Of Good and Evil

AU sort of
by Lucy

January, 1999 Cascade Washington

Evan Danglars entered the office of Major Crimes, his eyes scouting instantly for the man he knew to be the captain. Simon Banks was there, he'd been told. But he wasn't in his office, and not-

"Come OONN, Jim, you're being ridiculous." A long-haired man suddenly bumped into Danglars as he stood there. "Oh, sorry, man."

Danglars pasted a smile to his face and nodded in return.

The long-haired guy moved on, still caught up in his conversation with a taller, more serious man. "All right, tell me in plain English. Why can't we visit my mom this weekend? You need the time off, right? Right. Let's get out of Cascade for a while."

"We can't get out of Cascade," the larger man replied. "With Rafe gone, we shorthanded here. What if something big happens?"

The mention of the name Rafe brought a twisted, unpleasant smile to Danglars' features, and he turned his back on the conversation.



"Then Simon and Joel and Henri and Megan can handle it. Jim, please? Rafe's been gone for a couple of months, and we don't really know when he'll be back. How often is Naomi so close to....what's wrong?" Blair hadn't failed to notice the slightly cocked head and glazed eye that meant Jim's senses were picking up something.

Jim turned back and looked at the man they had just passed, who was now walking away from them towards Simon's office. "Who is that guy?"

Blair followed his gaze, and shrugged. "I don't know. Why?"

"He's...I dunno. His heart just started speeding up suddenly, and I think he was listening in on us."

"Jim, a lot of people listen in on us. I'm told our conversations are quite interesting to other-"

"Knock it off, Sandburg. I'm serious. I got a feeling about this guy."

Blair rolled his eyes and perched on the edge of Jim's desk. "Look, man, maybe we can-"

Suddenly the door into Major Crimes slammed open, and Simon stood beaming into the room. "Attention, everybody!"

Jim and Blair turned to him, and Blair's eyes immediately met his partner's, wide in surprise at the grin on their captain's face.

As the rest of the room quieted down, Simon strode in a few steps. "Brown, Ellison, Sandburg, you guys get close."

The three men gazed at each other, mystified, before complying with the order. Blair nudged Henri Brown as they went side by side. "What's up, H?"

Brown shrugged. "What's up, Cap?"

Simon cleared his throat. "I'd like everyone to know that we have a celebrity entering our midst today."

"Celebrity?"

"Well, he will be soon. Tomorrow when you gentlemen and ladies open your newspapers, the front page will be plastered with the story of how after twenty years, Jean Noirtier and all of his men are being brought to justice."

Jim let out a whistle. Noirtier. The assassin, imported from France two decades ago, hadn't slowed down even in his fiftieth year, carrying off crime after crime. No witnesses, no descriptions, no patterns. Just murder after murder, all over the country, and ending up in the northwest. Every cop alive today had heard stories of Noirtier. He seemed to have struck all over the place, his own specially-trained corps of men helping to keep his identity a secret and his crimes flawless.

Simon let the news sink in, a wide smile staying on his face as though he'd never frowned in his life. "That's right, folks. The untouchable Noirtier has been apprehended, and full proof of his crimes has been gathered. And this was all the result of two months of hairy undercover work by one of our own, now back with us after way too long."

Henri Brown lit up like a Christmas tree. "You don't mean-"

Behind Simon, Rafe van Rij strolled in as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "Hi guys."

Major Crimes erupted.

The young, well-liked detective was swarmed with a pack of people, and Henri was about to have to start knocking some teeth out to get to his partner's side.

But get there he did. "Rafe! Man, welcome back!" He grabbed his best friend in a hug before he could stop himself.

Rafe returned it, grinning like a maniac. "How ya doing, H?"

"Better now." Brown pulled back and looked at him. "That's what you've been doing all this time? Dealing with Noirtier?"

A flash of darkness came to the younger man, but he shook it off. "Later, Henri."

Brown nodded after a minute and took a step back, to be quickly replaced by a dark-haired blur who threw itself at his partner.

"Rafe!"

Startled by the force of the greeting, Rafe hugged Megan back after only the slightest pause. "Hey, Conner."

"Been quiet around here with you gone," the Australian officer said with a grin.

Rafe glanced over at Jim and Blair, making their way through the uniforms to his side. "Somehow I doubt that."

Blair reached out and punched his arm lightly. "You look good, man. Welcome back."

"Thanks. Good to see you still have all your limbs attached."

"Only had to go to the ER once the whole time you were gone," Blair reported back proudly.

Rafe laughed.

"Damn, kid. You brought down Noirtier? That's gonna look like gold on the resume."

Simon answered Jim almost directly. "That's another piece of news. This thing is big, Rafe. Buzz around the top brass is you're going to get a promotion and Cop of the Year out of this."

"Really?" Henri slung an arm over his partner's shoulder. "Just be sure to remember the little people."

The excited jabbering went on around them until Simon put a stop to it by summoning his five detectives into his office to talk privately.

The uniforms and visitors to the office watched them go, all grinning at Rafe's departing form.

Only one man didn't have a smile on his face. Evan Danglars seemed carved out of stone as his eyes followed the young detective until he was out of sight.



"All right, Rafe, you wanna tell us about it?"

Rafe shrugged almost absently, his eyes still glowing from the welcome he'd received. "Not really. Can't I just write a report?"

"Aww, come on." Blair, the newest officer in the group, was eager as a puppy to hear the details. "You brought down the most infamous criminal around. Surely you want bragging rights?"

"I really just don't want to talk about it right now." Rafe said easily.

Beside him, Henri Brown could detect the darkness clouding in his eyes. "This was a bad one, huh?"

Rafe glanced over at him, and nodded slightly. "Not the most fun months of my life, that's for damn sure."

"Hey," Simon spoke up from behind his desk. "You know we're here with you, man. If you need to get something off your chest, you talk to us, got it?"

Rafe smiled. "I know, Simon. And I will. Just not yet."

"Your choice. Are you ready to come back?"

"Sure. Not a scratch on me this time."

Simon studied him. "You sure? Don't want a few days off?"

There was a pause. "Well...actually."

"What?"

"Maybe next week you could give me a few days. I've got some personal business I want to take care of."

"Personal?" Simon's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah." Rafe glanced around at the room full of friends, and the darkness drained out of his eyes. "I...uh, well. I'm getting married."

"What?!?" Henri Brown faced him in shock.

Rafe beamed over at him. "Married, H. Nothing big."

