Clayton stood in the warmth of the morning sun, letting the golden glow touch his pale skin. Aptly, he bent, pulling a coat from the floor and draping it over his bared back. It was quite big on him, but he wasn't bothered with it right then. He stole a glance behind him toward the bed where a corpulent man slept.

Finding the detective's superiors wasn't hard, and neither were the fast moves he'd pulled on the man to get him in this situation in the first place. His night had been quite dull, actually. The man wasn't very adventurous, to say the least. Clayton could only imagine the dissatisfaction of his wife.

He padded his way through the house, wearing the man's coat like a large robe, and finding his way to the office. The door, locked, was quickly unlocked with a wave of his hand. As he pushed his way inside, he searched for a light switch, as the office was nearly pitch black inside. Not a window in sight. Clayton shook his head as he flicked on the lights. He preferred a little more ambiance in his places of work. This was just drab.

He walked to the desk, opening one of the top drawers. Delighted in his find, he pulled out a cigar and quickly lit it with a flick of his thumb. He puffed on it for a moment, welcoming the tobacco eagerly. With a sigh, he returned to his search, rummaging through desk drawers and file cabinets until he found his prize. A sly smile crept up his mouth, smoke curling out from between his lips as he opened the file and perused its contents.

"Bingo," he sneered.

He seated himself upon the desk as he continued to look over the file, picking up the phone receiver and twirling his finger around the dial. It only rang once.

"Luke! I have good news for you, darlin'. Meet me at the hospital in an hour?"

Luke walked, flipping through pages of reports and statements, everything contained within the file that Clayton had just handed him. Cooter was at his side, trying to read over his shoulder but stumbling.

Clayton walked airily, coat draped over his arm, waistcoat unbuttoned, tie undone. He still had his hat, of course. It seemed as though he'd dressed hastily.

Luke grinned softly, looking over the contents of the file once more. "Clayton, this's amazin'! Gotta be your best work yet… I don't wanna know how you did it."

Clayton shrugged, trying to straighten his tie and stifling a yawn.

"Rough night last night?" Cooter asked.

Clayton rolled his eyes and groaned. "Hardly. In fact, it was quite uneventful. The man's not very adventurous in bed, I'll have you know."

At this, Luke looked up, brow furrowed. "Clayton."

Clayton looked at him. "Oui, monsieur?"

"Please… please don't tell me you slept with the detective."

Clayton scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I didn't sleep with the detective!"

Luke let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God."

"I slept with his boss."

Luke and Cooter exchanged a silent glance.

"You slept…" Luke said.

Clayton blinked.

"With his boss…"

Clayton nodded. "Yes." He was met with two blue, dumbfound gazes. He tapped his cheek, face twisting in a bit of confusion. "Oh, was that not the right thing to do?"

Luke sighed, shaking his head. "Just… forget it, alright?"

Cooter grabbed the folder from Luke, something he found himself doing quite often as of late. Inside were a few details about the murders, but mostly details about the detective working on them. One Detective Don Tollefson of thirty-five years seniority. He was effective, to say the least. He had one of the best cases-cracked records in his unit. Reportedly, he also had good public relations. His forte was dealing with civilian consultants. He didn't do partners.

He'd been assigned this case by his superiors, who, Cooter was guessing, Clayton had 'set right.' In any case, this was supposed to be his final case before retirement, his grand finale. And Clayton had so expertly convinced his superiors to take him off it and turn it over to…

"Who's Carl Perkins?" Cooter asked.

"That, my dear mechanic," Clayton replied, taking the folder from him and closing it, "would be my alter-ego."

"Wait, wait, you put yourself down as the lead detective of the case? D'you even know what you're doin'?" Luke asked critically.

"Carl's no detective, he's a prosecutor. A lawyer. He's going to put Ridgefield away for good."

"You even know the first thing about bein' a lawyer?" Cooter asked skeptically.

"Course I do, I'm the Devil. That, and I may have a touch of experience."

"Clayton, you don't know what you're gettin' into, I mean, you're gonna try to prosecute a murderer in federal court as an amateur lawyer, are you outta your mind?"

"I can act like a lawyer well enough."

"Actin' and doin' are two very different things. You'd get Allen acquitted in a second!"

Clayton raised an eyebrow. "You think you could do better?"

"I'm sayin' you should just leave well enough alone."

"And surpass the opportunity to damn a killer to mortal Hell? Absolutely not."

"What about regular Hell?" Cooter asked with a smirk.

"Don't worry, there's a special place for him down there." Clayton rubbed his hands together. "In the meantime, I suppose I should brush up on my lawyering. I could do with a little refresher."

