MASSACHUSETTS GENERAL HOSPITAL

The man looked out of place.

Boston's public hospital saw and serviced all kinds of people, from bikers to basics, Hari Krishna to kids. Even so, the man in the dark suit loitering in the hallway was not quite the kind of man they were accustomed to seeing, even in the tri-university area and its accompanying social elite. This man in a nondescript dark suit was himself dark, mysteriously nondescript, and gave away no emotion as he waited in the corridor outside room 215, the nurses and orderlies doing their best to ignore his silent form.

A blonde woman walked into the corridor. She was professional and neutral in bearing, with two men in tow; an older gentleman in a brown wool cap, and a younger man, scarf buttoned neatly into his coat. He was speaking to the older gentleman in a bemused tone.

". . .Doctors do not hand out lollipops anymore, not since the 90's invented liability."

"Well they should," Dr. Bishop announced. "Modern healthcare has really declined since the twentieth century."

The man in the suit looked up, catching the woman's eye. "That was fast," Division Director Agent Broyles commented in his trademark laconic manner.

"We were in the neighborhood," Agent Olivia Dunham replied. She accepted the file from his hand, noticing how light it was even before it was opened. She knew what that meant. "Jane Doe, huh?"

Agent Broyles nodded. "Caucasian female, the doctors estimate eighteen years old. Found early this morning underneath a semi truck on the outskirts of the city. Lacerations on the feet, bruised ribs, as well as extreme dehydration. Ambulance initially brought her to a hospital near where she was found, but when I heard of her particular condition, I requested she be brought here for our investigation."

"Was she. . ."

"No, no signs of rape," Broyles finished. Olivia let out a breath. Of all the nightmares she's endured, thought Olivia, at least she's spared that one. She looked over the victim: her eyes were closed, fast asleep, though she looked anything but peaceful, purple bruises covering her face and arms. Her feet were uncovered, a team of nurses picking debris from the blackened blood. A hospital gown covered her slight frame, the up and down motion of breathing the only evidence of life for what otherwise would pass for a corpse. Olivia turned away, focusing on the dossier at hand. It didn't add much more to what Broyles had just briefed them.

"Define 'particular condition.' "

"ER doctors initially diagnosed disorientation and trauma-induced amnesia, not uncommon for victims of exposure. Though her description and condition is not unique to other cases." With that, he pulled a thick dossier out of a briefcase at his feet. This one had at least forty pages, complete with photographs and typed interview reports in eight point font. Extensive would be an understatement.

"The first victim was found floating outside the New Hampshire coast, about one year ago, cause of death unknown. The second victim was found alive four months ago in downtown Providence, also with amnesia. One week after hospital admittance, she fell into a coma, before suffering seizures, and finally a lethal aneurysm. The third victim is right in front of you. All are Jane Does with blonde hair, slight build, between the height of 5'5 and 5'8. No found backgrounds whatsoever, no links to missing persons reports."

Olivia wanted to ask why she had never heard of these cases before, but the answer was simple: four months ago, their Fringe division didn't even exist. Then there was the homeland security threat and the mystery virus. With that strange case, and the illness of her partner, she and the Bishops had come together, forming their unusual team. Only sixteen weeks ago, Olivia thought, my life was completely different. There was predictability, stability, and a fiancé to come home to at night. All of that changed in the blink of an eye. How it seemed like a hundred years had passed, becoming a different universe, even.

"Four months ago," interrupted Dr. Bishop's voice, "I was at St. Claire's eating dreadful butterscotch pudding. My, how time flies." That warranted a look from Agent Broyles.

"Commonality is not causality," Peter pointed out, coming back on topic. "There are dozens of Jane Doe cases every day on the Eastern seaboard. Just because they have similar attributes doesn't mean they are inherently connected."

"Also correct. Which is why I confirmed with forensics before calling you all here."

"Let me guess: This is where it gets weird," Peter muttered.

"Her personal affects," he said, showing the team a clear ziploc bag. In it were shreds of a dress and a small electronic device no bigger than a coin.

"Previous victims were clothed in dresses of a similar style. Forensics dated the fabric and thread to the 1950's. The dress of our current Jane Doe is dated as an original of that same decade. The device found clutched in her hand however is more modern, though of unknown origin," Broyles narrated as Olivia examined it through the plastic. "Analytic teams are working on tracing where it came from, I'll let you know when the results are in."

Olivia held out the bag to Peter. "Any idea?"

"Bluetooth or bomb is my guess," he offered, examining the minute machinery. Olivia could practically hear the engineer-minded gears in his brain whirring and turning. "Too small to be a radio transponder, though if it is, it's way more advanced than anything on the black market, at least as of four months ago." Olivia didn't ask how he knew the ins and outs of the black market, but Peter wasn't exactly in circles that were deemed by any means legal. He's come a long way, too, Olivia thought, the FBI consultant badge on his arm clear evidence of that.