"Knock off the crap and tell me what's going on here."

"Don't be like that. I'm serious. I met her on this assignment. Her name's Mercedes," he said with a grin. "She worked at the bar Noirtier used as his cover when he was in Seattle."

"Well....but. I mean. How long have you known her?"

Rafe shrugged. "Month and a half."

"Don't you think that's a little-"

"Nope. I don't. We're getting married. You'll love her, H. She's...well, she's pretty amazing."

Blair was the first to recover from his surprise. "Wow. That's big. Congratulations, Rafe."

"Thanks." He grinned at their newest recruit.

"Married and promoted, all in the same week?" Megan shook her head. "I'm jealous."

"Well, neither of them have happened yet. Don't jinx it." He faced his partner. "She's coming in tomorrow morning. I was hoping you would all have dinner with us, get to know her."

Henri saw the glow in his partner's eye, and that alone made him relax. "Uh. Sure."

Rafe grinned in relief. "Great! You can bring Deb and Cliff, and you guys can all come, we'll go somewhere nice, make a celebration out of it."

Brown gazed at his friend as the other members of Major Crimes all put in their agreements and congratulations. Rafe did look happier, that was for sure. He must really love the woman, whoever she was, to be tying the knot so fast. And hey, what was wrong with it? Rafe had been alone for too long as far as Henri was concerned. Maybe this would be just what he needed.

There was a knock on the office door just then, and a man Henri had never seen before peeked his head in, a big smile pasted to him. "Captain Banks? Can I have a word with you?"

Simon waved at the detectives crowded around. "Get out of here, you guys. Rafe, welcome back, son."

"Thanks." Rafe stood and followed everyone out the door, a sudden tightness in his movements as he passed the man now entering after him.

Jim frowned back at the man as the door shut. He turned to Rafe. "You know that guy? I noticed him right before you came in."

Rafe nodded. "Evan Danglars. He works for the 23rd in Seattle, helped with the sting yesterday that caught Noirtier. I don't know what I did, but the guy just doesn't like me. He's got some kind of chip on his shoulder." He shrugged, glancing back towards Simon's office. "You wanna listen in on them for me?" he asked Jim with a grin.

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I'm...." Then he stopped in his tracks, a look of surprise on his face. "What did you say?"

Rafe glanced at his partner, who was firmly set by his side, then back at Jim. "Nothing."

Jim watched the two men share a smile and go off ahead of him, and he turned to his own partner. "You think they..." He shook his head. "Nah."

"What?" Blair asked, blinking innocently.

"Never mind. Well, this means we've got a full roster again. So how about taking a trip this weekend to visit your mom?"

Blair lit up. "Really? Oh, man, you mean it?"

Jim shrugged. "Why not? I need a vacation, remember?"

"You do! This is great!" Blair followed Jim, chattering excitedly, neither of them giving another thought to the man they'd left behind, talking to the captain.





The Next Night---



Mercedes was gorgeous, Henri had to give her that. She looked almost Middle Eastern, dark hair and huge eyes. She spoke softly, and her smile was almost genteel.

"Rafe has told me a lot about you, Detective Brown."

"Henri," Brown replied instinctively.

He was rewarded by a huge grin from his partner. "Henri's family practically adopted me, babe. No need to be formal with him."

She glanced at him with a smile, and Henri could almost see the adoration in her eyes. It warmed him, truly, to know that Rafe had found a woman who looked at him that way. "Henri," she repeated, turning back to Brown.

He grinned. "So, are you going to be moving to Cascade?"

"Most of my belongings are on their way here already," she confirmed.

"Speaking of which, Henri. You're free this Sunday, aren't you?"

Gazing at his partner suspiciously, Brown nodded. "Yeah..."

"Great! You can help us move her stuff into my place."

He groaned melodramatically. "I should have seen that coming, I guess."

"You still owe me for helping you move that huge bedroom set into your house, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be there."

"I knew you wouldn't let me down. Shouldn't be too difficult, there's no real furniture or anything."

Henri nodded, studying the younger man for a minute. "So this is it, huh? You're really gonna disappoint thousands of women all over Cascade."

He chuckled. "They'll get over it," he replied, his eyes serious.

"What's up, man?" Henri hadn't failed to notice the solemnity.

Rafe shrugged.

"Is something wrong?" Mercedes asked quietly, touching his arm.

He smiled down at her. "No. Actually, I think I'm just too happy to be cheerful right now. If that makes any sense at all."

She nodded, her eyes gleaming. "Perfect sense."

"Well, color me confused."

Rafe faced his partner. "I just don't know that I've done anything good enough to deserve all this, you know?"

Henri's eyes met Rafe's, and the older man shook his head with a smile. "Don't worry about what you've done. Just enjoy it, man."

"Yeah. I guess so." Rafe turned when two men entered the private room in the restaurant. "Jim! Blair! Mercedes, come meet these guys."

She followed him over to the newcomers. Blair and Jim came right to Rafe's side cheerfully.

"Jim, Blair. This is Mercedes. Mercedes, these are two of the best friends a guy could have."

She gave them her soft smile. "Nice to meet you."

Blair closed the distance between them and surprised her with a hug. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. van Rij."

Her smile grew. "Thanks," she said sincerely. "But it's bad luck to call a bride by her fiancee's name until after the ceremony. So please, just Mercedes."

The dinner was a lively one. For once there were no catastrophes looming over this group. No one was being threatened, no unsolved crimes were plaguing them. The only news they'd received recently was good news, and plenty of it.

Simon stood up towards the end of the meal, clearing his throat grandly and hefting his glass. "Yeah, folks, this is a toast, so shut up and pay attention."

There were muffled chuckles as they dutifully faced their captain.

"To Rafe," Simon said loudly. "Cop of the Year, soon to be tying the knot to this beautiful creature over here."

Mercedes actually blushed.

"And another one of my men who's gonna come to me bitching about how he can't support a family on what I pay."

There were laughs, and everyone took a ceremonious swallow.

Rafe and Mercedes stayed glued to each other throughout the evening. After the meal was over no one showed any haste in leaving, and the couple was talking to Simon and Jim quietly when the door to the private room opened, and Evan Danglars appeared.

"Evan!" Mercedes, to everyone's surprise, beamed at the newcomer and flew to his side. "What are you doing here?"

Rafe went to her side more slowly. "You know this guy?"

She didn't seem to notice the frowns the two men were giving each other. "Of course! Evan's family and mine were always close. We used to play together as children. I'm so glad you came!"

