"They're on to us, thanks to Sweet Lucy here. Got to run one small errand and then I'll see to the kid myself."

"We don't get to play?" Vic was disappointed.

"Not this time. Hey, we still get paid! You can play with the next one. Too dangerous to keep her around here. Easier to move her if she's dead."

"Yeah all right," pouted Vic. "Next one, eh?"

"So you know what to do here, anyway."

"Yep," grinned Vic, and, at the appearance of a round-faced young woman in the doorway, "Everything come out okay, Candy?"

"Very funny," said Candy. She was dressed in shocking pink shorts, a shocking pink ribbed shell and a tie-dyed baby pink and green bolero jacket, with a baby pink bow in her short blonde hair and shocking-pink vinyl boots reaching halfway up her chubby calves. (Sam thought, irrationally, that if Al were a woman, this is how he... she... Al would dress.) She'd just come back from a toilet down the hall. Since they were in an abandoned factory, there was no working plumbing to speak up and the stench followed her somewhat. She'd also been unable to wash her hands. She seemed unconcerned. She grinned back at Vic.

"All right, I'll leave him in your capable hands, then. 'ta."

Sam, standing up against a thin wall, could hear aluminum clattering under Billy's feet as he departed. He turned his attention to the man and the woman who had just been ordered to kill him. "They know where we are," he tried. "You can't get away with this. They're on their way right now, in fact. If you want to deal with them you might want to have me alive as a hostage."

"Isn't he cute?" smirked Candy. "Do we get to play with him a bit before we off him?"

Sam said "I don't think so" and lunged toward the door but Vic tackled him and dropped him face-down on the grimy wooden floor. Candy stooped down beside them and grinned at Sam. As Vic held his arms tightly behind him she pulled a rolled-up grayish handkerchief from her jacket pocket and set it down. She stroked Sam's face with one grease-smeared hand.

"Guess not," she said "Don't worry. It'll all be over soon." She unrolled the hankie to reveal an ordinary yellow balloon bulging slightly with something other than air; a hypodermic needle; an age-darkened spoon, a little jar of water and a cigarette lighter.

"No," groaned Sam, and for a moment it seemed that his efforts might free him, but Vic pulled more tightly on his arms and Candy took off her jacket and wrapped it around his face, holding it there until he struggled not to escape but to breathe. When she removed the jacket he was gasping for air.

"Hurry," grumbled Vic, annoyed at having to sit on Sam for so long.

"Shut up," said Candy, mildly, preparing the shot. She poured a little water on the powdered mixture in the spoon; not all of it had come from the balloon. "You know what we give to rats like you, Luther? We give them rat poison, that's what."

Sam pushed his butt up as hard as he could, knocking Vic half off of him, then rolled into Candy, forcing her to drop the works.

"Damn!" she cried, but Sam was up and pulling at the door. Vic leapt at him without bothering to stand up but his grip just missed Sam's jeans as the scientist got the door open and escaped through it.

Sam ran down a catwalk-like hallway without walls and got halfway down the stairway at the end of it before hitting a broken step and tumbling the rest of the way down, landing hard on one shoulder and hitting his head on a piece of cinder block. Vic was on him before he had quite stopped seeing stars, and was hauling him back up the steps a second later. Not far down the catwalk he was able to struggle and was kneed for his trouble. He groaned and sank to the shaky floor.

"Hurry!" called Vic, and Candy came out with the hypo. Vic found a vein for her on Sam's arm and slapped it a few times to bring it up clearly.

"I hope it hurts," said Candy, injecting into the vein what was left of the mixture Sam had spilled. Sam gasped as the heroin hit him, and went limp. He barely felt the needle being roughly withdrawn from his arm. His eyes rolled back, and then he managed to focus somewhat on the sight of his two tormentors moving very fast indeed away from him. The effect was a bit filmic, and he was trying to think of which film it recalled when something zoomed in very close, momentarily frightening him. It was Ray's face.

"Easy, easy," said Ray, who didn't feel easy at all. "Breathe."

Sam breathed, groaned, breathed again. He was glad to see Ray. "Find me," he said. It didn't sound like a question but Ray understood.

"Your Al," he said. "The address you gave me."

"Oh," said Sam, drifting off a little.

"Stay with me, Lu... Sam." Ray held his face, shook him a little. "Stay with me. You can do it. They spilled most of it."