Dr. Bishop looked ecstatic. "The 1950's, eh? The Golden Age, as my father called it. Possibly time travel, a wormhole in dimensions. But other tests can be conducted," Dr. Bishop thought out loud. "I will need a sample of the clotting matter from her feet, of course. Once her vitals are strong enough, she can be brought to my laboratory. She is most likely too unstable for the deprivation tank, though other means of retrieving memory are more than accessible."

His expression told Olivia his idea included some homemade cocktail of LSD. But she didn't need to tell Broyles that. She closed the dossier, tucking it under her arm.

"Call me as soon as you hear anything, sir."

"Likewise. Gentlemen," Broyles nodded to each of the men. His eyes narrowed on the old doctor. "Sir, you seem to have feathers all over your lapel."

"That would be from Little Petey," Dr. Bishop offered brightly. Agent Broyles arched his eyebrows.

"Don't look at me," Peter quipped, "he means the pigeon. And trust me, ignorance is bliss on that one."

. . . . .

Olivia set down her reading glasses, rubbing her temples. It had been a long seventy-two hours, with still no end in sight.

After the visit to the hospital, she and Peter made the requisite interviews. At a weigh station in Manchester they met with a truck driver, who seemed pretty shaken up for a man so large.

"She didn't even look human," he murmured, lighting a cigarette, his hand shaking. "What the hell happened to her?"

"We don't know," admitted Olivia. "But we intend to find out. Is there anything else you remember? Any little detail could be of use, even if it seems unrelated."

The driver squinted in thought. "She was singin' real confused like, repeatin' it over and over. An old timey song. Kinda jazzy, with a piano."

"Was it from a movie, maybe? Or on the radio?"

"Not on any radio around here, maybe one a them golden oldies ones. I know I heard it before though, just don't know the name. Sad and lonely somethin' or other." The driver crushed the dying cigarette in his palm. "Not much to go on."

Olivia and Peter exchanged glances.

"Maybe more than you think," said Peter. "There's a music store a few blocks from here. You got a minute for a field trip?"

The shop was small, and at 11:30 am on a Monday, completely devoid of life, apart from the trio. The salesman was practically ecstatic, showing them to the baby grand on display in the front.

"I've never been part of an FBI investigation before. You sure this is all you need?"

Olivia was not sure at all, having followed Peter's lead on this, but he was quite the opposite.

"Absolutely," he responded, sitting down on the piano bench. The black and white keys came alive at his touch. He went through a few arpeggios, then turned to the truck driver.

"If anything sounds familiar to you, just let me know."

With that he let 'er rip. He started with slow, morose songs, going through several jazz classics, each one a few measures at a time.

"It wasn't that slow," commented the driver.

Peter changed gears, playing lively ragtime tunes, Gershwin among the ones Olivia recognized. She had heard him play before on the small piano in the lab used occasionally to focus Dr. Bishop. Bach sometimes wafted through the air on afternoons, even Motown renditions at times, but it was the jazz tunes Peter played best. She knew he could play well, but had no idea he knew so many songs, hopping from each one like a bird hops weightlessly to branches. They had to have gone through two hundred or so songs this way, the driver guiding the music suggestions with the occasional "too old" or "a bit upbeat, but not too fast" until he asked for Peter to back up. His voice was excited.

"That's it. That's the one."

Peter backtracked, replaying the last few measures.

Blue moon

I saw you standin' alone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own

His soft baritone was slightly off-tune, though not unpleasant. The driver was adamant, repeating "That's it, I'm positive. That chorus is unmistakable."

"This is sooo different than the FBI stuff in movies," the store salesman said to himself.

"Well, unorthodox measures are our MO," Peter quipped. "Thank you for your time, we'll be in touch."

The driver nodded. "Not sure what good it'll do, but I hope it helps."

So do I, Olivia thought. So do I.

. . . . .

They had just parked the SUV and were crossing the quad into the Kresge building's basement. The familiar polished floors echoed with their footsteps, amplifying their voices in the hollow of the empty hallway.

"It's weird," said Peter, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Which part?"

"All of it, I guess. Three victims, all linked to some psycho with a penchant for blondes and retro clothing. Though compared to the old-man-baby case, this one's relatively tame," Peter admitted.

"He's out there. Waiting for us to find him."

"What makes you so sure it's a he?"

"Statistics," Olivia replied bluntly. "Most serial killers are male, with some kind of common denominator. Ted Bundy for instance exclusively targeted tall college-age girls with long, dark hair. Though rarer there are female unsubs, but they tend to commit crimes of obsession, not passion."