Danglars returned her huge smile with a grave look. "I don't think you'll be glad too much longer."

Her smile faded somewhat. "Why not?"

He cleared his throat and faced Rafe. "Detective Rafe van Rij, I have a warrant for your arrest. Please come with me, and we'll get-"

"What?"

Behind Rafe and Mercedes' stunned forms, the room was suddenly alive with voices.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Simon had the presence of mind to remember his position, and he immediately lit to the side of his detective and faced the other man. "You want to tell me just what is going on?"

Danglars faced Banks calmly. "I told you yesterday, Captain. There is some suspicion surrounding Detective van Rij's involvement with Noirtier's group."

"And I told you that was bull shit!" Simon retorted angrily.

Danglars shrugged. "Whatever you think, Captain, I do have a warrant for his arrest. And there are men outside ready to come in if he decides to fight us on this."

Simon opened his mouth to shout out a response, but Rafe reached out and grabbed his arm. "Simon. It's okay. This is probably just some formality or something, right? I'm sure it'll all be cleared up, no problem." He faced Danglars with some difficulty. "I'll come with you."

Danglars tried unsuccessfully to hide a small, victorious smile. "Thank you. And you're probably right. You'll probably be out by tomorrow."

"By tonight," Simon amended furiously.

Rafe turned to his friends, embarrassment coating his features. "Sorry about this, everybody. Mercedes." He faced his fiancee with an apologetic face.

She smiled softly, but her eyes were concerned. "Go on, get this straightened out."

He nodded and turned to Danglars. "All right, let's go."

Danglars reached out and grabbed his arm, leading him out the door and shutting it firmly behind the two of them.

Leaving the formerly happy dinner party in stunned silence.





Rafe bore the ride in the unmarked police cruiser in silence. The only one there to talk to was Danglars, and he just had nothing at all to say to the man. Finding out that he knew Mercedes...it was almost a blow. What gave him the right to know her longer than Rafe had? And she had looked at him with such affection...

Not that Rafe doubted how she felt about him, but still. To know that she was such good friends with this man -- a man who hated him for no reason at all and who had shown up to arrest him in the middle of...

He couldn't think about it. It was too embarrassing. How was he gonna be able to face the guys at the station the next day, when he'd been dragged out like that in front of everyone? How could he face Mercedes?

Lousy end to a very good week, Rafeman.

Oh, well. If nothing else at least he knew that any accusations they made would be groundless and he would be out of there the next day. Embarrassment wasn't really anything new to Rafe. He could deal with it.

It was only when he realized they were headed towards the outskirts of Cascade that he even bothered to speak to the man in the front seat. "Hey? What's going on here?"

"I told you. You're being arrested."

"So why aren't we going to the station?"

Danglars glanced back at him through the rearview mirror. "I've got orders to take you to the county lock-up. The man you need to speak to is there."

"What?" Rafe straightened indignantly. "Do you realize how many laws that's breaking?"

Danglars was remarkably unconcerned. "I've got my orders," he repeated simply.





Judge Jack Villford was not having a good day. First, he was dragged away from his own dinner with his fiancee and her parents, on very vague instruction to wait for a man they were bringing in. Then he read the report on this guy and discovered he had to decide the fate of a man knowing nothing about him but that he was anonymously accused of aiding and abetting a killer and conspiracy to help said killer escape from prison. And finally, he'd been sitting there for over an hour before they finally brought the guy in. And he'd had nothing to do but wonder why exactly all these unorthodox cases were brought to him.

The guard that stayed posted outside his office knocked on the door after an hour and a half had gone by.

"Yeah? About time." Villford answered harshly.

The man stuck his head in. "A detective just brought your prisoner in, sir."

"Well? Get him in here."

"Do you want the detective in here too?"

"No," Villford retorted, knowing he was almost angry enough to take it out on the cop, whoever it was. As an afterthought he added, "But keep him out there. I may want to talk to him."

The guard left, then came back after only a few seconds. "This guy really wants to talk to you. Says it's about the prisoner, sir, something important."

"It can wait," Villford replied angrily.

The guard nodded and left. After a minute he returned, leading a younger man with hands cuffed in front of him.

Judge Villford took in the younger man as the guard left him standing there alone. The guy was obviously angry. And Villford in his time at the lockup had seen plenty of types of anger. This seemed to outrage of an innocent man. "All right, Mr. van Rij. Do you know why you've been brought here?"

"Not a clue. And it's Detective van Rij."

Villford's eyes grew in surprise. "Detective." He looked down at the sheet in his hand. "You want to tell me what you think's going on?"

Rafe gazed back at him squarely. "Look, I don't know. All I know is I'm sitting in a restaurant minding my own business when this guy comes in and puts me in cuffs. They don't take me to the station, they bring me here. I haven't got a damned clue!"

Villford didn't care if the anger was born out of innocence or guilt -- he never responded well to men yelling at him. "Maybe you want to calm down, Detective."

"Calm down? I get pulled out of my own party in front of my fiancee and everyone I work with, I don't get told a thing about why or where I'm going...." He drew in a breath, obviously trying to compose himself. "I'm sorry." He let the breath out shakily. "I didn't mean to....I just want to know what's going on."

Villford was satisfied -- not only that, he was struck by the coincidence. This man had been pulled out of a dinner party with his fiancee, just as he had been. The comparison made for the start of a good story, he decided with an internal smirk.

But he was also satisfied that the man in front of him was certain of his own innocence. Villford prided himself on his ability to tell the honest men from the liars. This man had a flash of a dark temper in him, but he was honest. "Tell me, Detective. Do you have any enemies?"

There was a surprised pause. "Enemies? Well...no. Not really. I've put a few guys away, but nothing major. I'm not really important enough to have enemies," he concluded with a shrug.

"Are you sure of that?"

Rafe's eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

Villford held up the paper in front of him. "This is an accusation written against you. It was sent directly to me, which was the reason you were brought here. It's unorthodox, but if you're telling the truth, it'll save you the embarrassment of being booked and having this go on your record."

Rafe nodded slowly, but his eyes were narrowed. "What kind of accusation?"

"This says that you went undercover your last assignment, is that right?"

"Yeah."

"And that there was a period of two weeks when you had no contact with any other officers."

Rafe almost shuddered. "Right. But I couldn't help that."

"According to this, you used that time to turn into a double agent, giving these criminals your full cooperation. It says you committed crimes to protect your cover, up to and including murder."