Sam made an effort and focused on Ray, then on his surroundings. Ray had brought him (carried him in his arms, in fact) to a much larger room than the one to which Billy and Vic had taken him, not an office but a storeroom or broken-down production room, it was hard to tell which. To his shock Sam saw a little girl sitting quietly behind Ray. "Oh my God," he whispered. Ray smiled.

"She's all right," he said. "Relatively speaking, of course." He turned to the little girl and put an arm protectively around her. "Let me show him darling, okay?" The little girl nodded. "This is Betsy," said Ray. "Look at what someone did to Betsy." He lifted up the hair at the nape of her neck and showed Sam. Sam closed his eyes, feeling ill again. "Now all three of us are going to get out of here even if we have to swim home, and everything is going to be just fine."

"Oh that's not going to happen," said Billy, pointing a much smaller gun than Vic's at Doyle from the doorway. "Stand up." He ignored Sam completely. Doyle stood. "Come here." Doyle approached. "That's close enough." Doyle stopped. "Turn around." Doyle turned. "Your hands." Doyle made as if to put his hands behind his back, then spun and kicked the gun out of Billy's hand. There was some kind of orange grease on the floor, though, and Doyle, kicking, slipped, and Billy had the gun again in a flash. Instead of using it, he kicked Doyle back, first in the chest and stomach, then in the small of his back. Doyle shrieked each time. Billy liked that and found new places to kick. When he'd had his little revenge, he rolled Doyle over onto his face, tied the groaning agent's hands behind his back with a small bit of rough cord, and then, as an afterthought, kicked him in the butt, sending him sprawling. "Nice friends you've got, Sweet Lucy," he said, without looking at his brother. "Not churchgoers though I'm afraid. Not believers."

Sam had watched this in a horrified haze. He thought he might be dying and was surprised at how much anguish he felt at each of Ray's cries and groans. Shouldn't he be beyond caring? Wasn't death all-engaging? Ray's voice brought him back, somehow. All of their previous animosity was unimportant; only Ray's pain was important. Sam could feel it as if it were his own. It was less bearable than his own sickness, even less bearable than the death he thought was coming. Maybe he couldn't die as long as he was still needed, no matter how helpless he believed he was. He saw Billy kick Ray aside and stand back to get a clear shot at the little girl. He saw Ray's eyes; they were alive with pain... but alive. Billy raised his gun to the ceiling in order to bring it down correctly. Sam tried to stand up. He thought he might be able to stand if he just imagined that he was already standing. Billy lowered the gun and aimed at Betsy.

Doyle summoned strength he was sure he didn't have and flung himself in front of the little girl. Sam likewise overcame his growing lethargy and tackled Billy almost soon enough; the shot veered left but hit Doyle anyway. The agent cried out once, moaned softly and was still. Sam wrested the gun from Billy's hand, which then came down hard on Sam's arm so that he dropped it. Rather than struggle for it, Sam pushed his "brother" away, lost his balance and brought them both crashing into the wall, where his insulted arm received an additional bang on the elbow. With his other arm Sam gave Billy another push, then stumbled back to where the gun lay. He had difficulty picking it up, for with his left arm he was keeping himself from falling flat on the floor and his right was numb to the elbow. He let the gun dangle loosely in his right hand as he turned to Doyle, who lay motionless, slumped across the silent child. Sam took a step toward him, glancing once toward his foe and then doing a double-take, as that foe had vanished and in his place stood a furious Bodie, pointing his Browning at Sam.

"Drop it," said Bodie. Sam dropped it, wincing at the clatter it made on the wooden floor.

"Did you see," he began.

"Shut up." Sam shut up.

Bodie's eyes darted from Sam to his stricken partner and back again. He was briefly paralyzed by disgust at the sight of the red grease smeared on Sam's cheek. Finally he stepped forward. Sam made no move to evade him and thus took the full brunt of the weapon that Bodie brought down on the left side of his head, smashing into his shoulder. With two numb arms and the drug working upon his nervous system, Sam was unable to catch himself or in any way break his fall. He noticed that his head made a dull thump, not a metallic clatter, against the wooden floor, and with that thought he lost all thought.