"I'm not so sold he is a killer." Peter gave a 'let me explain' gesture as he held the corridor door open for Olivia and her questioning eyebrow. "The first victim's coroner report lists cause of death as unknown. Second Jane Doe died of an aneurysm, but otherwise was in perfect health. The bruising found on the current Jane Doe was too evenly distributed to be caused by human hands or weapons. The exposure was recent in the last twenty four hours, judging by the state of the varnish on the acrylic nails. And no, I'm not gay," he clarified, "I have a buddy who owns a nail parlor."

"So you're saying, what?"

"Maybe they weren't outright attacked, or even had intent to be killed. Maybe they were meant to be kept captive for a long time."

"So something changed, they saw their chance and escaped," Olivia voiced aloud, seeing where he was going. "Maybe she was running away and she was hit by a car. Car accident victims have similar bruising from impact. Or." Olivia tilted her head, thinking. "The driver said he found her soaking wet. She sees her chance and runs away, and jumps into the ocean. She hits the water, boom, bruised all over from the impact."

"Would have to be a high point for all of that damage. The wharf has storage units galore, but nothing with the requisite height for impact like that."

Who were you running from, Olivia thought, and she pushed through the double doors, out and into the lab.

To all appearances, it was a typical university-grade laboratory: glassware of beakers and chemistry apparati lined work tables; standard forensics kits could be found in the main space, next to a metal examination table and computer console with all kinds of wires and retro-grade tech; bottles of chemicals were more or less organized in cabinets and under sinks; microscopes and slide specimens waited to be prepared, Petri dishes and glove boxes neatly stacked for ready use. But while the dated analog tools were commonplace, the details were anything but: a large metal deprivation tank took up a chunk of the floor space; in the corner a gentle moo sounded from Gene, chewing her cud in her stall corner, fresh milk in a pail; an old family piano was tucked by the stairwell, rails leading to the next platform, a storage area for old computers and extra equipment; a record player took its place among theoretical physics texts and cookbooks alike lay next to storage boxes full of vinyl records. With its dusty smell, retro vibe and occasional moo, it was an unusual place, to be sure. Nevertheless, in it she felt more at home than in her own brownstone apartment.

Music permeated the air. A vinyl was playing in the old Crosley, Billie Holliday's voice recognizable. Snippets of Dr. Bishop's bass could be heard from across the room. He was in his office, a room notoriously vacant. "A man of science should be out there, in the doing," he would often say.

Charlie was waiting on the top tier, looking out into space. Not the daydreamer type, Olivia knew he must have had some news. The hard lines from years in the service were softened when he saw his fellow agent and friend, snapping out of his thoughts. He nodded, not mincing words. "Any leads?"

"Nothing too large," Olivia admitted, "but it's a start. You?"

"I questioned the Jane Doe at the hospital, Livvy," Charlie's gruff voice turned grave. "We got nothin'. Either she's a really good actor, or she really doesn't remember who she was or what she did."

"You did your best," Olivia replied, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice.

"Doc has some ideas," Charlie reassured her, as if reading her mind. "Don't know what you told him, but he seemed pretty inspired by it, he's been rummaging through boxes all morning. And. . .singing."

"I'd like to say that's abnormal, but that wouldn't be close to the truth," Peter added drily. He unbuttoned his coat, folding it across the back of a desk chair at his work table. Alongside the usual tools was the mystery device from Broyles. Charlie motioned to it. "Any luck with that thing?"

"The outer shell is an alloy I'm not familiar with, it took quite a bit of time soldering through, so I haven't had a chance to get a proper look at it, but I will. It's curious, though." Using a minute set of forceps, he held the device aloft. "Right there." Peter read the agents' matching blank expressions. "The internal engineering is sophisticated, but not perfect," he explained.

"Which means?"

"Human error breeds specificity," he explained. "This was handcrafted, not machine made. Which means – "

" – it can be tracked down," Olivia finished.

"Bingo. Ten points for Gryffindor." Both Olivia and Charlie looked nonplussed. Peter deflated a bit. "Really? Never read the books? My gosh, what even was your childhood."

Charlie frowned, circling back on topic, ever the professional. "The analysts came back with a negative report. There's been no trace found so far. Not even with our contacts in the Manhattan mafia."

"Just Manhattan, huh." Peter made like he might continue, but stopped himself. Olivia would have pressed him, but a crash and small outcry from Dr. Bishop's office called his attention. "No cause for worry, the jar of Brown Betty is undamaged," came Dr. Bishop's voice.

Charlie cocked an eyebrow, to which Olivia shrugged.

"Please don't be a severed head in a jar," Peter muttered. He gave a look that said 'be back in a minute' and went to check his father's office.

