doesn't really know if Carly is still a weakness for Alamain."

"I was thinking about what you said the other day at the Heart and that I can't dump all the responsibility of what I did onto my psycho dads. They are a convenient representation and symbol of the darkness in me, but everything I did was me. It was all me. I think I can understand Lawrence better than anyone else and with your help, I can bury him—just as I buried the part of me that was him."