Bodie didn't even wait for that thump; he rushed to Doyle and rolled him off of the child, supporting his lolling head with one arm. He was alarmed to see the blood that continued to flow from beneath the curls, which Bodie pushed gently back to uncover a not-less-alarming wound. His professional eyes noted the bullet hole in the wall behind his friend. He barely noticed the little girl who was now suddenly clinging to his waist and weeping silently. She was why he had come to this dingy place and now he cared about nothing but Ray. He set his partner down for a moment, removed his (Doyle's) jacket and the black silk shirt beneath it. He didn't even flinch as he ripped the fancy thing into strips - one to ball up and place against the wound to staunch the flow of blood, one as a bandage to secure that ball, and one, after he had made sure Ray was breathing at least almost normally and had no other wounds, to tie Sam's hands behind him. Sam was breathing shallowly and seemed to be in worse shape than Ray, but Bodie was not concerned with Sam's condition. He took his Swiss army knife from his pocket, glared but a murderous moment at Sam, then went back to free his unconscious partner and, at last, briefly comfort the little girl, who, having had to let go of Bodie's waist, was clinging to Ray. He pulled out his R.T. and called it in.

"It's going to be all right, sunshine," he said, but whether to the little girl or to Ray even he didn't know.

"You got under his skin," said Bodie. Sam was lying on his face, his hands tied tightly behind his back with the incongruously sensual strip of Bodie's black silk shirt, and his feet bound with the same material. His head ached and his attempt to turn toward the voice did nothing to ease the pain. He groaned, but managed to detect a blurry Bodie sitting cross-legged not far from him. "But you got right up my nose, you did." Sam blinked but Bodie didn't unblur. There was, once more, blood in Sam's left eye but he could do nothing about that. "You'll be happy to know," continued Bodie, "that we are inaccessible at the moment. My people can't get to us." His smile did not delight Sam. "But I can get to you, love."

Sam craned to see Ray and the girl. He could make out two forms, one small and still, the other long and still.

Suddenly Sam vomited, then continued to do so, until he was retching up nothing but air, and still he continued. The only good thing about it was that Bodie was silent during all of this and remained silent for several minutes afterwards; Bodie was beginning to scare Sam and his voice was the scariest thing about him, though had Sam been able to see his eyes more clearly he might not have thought so.

"Stupid junkie," Bodie finally said. "Made yourself sick, did you?"

"No," said Sam, weakly. "I didn't. Billy did." He didn't want to move but he tried to sit up anyway. Ray needed him.

"Easy, Kojak," warned Bodie.

"Ray," said Sam, still struggling. Bodie stood up, stretched, bent down and grasped Sam under the armpits. He hauled him up in a single strong movement and threw him across the room, into a pile of broken machine parts. Again Sam turned painfully to face him and was alarmed to find the man virtually in his face.

"Don't you even say his name," growled Bodie. "Don't even whisper it."

"He needs..." Sam interrupted himself with another bout of vomiting. Bodie, who'd been about to strike him, stepped back in disgust.

"Don't you die on me," he said. "Don't deprive me of the pleasure."

"Doctor," gasped Sam, finally. "I'm a doctor. For God's sake, Bodie, do you hate me enough to let him die?"

In response, Bodie grabbed Sam yet again and dragged him back across the room, forcing him to his knees next to the unconscious agent. "If he dies," said Bodie, "it's on you, not me." Sam tried to focus. He needed to vomit again and was tired of spewing up nothing. His stomach muscles hurt and every part of him at which Bodie had so much as glared hurt too. He saw at least that Doyle's color was not good and that he had a head wound.

"Cover him up," he said. "Shock."

Bodie knew that but had nothing with which to cover his partner; his jacket was already wrapped around the sleeping child. At any rate he resented hearing it from Sam. He took hold of the front of Sam's heavy work shirt. "I'll have this, then," he said.

"Yes," said Sam, and closed his eyes to avoid Bodie's too-calm stare as the agent knelt down and unbuttoned the work shirt. When he heard the Swiss army knife click into position he reopened them. He was abruptly pushed onto his face again and felt his bonds being cut. The shirt was pulled roughly off of him, and no sooner had his arms been freed of the sleeves than they were tied together once more, still behind him and more tightly than ever. In mere moments he was thoroughly chilled and somehow this destroyed the last of his willpower. He couldn't help Ray; he'd done what he could, which was nearly nothing. He lay on his face by Ray's shoes and waited for whatever would happen next. Whatever that turned out to be, there was nothing he could do about it.

"I'm here, Sam." Al's voice was quiet. Sam turned his head from Ray's shoes to Al's - tomato red, they were, and they almost made Sam cry - and Al said "God." Then he added "Don't answer, Sam. Just listen. Whatever you took was pretty bad; we almost lost Luther... but he's okay now, so I think that means you will be too - if you don't get yourself killed here."