"Ah, Peter!" Came Dr. Bishop's voice. "Just in time for a smoke break. Don't tell Agent Francis, he's a bit of a prude, and Betty is a limited blend. Such a shame marijuana is a much-neglected avenue of modern medicine. . ."

"First time anybody's called me that," Charlie muttered. "Listen Liv, I gotta run back to New York. There's a case I'm consulting on, but I'll be back in a few. Keep the Bishop boys outta trouble?"

"Easier said than done."

"Keep yourself outta trouble, then."

"You know me."

The seasoned agent flashed a rare lop-sided grin. "Yeah, that's why I'm sayin' it."

. . . . .

The late autumnal afternoon light was low. The wind from outside beat on the high bay windows, vibrating the panes as it howled on by.

Olivia shivered. Follow-ups had proceeded without anything out of the ordinary, with nothing much to show for it. While the Bishops worked on various chemistry compounds ("You'll find out soon enough," Dr. Bishop hinted) Olivia pored over every inch of shore from Massachusetts to Maine. Tides and charts were pulled up on tabs on her laptop, cross-checked with recent calendars. So far the possible tides ran all the way south to the Florida keys. She sighed, frustrated with the vagueness of information. So when she received the call from the hospital releasing Jane Doe for visitors, she was more than anxious to find out anything she could. Peter volunteered to come, citing needing a break to stretch his legs.

"It's so close," Peter pressed. "We may as well walk."

The trees lining the walkways between the university campuses were bright with blood-red leaves. The crunch underfoot was a reminder of how quickly the weather could turn.

"Plus, we're running low on red vines," Peter added. "The kiosk on the quad corner is one of the only modern candy selections that actually keeps them. My theory is Walter paid off the freshman to stock them. But the results are inconclusive."

"Maybe your barista friend had a say," Olivia added with nonchalance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Peter flush ever so little.

"You saw that, huh?"

"Me and, oh, about fifty freshmen behind you waiting for their morning coffee," she joked, letting him see her amusement. He rolled his eyes.

"She said I looked like an actor from some old 90's tv show, so she gave me her number. Despite my dashing good looks and obvious charm, I don't think Hollywood or co-eds are on my horizon."

Peter veered left, opting for a narrow path winding out of the main walkway. It curved around the main campus, out into a hedged walkway. It was a hidden nook, the path covered with berry brambles and honeysuckles. Soon the hedges flattened out, revealing a little park of gardened trees circling a pond. The pair slowed their pace, following the rim of the water's edge.

"Off the beaten path is an understatement," Olivia commented out loud. The pocket of manicured park was small, though lovely. "I never knew this was here."

"Boston General's best kept secret."

"You came here often." It wasn't a question, more of a comment. Olivia knew Peter had some illness as a child.

"My parents would take me walking here every day, until we moved permanently to our lake house." Canada geese honked at each other, gliding in perfect grace on the glassy water. They watched for a bit. It was peaceful, and still. "Out of the many things that do change, this hasn't. This is exactly how I remember it."

"Not many things are like that."

"No," he responded softly, "they're not."

So that's why he wanted to walk. The last time he was here, Olivia deduced, his father was certifiably sane, and his mother was alive. How quickly the seasons change. They walked in silence, each in their own thoughts. Coming to the end of the pond, they followed the thin trail out of the enclosing foliage, back and out into the rest of the loud and busy hospital grounds.

The door to room 215 was already open and waiting. The girl known as Jane Doe was sitting on the hospital bed. She was clothed in a loose pair of scrubs, her bandaged feet idly swinging in the air. She stopped when she saw the pair approach the doorway.

"I'm Special Agent Olivia Dunham, and this is Peter Bishop, consulting on the case."

The girl didn't move a muscle, though not out of fear. She studied the adults before her with a wary eye. "When they said FBI, I totally thought some big serious cop-looking-dude in sunglasses. You're a lot different. More, dunno, more pretty and blonde, I guess."

"Ya know, I thought the same when I met her, too," Peter responded. "But let's just say there's a reason she carries the gun." Beneath the dig was a sincere compliment, one Olivia, for the moment, ignored. She approached the girl, her concerned brow showing her genuine compassion.

"You're looking a lot better," she remarked. It was true. The bruises on her face and body had gone down, the color returning to a normal shade of peach tinged with fading purple. The girl was already looking worlds better than before, an exact comment given by Peter.

"Hospital jello works wonders," the girl replied with a shrug.

"Oh yeah? Lime green is my personal medicine," Peter added. He pulled up a nearby chair, as a long-time friend would, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "But you look more like a tangerine orange kinda gal."