"What?" Rafe couldn't stop himself -- he came forward and took the paper out of Villford's hand, reading the messy scrawl quickly.

Villford sat calmly and watched the expression on the man in front of him -- outrage. Pure, shocked outrage. If he needed any other proof the accusation was false, he had it, at least in his own mind.

Rafe dropped the paper on the desk in shock.

"I'll ask again. Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would say this to get back at you?"

He shook his head, mute from disbelief.

Villford stood abruptly. "I believe you. It's a good thing it happened this way, Detective. I'm going to let you go now, and we're going to forget that this ever happened. Maybe you can still catch your fiancee at that restaurant." He smiled at the man.

Rafe grinned back, relieved. "That's good of you, sir. I really have no idea what's going on here."

Villford dug a spare set of handcuff keys out of his desk and moved around the desk to the younger man's side. "If I were you, I'd find out who did this and figure out what it is they want."

Rafe held out his hands gratefully, nodding. "I will." He spoke gravely. "You have my word on that."

There was that flash of temper again. "Just see that word of this gets out to nobody, all right? If your cop friends knew we operated sometimes in such...unusual...ways, they would shut us down."

Rafe studied the man. "Why exactly do you operate like this?"

"Long story. And believe me, Detective, we only do it in a rare amount of cases. I really don't know why my men decided you were one of those cases."

"Me either." Rafe's suspicion about this whole thing was growing more and more with every passing second, but he kept his mouth shut, wisely deciding to wait until after he was physically free to start asking questions.

Villford got the cuffs off his right hand, then paused in his task. "Just out of curiosity. Who are these criminals you were under with for so long?"

Rafe grimaced. "Jean Noirtier and his men."

If a lightning bolt had sliced it's way through the small window of that office and struck him where he stood, Villford could not have been more shocked. His jaw went slack, and the keys fell from numb fingers. "Who did you say?"

Rafe frowned, his apprehension back full-force. "Noirtier. I spent a couple of months with his group. They're all in custody now, though."

"I....I hadn't heard." Villford was pale as a ghost.

Rafe studied him, concerned. "It only happened yesterday, and he's being held in Seattle."

Villford was still for a long moment, then abruptly his hand reached out and snapped the one cuff back around Rafe's wrist. He turned back and went behind his desk again.

Rafe watched him, surprised at the 180 in his attitude, surprised the cuffs were still on his wrists. "What's wrong here?"

"Uh...nothing. Nothing. Look, this may be a bit more serious than I thought. Noirtier is big news. I'm afraid we may have to be more official about this." His hands were shaking as he picked up the letter on his desk. "I'm sure everything will turn out for the best. In fact." He opened his desk and dug around again until he found an old book of matches. "This is the only evidence against you right now." He struck a match with difficulty, his hands still trembling, and held the lit end to a corner of the paper. When it was alight with flames, he tossed it easily into his empty wastebasket. "There. No more proof, no problem."

Rafe's eyes were narrowed at this second breach in the law, but he couldn't help a feeling of gratitude. "So what happens now?"

Villford watched the trash can until he was sure the paper had been entirely consumed, then he faced Rafe again. "Now I need to talk to the man that brought you here. What was his name?"

"Danglars," Rafe answered flatly.

Another jolt, then a nod. "It would be..."

"What?"

"Look, Detective, I'll talk to Danglars, and then he and a couple of my men will see that you're taken somewhere safe."

Rafe frowned. "Safe? What do you mean, safe?"

Villford stood abruptly and went to his door, opening it. The first face he saw, gazing calmly back at him, was Evan Danglars. He gestured for the man to come in. "Guard?"

His pseudo-secretary stood. "Yes, sir?"

"Take the prisoner out and hold him until I come back out. If anyone comes around, don't answer any questions about him. That's an order."

The man was obviously mystified, but, used to obeying his boss without question, he came into the room quickly and led Rafe out, leaving Danglars and Villford alone.

Villford faced the officer with a frown. "Why did you bring this to me?"

Danglars had a smirk on his face. "You know very well why. We need to get rid of this guy, and you're the one that can help."

Villford was shaky as he returned to his seat. "Why not just...just kill him?"

"Too easy. This cop has made Noirtier. Now, even when he disappears and they have to drop the charges, the police will be watching him like a hawk. Noirtier's going to have to work hard to get over this hump. He wants the cop to pay."

"And what's your part in all this?" Villford looked at the cop he knew was on Noirtier's payroll with disgust in his eyes.

Danglars didn't seem concerned about the hostility. "I was assigned to help with the bust," he said with a smirk. "That way at least I could get rid of the other evidence. Now I'm getting rid of the witness. And you're going to help."

"How?"

"You remember Faria?"

Villford froze. "That's it, then? You want him to be..."

"Yes. Forever. No chance of getting out, and that's an order."

A flash of anger appeared in the judge's eyes. "Who are you to give me orders, you dirty piece of shit?"

Danglars shrugged. "One of the only people who knows your little secret, Villefort."

At the name, the judge glared, but in a way reserved to the truly powerless who could do nothing but glare. "I've broken the law for you before, and I'll do it again. But I want you to tell Noirtier that if I see you or have to deal with you again, everything's off. I'll go public before I do this to another person."

Danglars smiled easily. "Fine. Now, why don't you send your men to get our prisoner. You know what to do."





Rafe was kept in a small holding cell for a few minutes while the judge and Danglars talked, and every question he had about this returned full force. Whatever was going on here, though, at least the judge knew he was innocent. He could at least be confident that Villford would let him out. He seemed like a decent guy.

When the doors opened, the guard who had brought him to the cell stood there. "Come on."

"Wait. What's going on? Am I being released?"

"Not yet. Just come with me."

"Villford sent you?"

The guard nodded.

Rafe, trusting the honest eyes he'd seen in the judge, stood and went with the men without another word.

He was led out the back of the prison and put into the back of a police van. They was joined by another guard, who entered the back of the van and shut the door behind him. He kept his eye casually on the prisoner, answering no questions as the van started to move.

"Look, just tell me where we're going," Rafe wheedled for the fortieth time five minutes after they were on the road.

The man stayed silent, gazing at Rafe with hard eyes.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was looking into the face of a criminal. But that was absurd. He was just being paranoid, thanks to the oddness of the situation. Right?

Still, the feeling was there. And this entire thing had been unorthodox, illegal, and just plain weird. At least he knew he had Villford to rely on.

Right?