Sam was silent; he was afraid, even, to try to lift his head to look at his friend. He wanted, in fact, to sleep. Bodie had other ideas. Having tucked Sam's shirt around Ray as best he could, he brushed an auburn curl back from the makeshift bandage, felt, with alarm, Ray's clammy skin and measured, in despair, his shallow breathing, then rose and contemplated the man shivering at his friend's feet. He wore no more shirt than did Sam but the only coldness he felt was his own frozen heart, dying within him as his partner lay dying on the warehouse floor. Almost on its own the knife clicked open in his hand. "Obey," he murmured.

"Sam," said Al, too frightened to fling his usual insults at Bodie, "say something now. Don't let him cut you."

Bodie knelt by Sam and put his left hand flat on his back, just under the left shoulder blade, spreading the skin taut.

"Betsy," said Sam, to Al's bright red shoes, then "Oof," as Bodie leaned hard into him in order to twist and look at the child who, now awake, was staring at him, and especially at the knife in his hand, in horror.

"Oh," choked Bodie, snapping the knife shut and hastily pocketing it. "Oh, don't be afraid! It's all right, sunshine! It's all right now!" He stood up and took a tentative step (over Sam) toward the little girl but she shrank from him. He stopped as if for a deer, trying not to move a muscle. She looked so tiny in his jacket - Doyle's jacket, really, though Bodie fancied it and wore it more than Doyle did - and he could not read her expression. He only knew he must not move. Sam, too, knew to be still. Al was holding his breath. Slowly the child turned her eyes from Bodie to Al, who started at the unexpected acknowledgment, and then to Sam.

"She can see us," cried Al.

"Betsy," Sam groaned, trying to face her and, spent, failing.

The child edged her way around Bodie to the fallen scientist. She touched his cheek, smearing some red grease off it and casting a glance back up at Al before saying to Bodie, "We'll never be bad again. Please. Don't kill us. We'll be good from now on." Her lower lip trembled but she didn't cry. She even smiled slightly at Al. "We don't have any devils. Honest. We even have an angel. See?"

It was not only Al that Bodie could not see; blood was rushing to his head and the room was toppling onto him. He sat heavily next to Ray and covered his aching eyes with trembling hands. Al was the only entity left standing; he crouched by Betsy.

"Tell him, sweetheart. Tell him what happened."

Before she could say anything, Bodie asked, "Did this man hurt you?" She shook her head solemnly and stroked Sam's cheek again, and then his hair. She touched his back where Bodie had been going to cut. Bodie shivered for the first time. "Who hurt my friend?" he whispered, putting one hand on Ray's arm.

"The 'Venging Angels," she said, then cried, "but they're not! They're just bad men! And I was good! I was good!" Sam moaned loudly, not from the pain that still wracked him. He had suddenly understood. Bodie, who didn't, quite, yet, understood enough to lunge for Sam, knife once more in hand (startling a scream from Betsy), to cut his bonds and to lift him tenderly into a sitting position. Sam regarded him woozily, not bothering to struggle. He didn't want to live in a world like this. This wasn't the world in which he had been raised. His mother would have fought the devil himself to keep his body from cut or burn. She'd smacked Tom once, for bullying him, and him once, for bullying Kate. Sam had on one occasion repeated a rude word uttered by a high school friend on the phone; he hadn't been sure of its meaning. His father had grabbed his arm, roughly, knocking the phone out of his hand; lifted a gnarled open paw as if to strike him; then walked away without following through, his face a deep scarlet. Dinner had been miserable. Sam and his father had spoken in short imperatives and responses: "Pass the butter, please." "Thank you." Tom had been away; Mom and Katie had watched, puzzled and saddened. Sam had gone to bed with a knot in his stomach. Unable to sleep he'd tried to read but could not concentrate. Finally he'd gotten out of bed and trudged to the bathroom; passing his parents' bedroom door he'd heard his father weeping and his mother making comforting sounds. "Never again," he could make out. "I love him, Thelma. I love him so much." In the morning Sam had come downstairs red-eyed and unrested, but smiling, and given his red-eyed and unrested father the biggest hug in the world. Sam's mother and father would have moved to the moon rather than live in a world in which mothers and fathers harmed their children.

When Bodie, still digesting "'Venging Angels," saw that Sam could sit up by himself he tried to retreat but Sam detained him. "Her neck," he said. "Under her hair."