"Puh-leeze, it's all about the cherry red. I may have amnesia, but I'm not totally crazy. I do feel better though," the girl admitted, going back to swinging her legs in restlessness. "The nurses let me borrow some clothes so I could wheel around the hallways." She pointed to a nearby wheelchair. "There's security downstairs, though. To make sure I don't run away. As if I had somewhere to go." She laughed, a rueful and jaded one devoid of mirth, which was odd in contrast to how young she looked.

"We might have a way to help that."

The girl paused, mid-swing. "I thought the FBI investigates crime stuff."

"Our division of the FBI investigates the. . .unusual. We tend to think outside the box," said Olivia. "There are a few scientific procedures we can try to see if we can jog your memory."

"Procedures. Like experiments?"

"Hypotheses in action, technically," Peter added.

"And you think these experiments might help?"

"Depending on what information we find, you may help solve the cases of girls past, as well as help prevent crimes of other girls in the future," Olivia elaborated.

"But we'll never know if we don't try," said Peter bluntly.

The girl thought a minute. She took a deep breath. "To be honest, when they told me my memory may not come back, I was almost relieved. I mean, whatever happened to me must have been awful. 'Maybe it's better she doesn't know,' I heard the nurses say." The girl shook her head, as if resolving something in her head and heart. "I know things like 2x4, the presidents of the United States in chronological order – heck, I even remember how to read. But I – I want to know more. The stuff that matters, the stuff that makes me me – Where I come from, what I've been through, who I am – to know that, I would do whatever it takes."

"That's pretty brave."

"Or pretty stupid," the girl conceded.

"Well, debate all you want, but I'm siding with 'brave' on this. Tell ya what: I promise I will do my best to get you home. If anything makes you nervous at all, we'll dip. I know a good ice cream parlor right around the corner we could hide out in. Assuming of course, the FBI blonde bombshell is on board." Peter chanced a glance backward at his partner.

"As long as they have cookies 'n cream," Olivia quipped.

The girl made a genuine smile. She almost wanted to roll her eyes when Peter held out a pinky finger, but could tell the earnestness in the juvenile gesture. She held out her pinky in kind. "Deal."

"Now. Whadda ya say we get outta here and take a walk in the park?"

"To that I say: hell yeah."

In one movement he lifted her off the bed, setting her gently in the wheelchair seat, with all the good manners and effectiveness combined of a professional valet.

Though overcast, the colorful trees offered a vast reprieve from the stuffy confines of the hospital wing. With Peter as self-appointed tour guide, taking his time to show the girl the prettier parts of gardens lining the university entrance, narrating things like Harvard historical facts and why one ice cream parlor was the best in Cambridge. Unsurprisingly, the girl had many questions, ones her avid tour guide answered with humor. They chatted all the way back to the lab, their sarcasm and quips oddly alike. Smalltalk in general was not Olivia's MO, but Peter never seemed to tire of talking to anyone, and the girl in kind had plenty to ask and say. In this case, he and the girl were as familiar and comfortable as two faroff friends who hadn't seen each other in a long while. He's one of those annoying people who can enter a room full of strangers and end up as friends, Olivia thought. And, though outside of her own range of interpersonal skills, it was one of her partner's annoying traits that was impossible to actually dislike in earnest.

Dr. Bishop was warm and welcoming to the girl, whom he considered and called a guest. He placed two circular white probes high on her chest, two others on her temple. A sensor he clipped on to the tip of a finger, its corresponding EKG beeping on the nearby computer screen.

"What's this for?"

"Monitoring vitals. So I can monitor the ride's effects," said Peter.

"Dose, like drugs?" Though the girl's sounded more curious than afraid.

Dr. Bishop chuckled. "Oh, drugs are merely incentives to open the limitations we place in our own minds."

"With that sentiment in mind — and as per Agent Dunham's request — no illicit drugs could be used on you. However, this," Peter held up a vial, its contents an eerie lilac. "Is dopamine. It's the body's naturally occurring drug. In case studies, doses were used as stimuli to boost memory recall. Think of it like a jumpstart to a car battery."

"Indeed," agreed Dr. Bishop. "This particular experiment will focus on olfactory stimuli with its correlative subconscious and physiological responses."

The girl blinked at the doctor's response. "No offense, but like, in English, that means. . ?"

"Your 'sense of smell' ," Peter translated.

"Scent therapy has been found useful in several cases of memory care patients with dementia and memory trauma," Dr. Bishop went on.

"All with that purple juice and a computer? That seems pretty cool."

"It is pretty cool," Peter agreed, with a wink.

"And that will fix my memory? Then I'll know who I am?" She looked from father to son, to the federal agent observing on a nearby stool.

"The mind is a bit like a treasure chest," Dr. Bishop explained, a paternal note in his voice. "Your memories are locked inside. The idea is the stimuli will trigger the subconscious to make a key — each scent a different key — thus unlocking the memories inside and opening them to the outside world, or in this case your consciousness. The dopamine amplifies the effect."