The van shuddered to a stop finally, and the rear door was swung open a minute later to reveal another guard in uniform. "Get out."

Rafe moved slowly after being nudged by the other guard, and he squinted out into the sunlight, stepping down out of the van and taking in his surroundings.

They were somewhere unfamiliar. Looked like the back of a huge complex. Tall brick walls stretched out in front of him, topped with feet of barbed wire. And a small rear door guarded by two different men, dressed again in uniform. The uniform of....

Everything came together at once, and Rafe's legs suddenly felt weak. He turned to look at the man who had sat with him. "What are we doing here?" he asked, his throat dry.

The man shrugged. "Orders. Now follow these two men. And welcome to your new home."

Disbelieving, handcuffed and watched by four armed men, Rafe had no choice but to enter the small door.

It occurred to him as he walked that he had never had any idea penitentiaries had rear doors at all.

The guards led him through a dark corridor, stopping only to see the one guard who was watching the entrance into the general population area of the prison. The guard who'd been with him since Villford's office had a few words with the man.

Rafe stayed quiet, still stunned by the turn of events his life had suddenly taken.

The new guard took over, leading Rafe into the halls of the inner part of the prison.

He never saw what happened to the men who drove him here.

He walked, in a daze, until he was taken to a small cell. The guard got on his radio and got the door opened.

Rafe walked into the cell automatically, still stunned.

The door was shut behind him, and not a word was spoken.





The next morning, the same man came to check up on his new arrival. Rafe was still standing, facing the wall, his eyes glazed over, looking like he hadn't moved a muscle during the night.

The guard seemed to have a little bit of sympathy for him. "You need anything?"

Rafe blinked, startled at the voice. "I don't know."

"You hungry? Thirsty?"

"I don't know."

The guard blew out a breath. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to the warden."

A smirk. "Sorry, no can do."

"If I'm a prisoner here, I've got the same rights as the others do. I want to talk to the warden. Make me an appointment, whatever."

"Not allowed."

"Yeah? What is allowed?"

"You can stay here like the other prisoners. You can go out, take walks in the yard, you'll get books. Better food, if you pay for it."

Rafe's dazed eyes were still on the wall of the cell. "I don't want to take a walk, I don't want to read, and the food's fine. I want to talk to the warden."

The guard shook his head. "Listen, I don't know who you are, or who you pissed off to be brought here like this. There was another guy like you, I forget his name, brought here by the same guys. He started off like you did, he didn't get it. Kept thinking he was like all the other prisoners. But he wasn't, and you're not. Get that through your head."

Rafe faced him finally. "Are you all dirty? Every single guard I've seen so far? Who could possibly hate me enough to pay you all to do this?"

The guard backed up a step. "Talk like that isn't gonna help you any. That last guy was taken down to the solitary cells, I should think you'd be smart enough to keep your mouth shut so you could at least stay out here."

"This is bullshit! This is against the law. I'm a cop, dammit, you can't do this to me! I swear to God, I'll scream about this until someone who isn't getting paid off hears me, and when they let me out of here I'll make sure each and every one of you goes down."

The guard held up a hand. "Hey! All right. If you're that insistent, I'll let you see the warden." He got on the radio, summoning some more guards.

Rafe relaxed. Finally, some end to this madness.

Two other guards arrived, and the cell door was opened. "What are we doing with him?"

The first guard gazed at Rafe impassively. "Take him down to the basement."

"Solitary? What'd he do?"

"Since when do you ask questions? He's threatening me, talking about being framed. I want him down in the basement before he can stir up other prisoners."

The guards came in and steered Rafe out.

He was through going quietly, though. Struggling against them with every bit of his strength, his voice rose to a shout. "This is against the law! You're never gonna get away with this! I'll make sure every one of you is caught. That judge, everybody."

"Jesus," one of the men said to the other as Rafe paused for a breath. "This guy is gone. Basement's a good choice."

"Gotta put the loonies in with the loonies, I guess," the other man agreed.

Rafe sagged, his strength leaving him suddenly. He stumbled in between the two guards, his eyes wild, but his voice was almost a monotone as he mumbled the rest of the way down, "He's right. Gotta put the loonies in with the loonies."





Cascade PD--

Rafe had disappeared.

That was the buzz when Jim and Blair got to work. Jim overheard -- from a distance -- two officers talking about it, and without a word he raced towards the elevator, eager to get to Simon and find out what the hell was going on. Blair followed him almost instinctively, not questioning the sudden move.

Major Crimes was strangely quiet as they came in. Henri Brown was nowhere in sight, but Joel and Megan both gave the two incoming officers dismayed looks as they made a beeline for Simon's office.

Jim burst in without knocking. "What the hell's going on? What happened to Rafe?"

Simon looked ten years older than he had the night before. "I don't know. Nobody knows."

"What do you mean?" Blair was trying to follow the conversation.

Simon looked down at the paper he'd been glued to. "Rafe and that cop who came to get him never made it to the station. The cop was found later in his cruiser on the side of a road, knocked out. This is his statement. He says..." Simon paused with a frown, obviously going over the details for the tenth time that day. "He says Rafe jumped him suddenly, knocked him out. And now we have no idea where he would have gone."

"What?" Blair's voice was tinged with disbelief.

Simon looked down at the statement. "'I had him in the front seat. I didn't cuff him, it was probably my fault he got away. But he was a cop, I never expected him to try to run, no matter how dirty he was.'"

"Dirty? Simon...what the hell is going on here?"

"That's the other good news of the morning. There's word being spread that Noirtier recruited Rafe before he came back. Rafe's suspected of disappearing so there'd be no witness against Noirtier, and once Noirtier gets off, Rafe will join up with him, wherever he goes."

"That's the most insane thing I've ever heard. Who's the guy who gave that statement? Danglars? Rafe said the guy didn't like him. This is some kind of frame-up, Simon."

"You don't think I know that? Look, I've got Henri out talking to the guy now. You wanna join him? He's at Cascade General getting checked out. Got hit on the head pretty hard, apparently."





Jim knew Danglars was lying. He could see through the steady gaze to the rapidly-beating heart and altered breathing. He could see the tenseness in a body that appeared totally relaxed.

But no one believed him. No one but Blair, Simon, and Henri had any reason to suspect that Danglars would make up this story. No motive for doing it. The only people who were ready to testify that Danglars had had some kind of grudge against Rafe were Rafe's own friends. They were also the only ones who didn't believe Danglars, the only ones who kept looking for signs of kidnapping.