Bodie looked at the little girl as if for the first time, but did not move toward her. "May I look?" he asked. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

"Show him, sweetheart," said Al, whose hand link was coming up with nothing. Betsy allowed Bodie to approach her and to lift up some of her blonde curls. He saw the two little round burn marks there at the hairline. They were not fresh. He noticed a purple bruise turning green at one edge and disappearing down under her collar.

"Who did this?"

Al encouraged her with a sad smile. "Mummy," she whispered. Then Al got it too. The smile disappeared. He stood up, backed away a few steps and tried not to be ill. To collect himself he punched a few buttons.

"Uh, Sam, Ziggy says the guy there, Ray, he's going to die."

"No," murmured Sam. "Ray," he said, more strongly, to Bodie, who looked as if he too were in shock. He tried to stand but couldn't, so he crawled to Ray's side, noting with approval that Bodie had used his partner's jacket to elevate, slightly, his head and shoulders. Sam's shirt was tucked around him, though since it was Luther's size it wasn't nearly adequate. "There's all that broken machinery over there," said Sam. "Can you find a blanket or tarp or something?"

"I looked before," said Bodie, standing up. His face was white. He had questions to which he was afraid to hear the answers. "Just junk, and sacks full of that greasy stuff. Oh!" He hurried to a far corner of the dusty room but stopped short of the sacks he'd seen; he was afraid and he didn't know why. He looked back at Sam, who was dropping Ray's wrist and laying two gentle fingers on Ray's carotid artery. Bodie forced himself to pick up each sack and empty it with a clatter onto the wooden floor. One contained nails, all covered with rust and some kind of oil that made the rust run and stain the sack; another was full of oddly shaped parts, also rusted, oiled and runny. He emptied four sacks and found that even empty they were heavy. He brought them back to Sam and said, "What you told Ray... that was the truth?"

With Bodie's help Sam spread two of the sacks under Ray and two over him. "Take his hand," he said, also taking one, "and squeeze, like this." He gently squeezed Ray's hand, released pressure, squeezed again, rhythmically. Bodie obediently did likewise. "We're trying to get his attention," explained Sam.

"Was it?"

Sam continued to pump Ray's hand in silence. "What did he tell you?" he asked, finally.

"I'd like to know what you told Ray," said Al, a little disgruntled on principle but not inclined to be harsh with his traumatized friend.

"He said you weren't Luther. He said you were a grown man, a time traveler from the future. He said your name was Sam. And he said he bloody well believed you! Naturally I told him he was out of his head."

"Is that all?" Ray was not responding to the hand-pumping. "You said no one could find us? Are you sure?"

"I called HQ but I was following Angela, not a map. She drives like a maniac and there's a flood happening. It was all I could do to keep up with her. I'm not even sure I did keep up with her. I got lost; I don't know exactly where we are."

"All right," said Sam, although it wasn't all right. "Can you call them again?"

"What good would that..."

"Betsy, what's your last name, honey?"

"Martin," said the little girl, who had been sitting quietly at Ray's feet, mostly watching Al fidget with (and murmur to) the hand link.

"Tell them we are at fifty-four Churchmouse Street, and that Betsy Martin should not be returned to her parents under any circumstances. Do they... do you have that authority?"

"If we don't we'll bloody well get it," growled Bodie, squeezing Ray's hand again and again. He had long ago taken the R.T. out of the pocket of the jacket Betsy was now wearing and placed it on the floor not far from Ray; he reached over, retrieved it and did as Sam had asked. "They'll still be a while," he said, retracting the small antenna. "Floods. You haven't answered my question."

"Yes, I told those things to Ray," said Sam.

"That's not what I asked."

"Sam... don't tell him!" Betsy looked puzzled. "You either, sweetheart. I'm kind of a secret."

"I have to, Al." Bodie started, looked where Sam had glanced, saw that the child was also looking there, straight at a very specific nothing, and forgot to squeeze.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "What... is it like a ghost?"

"Oh thanks!" Al was stung.

"He's alive," said Sam, "and human, and he's not really here, but his hologram is, and he can see and hear us but not touch us."

"How come I'm the only one who can't see him?"

"Just lucky I guess," grumbled Al. "Oh here we go! Oh, now, Sam, your chances are much better now. Ziggy is telling me they find you in thirty minutes and twenty-nine seconds."

"They're on their way," said Sam. "A half an hour. But we have to wake him up."

"He... Al told you that?"

"Oh," said Sam, suddenly, and closed his eyes, letting go of Ray's hand.