"That's pretty cool."

"Science is the coolest thing of them all," Dr. Bishop agreed, with more than a bit of glee. He cleared his throat, becoming serious again. "This will feel a little cold." The old doctor's practiced hands pushed the vial, its lilac fluid dissipating into the bag of saline. The girl shivered, and even before she exhaled, Olivia had tucked her own suit jacket around the girl's shoulders. 'Thank you,' she mouthed.

Peter's eyes were glued on the computer monitor. He nodded to his father. "BP 109/70, pulse 87 beats per minute. Brain waves coming through are within normal length range. It's a go."

Walter nodded. "Now, young lady, we have a blindfold. To focus your perception. Olivia, if you would be so kind as to tie it for her."

Dr. Bishop made his way to a cart alongside the examination table. On it were various test tubes of the wildest colors on racks, each with a cork stopper. Using long metal forceps, Walter guided the beaker close to the girl, gently wafting the removed cork. The scent of pine sap filled the air. "What does this scent make you think of?"

The girl wrinkled her nose. "Nothing. Is that bad?"

"Not at all. Not every scent will mean something to you. Our goal is merely to try the generic keys and see which one fits the specific lock. What about this?"

They went through a few test tubes this way, with Dr. Bishop asking her to describe what came to mind. Nothing, she replied again and again, each time with more disappointment. It wasn't until the scent of lavender wafted in.

"Laundry day."

"What was that?"

"Laundry day." The girl repeated, excited. "We did the laundry every Thursday at the corner laundromat, and the detergent smelled like this, like a field of flowers." Even with the blindfold, she looked confused. "How did I know that. I didn't know that yesterday, or even five minutes ago."

"You did. Only now you know in your conscious mind," Dr. Bishop affirmed.

"Who is 'we?' " Olivia asked.

"I – I don't know. The image, the memory, it's gone now."

"Hm, I see." Dr. Bishop thumbed through several vials, pulling out the one he was searching for. "Try this." He wafted the contents. It was like warm, fresh bread.

The girl was still blindfolded, but through it she could hear the paternal, gentle voice of the doctor. "Breathe it in, let your mind take it in. Now, tell me what you see."

The girl concentrated. "It's her hair. She would braid her hair when she baked, or tie it up in a yellow bandana. She would bake, and put the buns in the oven. She's opened the window, to let out the heat. The air is hot, it's summer outside, so we let in the breeze."

"Focus on the window. Can you see where you are?"

"There's barely a yard. Tufts of grass, bare patches of dirt."

"Is it in the country? Are there other houses?"

"Definitely not rural, there's not much of any land. Lots of houses. Apartments, really, everywhere, across the streets. Crumbling bricks. A metal fence, tall spikes."

Olivia and Peter exchanged glances. From the description, that could be any inner city description from anywhere.

"Do you see any street signs anywhere?" Olivia probed. "Any names at all? From shops or restaurants?"

"None of those things. There's a big wooden fence, some broken pieces. I can't see through it. There's a pointy thing though, over the fence. Something in the sky.

"Could you draw it for us?" Peter turned a fresh leaf in a notebook, handing it to the girl. With a lended marker, she sketched. The rendering was more Picasso than Monet, but it was something.

Olivia squinted at the image. "I know that shape."

"A state building?"

"No, it's a church." She searched an image on her phone, flashing it to the others. "The First United Church of Boston." Sure enough the amateur drawing had details of a bell tower and outlined shape identical to the photo. Peter inhaled in recognition.

"That's in downtown Quincy." The weight of that sank in. The impoverished quarter was not a thirty minute drive from their current location. A missing girl in their own backyard, and they never even knew.

"That's right, the church," the girl went on. "The pastor would say hello to us every Sunday, and give my sister part of the donation. Oh my god, my sister, that's who she is." The girl's voice stopped, overcome. "I have a sister," she repeated softly to herself, in disbelief.

"Do you know her name?" Olivia asked.

"No," the girl replied, crushed. "No, I don't. It — it's gone."

"We can take a break now, if you like," the old doctor offered kindly. "You must be tired."

"No!" The girl's voice was fierce. "I'm not tired, not now. I have to know more."

"Walter." Peter's voice was casual, but in a forced way. "Take a look at these delta waves." He pointed to printouts on paper. Most needle points scratched away, like seismographs among constant agitation. A few lines continued straight, reading nothing. Dr. Bishop frowned. "I see."

"See what?"

"Delta waves are a kind of brain wave, concerning deep sleep and memory. Yours are not transmitting."

"Which means they may not be functioning correctly," Peter explained with reluctance.

"So you're saying, what. I have brain damage."