A manhunt was sent out to look for Rafe, and Simon protested mightily until Henri pointed out that even if he was caught and arrested, they would at least know where he was.

But weeks passed, and the search turned up nothing. No clues, no sightings. It was as if Rafe had vanished off the face of the earth.

Mercedes, Rafe's fiancee, was lost. She made the move to Cascade, putting her stuff into Rafe's apartment and staying there during his absence, ready for him to reappear any time and for them to go on with life as they had it planned. She was seen wandering around the station from time to time, desperate for news and dazedly watching the doors for her fiancee to appear.

Major Crimes, for months, became the center of the effort to find and recover the missing detective. But then a man named Lee Brackett escaped from his federal watch dogs and returned to Cascade, and Jim and Blair had to focus their attention on finding him.

And the Chief of Police finally directed Simon to stop the search and go on with his job. Cascade still needed the honest cops it had left.

A detective named Morris was sent over from the 24th in north Cascade. Henri refused to work with the man, until he got a case of serial bombings that he just couldn't handle alone. And he was forced to acknowledge that Morris was a good cop and a good man, and maybe....

Maybe Rafe was gone for good.

At the end of the first year, the manhunt dwindled down to nothing, and the man they had thought was Jean Noirtier had been cleared and had moved someplace in the east.



There were stages, clear stages, that Rafe went through as a prisoner. Stages he recognized thoroughly, somewhere in the back of his mind. Some lasted for days, some lasted for months, and over the course of these stages, although Rafe had no way of knowing this, years passed. Each stage had its clearly repetitive thoughts:



This is ridiculous. Man, how long have I been in here? Come on, Henri, surely you know where I am by now. Geez. What makes these guys think they can just take a person and bury them in a prison and forget about them? Just because it's only the same three guys who ever look in on me or leave me food...someone else HAS to know I'm here. Right? I mean, this is a prison, a state-run penitentiary. Someone has to know....well, Henri has to know. Jim with his superpowers and Blair with his luck must have found something by now. God, how long have I been here, anyway? Man, I wish they would just bring in some books, or stay and talk for a few minutes, or something. I wish they would move me back up to the other cells. I would be quiet. Well, no, maybe I wouldn't, but...



Well, that's it. I've been through every song I ever knew, I've gone through every class I ever had. I can't even think about what to think about. Man, I miss them. Henri. Mercedes. It must have been months since they put me in here. No, it couldn't be. Henri would have gotten me out, right? Henri and Simon wouldn't let them do this to me. I'm innocent. I didn't do anything. Why would they let me stay here? If I'm innocent....I am innocent. Right? I mean, whatever they said I did, I didn't do it. Right? C'mon, Rafe, think. You didn't help out Noirtier. Did you? You were on your own with that group for two weeks, but you wouldn't have....I AM innocent. I have to be. Right? Please, someone come down here and talk to me. I have to be innocent. I can't be innocent. Not if Henri and Simon let me stay here. There has to be a reason they deserted me.



Someone let me out of here. Please, this was all a mistake. It had to be. Let me out, or talk to me, or give me some books. Move me to another cell. I don't care if it's even worse than this one is. God, I can't sit here staring at the 317 bricks or the 27431 cracks in the ceiling for much longer. Move me somewhere else, somewhere black and empty. Something. Please, someone has to help me . Just let me out for a few minutes. Just let me into the hallway. I'm begging you, please, just distract me for five minutes. Henri?



Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Funny how the words make so much more sense to me now. All of them, every prayer my mother ever taught me. I didn't get it before. Just a bunch of words I had to memorize to make mom happy. But now I see a meaning behind them. I understand. God, I haven't often come to you for help, but I need it now. I'm not strong enough to handle this anymore. If You are testing me, I've failed. Let me get out and accept my failure in some other room. Let me go. I'm not guilty of anything. I sinned before, in my other life, but I've paid for those now, haven't I? Lord, please, I'll never sin again. I'll do whatever You ask of me. Just get me away from these walls. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.



He's not listening. No one's listening. Everyone has abandoned me here. My friends, then my enemies, and now by whatever God my mother used to believe in so much. And for what? What did I ever do? What could any man do to have his happiness taken away from him for no reason? What did I do?



God damn them. God damn all of them, everyone who left me here to rot. That god damned Noirtier, he was behind this. That son of a bitch Danglars. What I wouldn't give to have him in front of me, to rip that man apart for what he's done. God damn all of them. Henri, and Simon, and Jim, all of my friends, who didn't give enough of a shit about me to come and get me out. Life just went on for them, right? Cock suckers, all of them. Fucking asshole jerks who don't give a damn for anyone but themselves. How could I have been so blind not to recognize that? I couldn't see that Henri didn't give a shit for me. He used me as his partner, 'cause he needed someone there. But the minute I'm in trouble, he fucking deserts me and leaves me to die. Got a new partner now, you piece of shit? Someone else to come over and eat your wife's shit-awful cooking and teach your god damned ignorant son math? Simon, why would I even think he cared? Stupid fucker cared about Jim and Blair, that was it. The three of them always together, always whispering about their god damned secrets. Fuck them all. I'd kill every one of them if I could. No, not kill. Not death. Death is a release from pain, and they don't deserve that. For how many years have I been suffering here? That's how long they should each suffer. It wasn't God that put me in here, it was men. Other god damned men, and I hope they all fucking rot away and die, slowly and painfully. Every last mother fucking one of them.



Death is a release from pain. Death is a release from pain. Death is a release....



I could end this. Whenever I want. I didn't realize before how little control these men really had over me. They think they can keep me here forever? No. If I want to leave, I can. Without even that much of an effort. I could cast away the life they've condemned me to like an old shirt. Two ways to do it. My shirt, could be stretched and tied over the bars on the window over my head. Haven't forgotten how to tie a good knot, have I? No. I can't do that. Can't leave my body hanging at the end of a rope for these men to find. Second way, just as good. Starve myself. These guys don't feed me anything worth eating. I could just refuse it. Throw it out the window. They'll never even know it's happening.



That was the phase that lasted the longest. Somehow, the knowledge that he could end his captivity whenever he wanted made it easier to bear. But even that ease didn't last long, and soon after the thoughts began, he began to implement his plan. He picked up the bowl or plate or whatever his guards left him every morning, and started to throw the contents out the window.

At first, it was a matter of pride, and he did it happily. Almost a feeling of cheerfulness came over him when he foiled these men's plot by tossing his food out the high window. Euphoria.