That said, the little man walked away, leaving Cooter and Luke to exchange glances.

Bo found himself with the natural urge to defy the orders of his doctor and get out of bed. He had to use the bathroom anyway.

It was a rough and tedious process, but he managed to get himself free of the blankets and turn so his legs hung over the side of the bed. He scooted down, putting weight on his right foot first, then his left, being reminded of the fact that he'd gotten his Achilles sliced in the woods. Apparently, Allen thought he'd run after being stabbed twelve times. Paranoid, but not very bright, it seemed.

He carefully pushed himself up, staggering a bit. The room started to spin, and he tried to shake the dizziness off, but it stayed. The numerous stitches that laced his skin seemed to be simultaneously tugging and stretching. He felt like he'd been bedridden for much too long. But standing alone felt like a chore. However, no matter how much he wanted to sit back down, he forced himself to stay up, trying to take a few steps. He struggled to put weight on his left side, staggering a bit, unbalanced. His leg buckled and in a second, the floor was rushing up to meet him.

He groaned and let out a sigh, rolling onto his side on the floor. It wasn't dirty, at least. In fact, it was cold and felt good on all the parts of him that were sore. He felt a lump in his throat and a couple of tears dropped from his eyes. He didn't really know exactly why he was crying, but it probably had something to do with the overwhelming sense of helplessness he felt.

Just then, he heard the door open, footsteps quickly crossing the room and coming to him. He looked up to see Luke dropping next to him, quickly grabbing him and hauling him back up to the bed.

"Hey, what're you doin'? You all right? Did you fall?"

Too many questions. Questions Bo wasn't in the mood for. He wiped his face and folded his arms, not making eye contact with Luke.

He felt small. He couldn't remember ever feeling small in his life. Small and helpless. Like a child. He hated it with a fiery passion. He had the sudden urge to hit Luke and he for the life of him couldn't understand why. He wanted to kick and scream and let loose all of the anger in him. But instead, he just stayed silent.

Luke bent down to look at him, trying to meet his gaze. "C'mon, will you at least look at me?"

Finally, Bo gave in, blue-eyed gaze flickering to his.

Luke sighed. "You'll rip your stitches out if you keep doin' stuff like this, Bo. You wanna give 'em an excuse to keep you longer?"

Bo didn't say anything and contemplated turning away again. He didn't want to talk. If he was being honest, he wanted to be alone. But those words of Clayton's kept running through his mind. "Don't push your loved ones away from you." The least he could do was listen to the man's advice.

"Look, I get it, you feel helpless, but you can't do this to yourself. You gotta be patient," Luke said.

Bo looked up at him, finally talking. "You don't understand, Luke."

"Then help me understand. Please!" He reached for his hand. "Just talk to me. You ain't talked to me at all."

Bo was quick to pull his hand out of his cousin's reach, bringing it up to his chest and covering it with his other. The fingers of his top hand moved absently. It was a guarded gesture. He didn't want to touch or be touched. Slowly, he shook his head, tearing his eyes away from Luke. His hands moved to rub up and down his arms. He could feel the tears coming back again.

"Please, just leave me alone, Luke. I don't wanna talk right now," he said.

Tentatively, he worked to lay back down, being mindful of the tugging stitches in his skin. He lay on his side, facing away from his cousin, hands still on his arms.

Luke, however, stood over him for a moment as he did this, just in case he needed something. However, that wasn't the only reason, of course. He supposed his main reason for lingering so long was the tapered sight of the boy's exposed back, framed by the edges of the hospital gown he wore. They were long, thin wounds cut into his skin, dark with dried blood.

Luke hadn't seen anything like that since Hollow Hill. And to say it lit a fire under him would be an understatement. Finally, he brought himself to turn away, walking back to the door and shutting it tight behind him once he was in the hall. Then, he stepped over to the bench that sat against the wall, sinking down onto it numbly.

His breath shook. He could feel his throat convulsing, trying to fight the burning lump in his throat. He stopped fighting it and doubled over, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. And there he stayed for a long time.

He felt numb as he walked out to the parking lot, almost immediately spotting the orange Charger sitting there. He could feel the rawness of his eyes and the weariness that plagued his face.

The car rumbled as he approached and climbed in through the window. "Hey, Luke, I'll drive you home, you don't look so good."

Luke shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Take me to the jail."

"Why?" the car asked skeptically. "You ain't guilty of somethin', are you?"

"Just take me there, alright?"

"Wait, you ain't goin' to confront Allen, are you? Luke, he's just your run-of-the-mill basket case, there's nothin' you can say or do that'll change things, you know this."