"Possibly," Dr. Bishop admitted. "Though I haven't seen the MRI, so it's not a certainty. Otherwise augmentation is a viable option."

"What do you mean?" Olivia asked, though she had an idea.

"He means upping the dosage on the dopamine," Peter translated, confirming Olivia's guess. "BP is up to 130/95. Not necessarily a problem, but there is potential for distress if adrenaline gets involved."

"It might give her a longer window of clarity."

"Might isn't a certainty."

"That's why it's an experiment, son."

"She's not a Guinea pig or a frog in formaldehyde, she's a human girl."

"I can take it," the girl pleaded. She pulled off her blindfold, locking eyes with Peter. "Please. You promised."

"Liv?"

Peter's gentle call was plaintive. With one for and one against, Olivia would be the tiebreaker. At that moment she missed Astrid. How she kept so calm and cheerful in a lab of bickering Bishops, she would never know. Olivia respected both men's intellect and experience for different reasons, but this decision wasn't about them, not even her: it was about the girl. It was about bringing her home, as well as the nameless girls before her. And their violated blood was begging for justice.

"Do it. But if she hits systolic over 150, we cut her loose."

"Diazepam would lower it considerably in a pinch."

Peter frowned. "That stuff's still legal?"

"At most mental institutions, yes."

"Well that's comforting," Peter muttered.

With experienced hands, Dr. Bishop prepared a syringe, placing it near the computer. With the gravity of accountability Olivia nodded to Dr. Bishop, who crossed the room. A scratch brought the turntable to life. "Alternate stimulus it is. Peter, please administer 5ccs of dopamine."

Thumbing through vinyls, he very carefully pulled out a certain one, blowing the dust off the disc. After a moment, a bluesy melody could be heard.

Blue Moon

I saw you standin' alone

Without a dream in my heart. . .

"The man who found you said you were repeating this song."

"I don't recognize it."

You knew just what I was there for

You heard me saying a prayer for

Someone I really could care for. . .

"Your conscious mind may not, but the subconscious knows much we do not yet realize."

Everyone in the room waited. The lilac tendrils of the liquid disappeared like a shadow in the saline.

"BP is spiking."

"Give it a moment."

The girl's face immediately flushed, breaking out into a cold sweat.

"140 systolic and climbing. We gotta bail," came Peter's terse voice over the beeping alarm of the EKG readout.

"We still have time," repeated Dr. Bishop.

"Walter, I'm shutting it down— "

"Peter, don't — "

"I know this song." The girl's voice was soft, but it cut through the lab like a knife. Her eyes seemed to be looking at something in the distance, rather than at the others nearby. "It was playing at the dock, the last time I saw him. It was just after the game, he still had his football jersey on, the blue and yellow bright in the dark night."

"Who? Who was with you?" Olivia's voice was gentle, but urgent.

"Wonder Boy." The answer was enigmatic, one the girl herself didn't quite understand. "Everyone in town was out celebrating at the diner, but not us. We were at the pier. I knew it was our only chance, our one time. If we jumped, we could make the last ferry. The moon wasn't out, so no one would see us swimming the creek."

"He's coming. They're going to kill us all, starting with you." The girl's eyes fluttered shut, opening to wide awareness of Olivia's staring gaze.

"It's okay, you're safe now," Olivia reassured her.

But the girl gave the agent an odd look. "Where am I?"

"You're in our lab at Harvard university," came Peter's voice. "Don't you remember?" The girl didn't seem to notice him at all until he spoke.

When she did, the reaction was instantaneous.

She flinched, visibly, as if slapped. All color drained from her face, trembling, her pupils dilated. "Please," she pleaded, her voice quavering. "Please, let me go."

That whisper seemed to echo off the lab walls. Peter froze, holding his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "It's okay."

"Get away from me!" The girl searched wildly for an exit, hyperventilating. Olivia tried calming her, tried holding her down, but the girl fought with a strength impossible for her slight size. Peter rushed to help hold her, the girl only becoming more wild at his close advance. She looked directly at Peter. "I don't know how you found me, but you'll never take me again. So kill me if that's what you want, I am never going back."

With one swift movement, the girl's slim fist grabbed hold of the first thing she saw — a syringe. Olivia cried out, realizing with gravity the escalation of the situation. The girl's eyes were wild now, like an animal cornered, prepared to fight for its life. She lifted her thin arm, seeking the final plunge in any and all that were her assailants.

Before she could, she froze, slumping over. Dr. Bishop appeared from behind, another syringe of Diazepam in his quick and efficient hand.

"A little diazepam goes a long way," was all he said.