Then, as his body began protesting, he grew more solemn about the deed. He would stare at the food, watch his own hand as it dumped the bowl into the bars and out through the cracks, and then he'd sit and think about it for a while.

And, of course, as the hunger grew, the more difficult it was to go through with it. The slop he was given day to day became a feast in his famished eyes. His mouth watered looking at the stale bread, the rotten meat. He would look forward to when the meal was delivered, and he would spend hours staring at the plate, thinking about nothing. Finally, reluctantly, he would throw it out. He'd suffered too much to let his own weakness stop him.

And then, one day, he was too weak to reach the window. So the food sat there, in front of his wondering eyes, and he let it. Didn't get closer, but didn't make a move to toss it away.

And that was where he was -- on the ground, eye level with the only object of his obsessive thoughts, wondering how much longer it would take for oblivion to take over -- when he heard a small, almost imperceptible sound that would change his entire life.

It sounded like a rat at first -- the walls were full of them. He usually liked hearing them, the small scratchy sounds, it was a break from the monotony.

It was that careful listening that made him realize suddenly that this wasn't the same noise. Somewhere in the back of his foggy mind he was able to compute that the scratches were harder, deeper. Different.

Another prisoner? No. There was only one nearby anywhere, if the guards were telling the truth. And that man had been here so long he eventually really had lost his mind -- he offered any guard that would let him out hundreds of millions of dollars. He would ramble about some treasure he knew of. Nuts.

But if this wasn't a prisoner, who was it? Maybe someone digging...a guard? Trying to trap someone? Or just putting in wiring or something, who knew?

Rafe managed to get up on his arms, dragging himself closer to the wall. It made him even more lightheaded than he already was, but he got himself over and fell back to the ground.

The scratching continued.

In the small area of his brain still thinking lucidly, Rafe came up with a simple plan to figure out who it is. He'd make some noise, alert the person making the sounds that he could hear them. If it was a guard, they'd stop for a minute, maybe come around to investigate. If it was a prisoner...they would stop and panic. The noise wouldn't come again until maybe that night, when the person thought everyone was asleep.

So Rafe reached over for the small bowl, dumping the contents on the ground automatically, and he brought it over to the wall and banged in a few times against the stone.

The sound stopped.

Rafe held his breath for a minute. The minute past, then another, and another.

How long he lay there listening he didn't know, but the noise didn't come back.

A prisoner! He'd been right! Somehow another prisoner had found a way to start tunneling through the walls here, and was on his way closer and closer to Rafe's cell!

Rafe wanted to sit up, he wanted to grab something and start helping, but the moment he tried to move his head started spinning, and his body refused to obey him.

So he lay there in silence, thinking about everything that it meant.

The next morning, when the silent guard dropped food into his empty bowl, there was no debating to be done.

It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.



January, 2010 Cascade, Washington

Daryl Banks adjusted his seams in the mirror for the tenth time, standing as straight as he could. He studied his serious face in the mirror, checking for anything out of place or draping incorrectly, checking to make sure the fire was in his eyes, his jaw was squared, and he was the picture of what it meant to wear that uniform.

And then he burst out laughing, unable to control it. "I look just like dad did in those academy pictures I've got. Christ." He spoke out loud, ignoring the fact that no one was around to hear him.

A moment later the grin faded, and a moment after that Daryl had never laughed in his life. He heaved a sigh that didn't belong on any twenty-six year old and his shoulders drooped.

He silently moved away from the mirror and towards the door, grabbing his keys from off a small dresser.

The first thing he noticed when he opened the door was the size of the sleek black car parked outside of the apartment building. He let out a low whistle, watching with casual interest as he headed for his car.

The door opened and a man in a dark suit got out, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a solemn look on his face.

Man, no one with enough money for a ride like that should be so serious, Daryl found himself thinking wistfully as he headed for his own beat-up Ford.

The dark glasses swung his way, and Daryl glanced over again to see the man in the suit striding in his direction.

"Daryl Banks?"

Daryl stopped, surprised. "Yeah? What can I do for you?"

The man offered a smile, but it was cold and devoid of any emotion. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Banks. You do look just like your pictures."

An accent, Daryl heard. French, sounded like.

"My name is Gerard D'Avrigny. Simon Banks was a friend of my brother, a long time ago. I was hoping I could perhaps talk to him, but there don't seem to be any listings in the telephone directory."

Daryl couldn't hide his frown. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr..." No, he wasn't even going to try to pronounce that name. "Sir. But my father died about three years ago."

A shadow seemed to cross the man's face, but it was gone before Daryl could tell if he'd actually seen it. "That is a shame. Would you mind telling me how?"

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "Listen, Mr.-"

"I do understand how that may be somewhat personal, but I am trying to fulfill my brother's final wishes, and I'm afraid Mr. Banks was rather deeply involved."

"Oh." Daryl stood for a moment, racked with indecision.

"Could I perhaps treat you to an early lunch?"

The younger man frowned and looked down at his watch. "I can't today, Mr...uh."

"D'Avrigny." The man supplied. "You may call me Gerard if you wish."

"Yeah, Gerard. I have to work."

"You are a policeman, yes? Like your father."

Daryl looked down at the uniform. "Uh, kind of."

"I don't wish to get you into any trouble, Mr. Banks, but I'm afraid my time in this country is short, and I have many such stops to make. Please, allow me to help you...play hooky, as you Americans say?"

Daryl smiled somewhat, and shrugged. "Why not?"

"Wonderful. We can take a walk to that small restaurant I passed coming here."

Daryl had been having somewhat paranoid thoughts about climbing into that black car, so he nodded easily at the suggestion. "Sure."

Gerard offered another solemn smile, and the two men set off.

Daryl studied the stranger as they walked. The man was pale -- he looked like he never got any sun at all. His hair was dark, and Daryl would have bet his eyes were dark under those glasses. He was tall, walked with obvious strength and confidence. But his face was lined, as if he never smiled, or hadn't for a very long time.

"So, Mr....Uh, Gerard. How did your brother know my father?"

"Padric was stationed in Cascade for a short time. He was a police officer as well." Gerard noticed Daryl's sideward look. "Padric was raised in America by our mother."

"Gotcha. So he worked for dad for a while?"

"No, not in your father's office. He was stationed in Homicide, I believe. But he worked with your father and a few of his men for one case, and they made a lasting impression on him, particularly Captain Banks."