Luke nodded. "I know. But I need somethin' from him."

General rumbled again. "Yeah? And what's that? A eulogy?"

"An explanation."

It was evening when they rolled up to the courthouse. Luke walked in with his head low, making his way to the law office. Cletus was the only one there. He greeted him as he walked in.

"Hey, Luke, what brings you in today…" Cletus' voice trailed off as he saw Luke's face. "You all right? You're lookin' a little rough, there."

"I'm fine, Cletus," Luke replied quickly. "I need to talk to Ridgefield."

Cletus made an unsure noise. "Sheriff Rosco said not to allow him any visitors."

"This's different. I need him to tell me somethin'."

Another unsure noise. The deputy scratched the back of his head nervously. "Oh, I don't know, Luke."

"Just do this one thing for me, Cletus. Please?"

"Oh," Cletus groaned, "oh, alright… but you owe me for this one!"

Luke nodded and thanked him, moving to descend the jailhouse stairs. Content at the fact that Cletus didn't follow him, he entered the downstairs jail.

Ridgefield was standing in the farthest cell, seemingly staring intently at the opposite wall. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought, no doubt planning his escape. He looked up upon hearing Luke coming down the stairs and Luke met that sinister blue gaze of his. He, like everyone else he'd encountered that evening, seemed to immediately take in the rawness of his face. And he seemed to find this amusing.

Immediately, he straightened so he was looking down at him. Down on him. He smirked as Luke approached.

"Funny seeing you here. Figured you'd let me rot. What's changed? Don't feel like leaving anyone behind again?" the man asked.

Luke looked up at him beneath hooded lids, unable to speak, not that he had anything to say to that.

Allen sighed when Luke didn't give in to his snide remarks. "Well, aren't you just a sight for sore eyes?"

"I ain't the one in a jail cell, Allen," Luke growled.

Allen laughed. "Oh, it's good to see your sense of humor hasn't changed."

Luke shook his head. "Why, Allen?"

That sinister sneer, God, Luke could already see it in his eyes. "I just came to settle a little debt owed me. You know, I didn't appreciate being left for dead in the jungles of Vietnam."

"You can't blame me for that, I had to choose between one or many, I made the right choice. You woulda done the same thing."

"Would I? You were my best friend, Lucas, and you turned your back on me when I needed you, after everything I did for you, I saved your life! You took everything from me and all I've wanted to do for the last four years is make you pay."

Luke could smell the man's cigarette smoke and his cologne, an awful mixture of odors. "What'd you do to him?" The words hurt coming out and it felt as though his throat was collapsing in on itself.

Allen, who had been standing there for the past couple of minutes with a snide look on his face, scoffed with a glint in his eyes. That sinister sneer grew wider and a fire burned in his eyes as he drew closer, forehead touching the bars of his cell. "Come here and I'll tell you." The tone of his voice was sickening. "We just played a little game."

Luke scowled and lunged at him, taking a swing at him through the bars, however, Allen quickly jerked away, Luke just missing him.

Allen just chuckled. "I got myself a lawyer, you know. A good one too. With any luck, I'll be out of here within days."

"You can't do this," Luke growled. All he wanted was for Allen to take some responsibility. Was that too much to ask?

"Mm, can and I will. You know, that's just what that cousin of yours said to me."

Luke glared at him, as if his gaze would cause him to burst into flames.

Allen sighed despondently as he worked the top few buttons loose of his shirt. "You should be proud, Luke, he had a lot of fight in him."

Allen pulled back at his shirt collar, exposing his collarbone and chest, revealing red-purple scratches across his skin. Luke swallowed hard, studying the markings. It wasn't Bo's style. He liked to punch. It wasn't how he fought. It wasn't how he'd been taught to fight. This had been driven by a true act of desperation, fighting back out of pure instinct, nothing more. It sickened him, imagining his cousin trapped under this man-this monster-no one there to help him.

Allen chuckled again and pointed to his bandaged ear. "He did this to me too. Ripped it clean off, the savage little bastard."

That almost made him smile.

Allen sighed again, buttoning his shirt back up. "I have to pity the poor boy. He cried for you, you know. But you never came to rescue him. You weren't there when he needed you, just like you weren't there for me."

"Don't you dare try to blame this on me," Luke growled, jabbing a finger at him, his voice low.

"I've been blaming you. But, of course, that won't hold up in court."

Luke's face made a bit of a disgusted expression and he shook his head. Again, he asked. "What'd you do to him?"

Allen rolled his eyes, seemingly bored of the question. "I told you, I made him my playmate," he replied with a grin.