Peter rested the girl's slight figure, laying her gently on the cold metal of the examination table. Her crystalline eyes fluttered, fighting to stay awake. Amid the cacophony of EKG alarms and Olivia calling for an ambulance into her phone, Peter watched the life drain from those once placid eyes, the ones watching him firmly with utter and undeniable fear.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Olivia set down her reading glasses, rubbing her temples. It had been a long seventy-two hours, with still no end in sight. The Jane Doe dossier was open on the polished walnut desk, along with her laptop and several books. She looked at the clock. 2:08am, the digital interface read. After what happened at the lab earlier, she should be exhausted, more than ready for sleep, in fact. The girl was taken back to Boston General by ambulance. She was told her mental condition stabilized, but the doctors were not allowing them visitation rights, notwithstanding the vehement attempted persuasions by Broyles. He was kind about it, citing how not every situation could be guaranteed a success. He recommended she go and sleep on it. But like some movie, she kept replaying the events that led up to its abrupt finishing act.

Then, there was Peter.

Since the incident at the lab, there was no trace of him. After the ambulance loaded the girl's prone form, she asked him if he was okay. He didn't answer. But he didn't have to; she could tell from his drawn and pale expression. Before she or his father turned around, he was up the stairs and out the double doors. So she left him alone, gave him some space. Helped clean up the lab. Then gave him a quick call on his cell. A ringtone was heard from his desk, where they found his phone, abandoned. In her head, she noted what wasn't left behind — the device, missing from its place on Peter's work table.

Dr. Bishop was despondent at best, and Olivia did her best to console him. "He'll come home, just you wait." But almost twelve hours later, there was still no trace of him.

He'll come back, she told herself. If not, well. A missing persons case couldn't be filed until a full twenty-four hours had passed, with only twelve more to go. What would she even say to the police: Hi, I'm FBI, and I can't track down my partner after he voluntarily bolted from a lab experiment gone awry? That sounded lame, even to her.

She slammed the dossier shut. Sitting by and doing nothing was not her style.

The worn running shoes hit the pavement in a soft rhythm. The black sports jacket she zipped up to her neck, the rope of her golden-haired ponytail trailing down her back, swishing side to side with every stride. Life in the suit required long and unexpected hours, so she hadn't had time for the half-marathons she was used to training for. But on nights like this, nights when too many questions were building up with not enough answers, running was like a pressure release valve, freeing the steam. It was simple; while she may not know where to go with the answers she didn't have, she did know how to put one foot in front of the other. That, she could do.

She turned a hard left, running parallel to the Charles River. The lines of brownstones had long since faded away, the poorer projects now a labyrinth of alleyways and cheap motels. The streets were dimly lit, garbage bags seeping unmentionable smells between the dripping fire escapes. Loitering men with furtive looks stared as she passed, a few hiding paraphernalia under their hoodies, with more not even bothering. Bodies lay prone in dirty gutters. Muggings, even shootings were not unheard of in this quarter, and as a female at night, she was more at risk as another victim in an ever-lengthening list. For the moment though, she didn't care. She almost welcomed the chance to see some action, to pin some nameless thug to the ground in a jujitsu submission, maybe lock another degenerate sleazebag behind bars. Then at least she would be doing something. As if reading her mind nobody dared talk to her, with the exception of intermittent leers.

The night air was cooling. She didn't have an exact course, but found herself crossing the Charles, the suspension bridge sturdy and unyielding. The warm lights of Cambridge soon greeted her, the campus lamps of Harvard small, yet visible in the cold dark. Her breath steamed in the chilly air, exhaling in billowing clouds of what looked like dragon's smoke. What was once Harvard yard teeming with students and energy was now empty, leaves crunching underfoot, now echoing in the swallowing stillness.

But not all was still. Olivia paused, making sure she wasn't mistaking things in the dim lamplight. She thought she saw movement in the Kresge building's lower level, what would have been the long corridor leading to the basement lab. She slowed to a jog, getting closer for a better look. There was light, a beam, as if from a flashlight. A security guard, most likely, making his rounds. A possibility, for sure.

And yet.

The hairs on the back of her neck raised, tingling at the base of her skull. She would get those feelings sometimes, starting from her neck, then spreading to her heart, which beat thick with adrenaline. She slowed her pace, crouching at the double-door entrance. It was still open, the latch not quite catching shut. With all the stealth she could muster, she slipped into the deserted corridor.

It was quiet, its length seemingly undisturbed. Inside, however, Olivia was turbulent with anticipation. She was keyed up, ultra aware of every slight sound: the stick of her shoe soles on the polished linoleum, the rush of air from the air conditioning vents. Someone down the unseen end of the hall was jiggling a doorknob. And with the lab the only room on this level, there was no question as to which.

Her pulse quickened. The slightest of smiles tugged at the corners of her mouth. Finally, she thought.

Finally, some action.