"What is it, Sam?"

"I don't feel so well."

"I believe you," said Al.

To Bodie, Sam explained, "They gave me strychnine but I don't think they gave me as much as they intended. I knocked some of it over."

"They who?"

"Friends of Billy's. I don't know their names but I would know them again; I can describe them. A man and a woman, both young. The woman all in pink. Billy told them to kill me. Luther. Me. Rub his hands."

Bodie took up Ray's hand again. He wanted to ask Sam/Luther if he was all right but under the circumstances the question could only be ludicrous. "Is this actually doing any good?"

"Talk to him too. I don't know what else to do in this... place."

"Ray," said Bodie. "Ray, come on. Wake up, Ray." A part of him felt that he deserved Ray's death, and his own, and wanted to give up, but a stronger part knew among other things that of all the people trapped in the warehouse he was the least endangered one. The child could be returned to her parents and killed. Ray could die at any moment, and the stranger he had so misjudged was on the verge of collapse. He, Bodie, was confused to the point of fearing for his sanity, but in no real physical distress. "Ray, come back! Damn it, you want Cowley to team me up with Spalding? The man doesn't know a Chardonnay from a bouillabaisse. You come back here right now!"

The little girl was not alarmed at being neglected; indeed, neglect was the safest experience she could recall in her short life. She sat quietly, trying to stop herself from wondering whether any of the men in the room was going to adopt her. She had wondered this about others, to no avail. Still, if one of them became her new father, she hoped it was the funny one with the red shoes. He had a nice voice, though his eyes were so sad every time he looked at her.

"It's all right, honey," said Al, wishing he could reassure her with a hug; even if he could, of what would he be reassuring her? Ray opened his eyes then and stared right at Al. Al said softly, "Sam, this is not good. Not good at all. He can see me."

Sam gently pushed back each of Ray's eyelids. The wounded man seemed not to notice this. Bodie said "Ray" and touched his face, but for all his hope got no response. He followed his partner's sight line. He tried hard to see Al but could not.

"It's not a good sign," explained Sam. "Small children can see Al. Some mentally disturbed people. Animals."

"Ray has brain damage?"

"Bodie, dying people can see Al too."

"No," insisted Bodie. "No."

Al said, "Sam, sit him up against the wall. Make him sit." Sam dragged Ray up to the wall and sat him up. The movement started his head wound bleeding again but the elevation countered that effect and Sam staunched the flow easily by readjusting Bodie's makeshift bandage. "Now talk to him. Ask him questions. Get his attention, damn it." All the while Ray was staring at Al, and at the mild profanity Ray laughed.

"What's funny, Ray?" asked Sam. "Ask him questions," he told the distraught Bodie as Ray's laughter faded into a placid gaze in Al's direction.

"Hey Ray," offered Bodie. "What's your mother's maiden name?"

"Did you have fun chasing me all over Britain?" asked Sam.

"When are you going to ask the Cow for a rise?"

"Where's Bodie?" Bodie looked at Sam, confused, but so did Ray.

"Bodie?" asked Ray, faintly.

"Yes," said Sam, afraid to feel relieved quite yet, "where's Bodie?"

"In Derby." Bodie cackled and Ray looked at him. "Are we in Derby?"

Bodie hugged him until he squeaked.

When Jax, Susan and Murphy found them Ray Doyle was lucid enough to laugh himself silly at how like drowned rats they looked. Jax's afro was flattened into ringlets. Susan's straight blonde hair was dark and limp. Murphy's suit was destroyed. "Wasn't easy to get a company car in this damned flood," he said.

Susan was the first to reach Doyle's side. Jax observed as she examined Doyle's wound. "I don't believe that doctor will buy this as a cricket injury," he remarked, impressed by the bloodied black silk. Murphy kept the "stone killer" covered until both Doyle and Bodie could convince him it wasn't necessary. He was quite surprised when Bodie asked him to help Jax carry Doyle out to whichever of their vehicles was now most handy.

"Must look like a CI5 car park out there," Bodie speculated. "Anyway you can use this tarp as a stretcher. Lie back Ray. Lie back, damn it!" He lifted Betsy into Susan's arms. For some reason, he insisted on supporting the worthless little junkie himself, with a show of tenderness that astonished all his colleagues, most of all Doyle, who was even further astonished to see his partner glance around the room and to hear him murmur, "Thanks, Al."

"You're welcome," said Al, grudgingly. "You're still a nozzle."