Luke shook his head again and Allen could already see that his chest was heavy with fear and worry. There were tears that threatened to flood his eyes. However, the only thing he could do for himself was stand there with his mind twisted in guilt and anger and fear. Those were only a few emotions, albeit the most dominant. There was also frustration, hurt, disappointment, and hate, but also reverence.

"Why'd you do it?" Luke asked. A fresh question with the same motivation.

That was the one thing he wanted, the only thing he came for: a reason.

"To get back at you, obviously. But, of course, it's much deeper than that, isn't it?" Allen scoffed and shook his head. "You were everything, Luke. You were my sergeant, my brother, my best friend. I loved you. But you threw all that away. And you left me to die. You know I could never forgive that."

"So I'm the reason you did this?" Luke asked, hoping to catch him in a lie or at least poke holes in his story.

Allen lowered his head to look directly at him, his expression more sincere now rather than sinister. "I expected more from the man I'd looked up to for so long."

And it was then Luke snapped. "Why are you tryin' to victimize yourself here? Look, I've made mistakes, alright? And I've owned up to 'em. But you won't take any responsibility for what you did. None of this was my fault, it was all you. I blame myself enough but I wouldn't expect you to understand that 'cause you're an apathetic psychopath. All I ask is that you take some damn responsibility but I know you won't do that. You're gonna try to get outta it any way you can."

"And can you really blame me?"

"Yeah, I really can. And y'know why? 'Cause at least I got enough integrity to own up to the things I did. I'd plead guilty if I was you."

"You don't know that. And if you think you're going to get me to plead guilty, you're out of your mind."

Luke glared at him again, fed up with this conversation. "I can't wait to see you hang for what you did. 'Cause, believe me, they'll find you guilty, Allen. You've had it."

Allen hummed and sneered. "That's what that old man said to me before I blew him away."

Luke shook his head and turned away from him, walking back to the stairs, and wondering why he'd even bothered to come here.

It was dark and cold. There was a weight on top of him, pinning him down. It was all so real and clear. Hands that touched his skin, slick with blood, holding him down. Just the memory of it made him sick. But this he could feel. And this felt real.

In an instant, he was jolting awake and scrambling out of the bed. He fell on his way to the bathroom, crawling the rest of the way there. He retched uncontrollably into the toilet for what seemed like hours. And even after he emptied his bowels, he could do nothing but sit there with his head in his hands.

This whole situation seemed hopeless. He was getting to the point where he wished Ridgefield had just killed him, or done a better job of it at least. This was no way to live. Confined to a hospital bed, barely able to move without causing pain to himself. Trying to heal himself of the scars that he knew wouldn't heal.

He brought a hand up, feeling the rough, fading scar on his cheek with his fingertips. At least some things would heal. He remembered never thinking it would. But it had anyway.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the opposite wall, folding his arms over his stomach. As he did, he was met with a sensation on his forearm, warm and wet. Quickly, he lifted his arm, finding it stained with blood. He'd torn some of his stitches in his haste to get to the bathroom, he deduced. An evil thought crossed his mind. One that included ripping the rest of them out just to watch himself bleed. But he refrained.

Nevertheless, he sat there, watching the red stain on the hospital gown slowly spread as blood seeped through. Another spell of dizziness hit him and he rested his head against the wall, closing his eyes. His mind began to wander.

He believed he was finally starting to understand Clayton. He understood why the man hissed and flinched every time he was touched. He understood why he was so guarded, like a dog protective of its food. He understood why he was crude and abrasive. Because now, he felt the same. He wanted to never be touched again, he wanted to guard himself closely so it didn't happen. He wanted to become aggressive, bite the hand that fed him, push everyone away. He understood why Clayton was alone.

There was a sinking in his stomach and a feeling of dread when he heard the door to his room open and hurried steps walking around. Looking around. Looking for him. Bo sighed, opening his eyes and looking up as Luke broke the threshold of the bathroom.

He definitely was worked up-worried, most likely. However, upon seeing blood, no words were spared. He quickly ran back out, yelling down the hall for a doctor, then ran back. He grabbed Bo, trying to pick him up, but the younger Duke pushed him away, immediately becoming aggravated.

"Don't touch me!" he growled.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd said something like that to Luke. Normally, even the smallest touch from his cousin meant comfort. Now it was met with hostility.

"Bo, stop, you need help!" Luke argued back.

He picked him up anyway, not paying mind to the nails scratching against his skin. Before Bo knew it, he was being dumped on a gurney and before he could even try to push himself back up, there was a needle going into the crook of his elbow. His mind went fuzzy.

And then, it was dark.