Daryl smiled somewhat. "Yeah, dad tended to make lasting impressions on a lot of people."

Gerard didn't acknowledge or even seem to notice the emotion in Daryl's tone. "Captain Banks was not the only one to be mentioned by my brother. I wonder if perhaps you may be able to tell me where a few other of these detectives have ended up."

"Sure, just ask. I'll tell ya if I know."

They reached the restaurant, a faux-Italian place that served gourmet pizza -- not Daryl's favorite, but he went in without hesitating and took a seat across from the stranger.

Gerard hardly waited for the waiter to leave with the drink order before he got down to business. "So, tell me about your father's death."

Daryl hesitated. The French -- never ones to mince words. "Well, it's actually kind of an involved story. It started over a decade ago." He paused. "Are you very familiar with my dad's career?"

The stranger shrugged. "My brother was vague. I know he was a captain for quite some years."

"Yeah. Well, he was a good captain. He cared about his men, you know? He would fight for them in a second."

"He was fighting for one of his men when he was killed?"

"Yeah, actually he was. I don't suppose your brother mentioned a detective named Rafe van Rij, did he?"

The man didn't bat an eyelash. "He did mention a somewhat surprising story about a young detective who conspired with some criminal and left the police force. I can't recall the name -- it isn't in my brother's will specifically."

"Yeah, well, your brother got that part wrong. Everyone got that wrong. Rafe didn't conspire with anyone. He was framed. And my father was one of the only people who believed in him. He did all the way until the end."

Gerard studied him impassively. "Oh? And does this detective have something to do with your father's death?"

"Actually, yes. See, there was a raid on one of the north state penitentiaries, and a lot of underhanded dealings were uncovered. There were a couple of cells that weren't on any of the plans for the prison. They must have been left out for some reason. And only a handful of guards knew about them. And one of them started talking, and he told this story about how when he first started to work for the prison, he was given the offer to take home a few extra bucks for doing a few less-than-legal things. And he was shown these two cells. And there were two men living in them. The guard said that he was told they were both dangerous criminals, but he was never given any names. And then one day he was ordered never to go back down there. From the descriptions he gave, my father knew that one of those men was Detective Rafe."

Daryl paused. Maybe it was the lighting, but Gerard suddenly looked even paler than he was. But he held the same impassive stare, and the glasses hid a lot. "Anyway, he tried to figure out what had happened to those two men. He started a full-out investigation, even after receiving threats to leave it alone. And then one day he started his car and it blew with him in it." Daryl rushed that last part, the way he rushed it whenever he told anyone about that day.

"You saw it happen?" Gerard guessed flatly.

Daryl nodded. "Saw it, but never could believe it. What a waste, you know? What a god damned stupid way to go."

Gerard frowned. "That's bad news. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Banks. Is his son at least doing well these days?"

"Me?" Daryl shrugged. "I don't know. I guess."

"You did say you were a police officer?"

"I'm a detective, yeah." Daryl glanced down at the uniform again. "I'm actually skipping out on my part-time job. I pull security over at the mall."

Gerard had a question written all over his face.

Daryl answered it with another shrug. "Being a detective doesn't pay all that well. And my dad didn't leave a lot of money. The force never gave us any benefits after his death. They got some insurance guy to investigate and claim the car had some faulty wiring or something, and it wasn't work related. But I know it was. No wiring would have made it blow the way it did." His eyes still glittered at the memory. He took a deep breath, seeing no change in Gerard's expression. "Anyway, dad had convinced me to finish college, so I've got a huge debt to pay off, and he had a few leftover debts that took up most of my savings...." He looked up at the waiter as he set a coke by him, and nodded his thanks. "That's about it for me. It sucks, but it's no different then half the clowns running around this city."

Gerard nodded, as though assessing everything he was hearing. "And now, Mr. Banks, my brother mentioned a man named Henri Brown. Do you know where he is today?"

"Oh, yeah. H is still around, still working his butt off for the department. He took over as captain of Major Crimes. That's where he should be right now, matter of fact."

"That's good news. So at least he is happy?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that. He's trying hard to stay where he is, but he's got a lot to deal with. This Chief of Police, Danglars, is more crooked than most of the guys in jail, and H is trying to get past all that, but it's hard, you know?"

"Danglars? Did I hear that correctly?"

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me he's in your brother's will also."

"As a matter of fact, he is. He made a deep impression on my brother as being a decent, hardworking officer. I believe it was in relation to the case against that other detective. Rafe?"

"Man, your brother must not have been here very long."

"More false information?"

Daryl blinked, then eyed the man, a sudden suspicion burning in his eyes. He didn't know who the hell this guy was, and he was sitting there blabbing his soul to the man. This story about a brother and last wishes, it was vague at best. "Uh, look, I really shouldn't be talking like this. I don't really know much about Danglars."

"Perhaps I will have to amend some of Padric's wishes. He would not have wanted any of his fortune to go to dirty men. Can you say nothing?"

"Just stay away from....fortune?" Daryl looked up suddenly. "Did you say fortune?"

"My brother died quite a rich man, yes. And he had certain carefully thought out rewards for all of his friends. There are still a few more names I wish to run past you."

Daryl blinked. "Uh, sure. Of course." In his mind he was screaming -- get back to the fortune! He had underexaggerated his own financial state to Gerard, left out a few things. He actually worked two of these part-time security jobs, along with being a detective, just to make ends come close to meeting. A little extra money from some stranger's inheritance could be just what he needed to --

"Jim Ellison? And I was told where I found him I would find another man, Blair-"

"Sandburg." Daryl's face clouded over again.

"Ah. Don't tell me more bad news has befallen?"

"Yeah. It seems pretty normal around Cascade, I'm afraid."

"Do you know where these men are to be found?"

"One of them, yeah. Jim has a place about an hour or so out of town. He doesn't come in to the city much anymore. Last time I saw him was a few months ago. He's been...well, pretty out of it, since..."

"Yes? Go on, please."

"Since Blair died."

"Another death?" Gerard did react to that. His eyebrow came up ever so slightly.

"Yeah. Except...well, Blair's murder was a mess. He and Jim...they worked together, but your brother probably knew that. They were close, you know? I've never seen two friends as close as they were. They were still living together, after all this time. Blair had a pretty steady girl, he was thinking about getting married. But you know, I'd bet if he did, she would have had to move in with him and Ellison, 'cause there was no way he would have left Jim's side."

"The death?"

"Right. Well, it was about five years ago, maybe. They were going after this escaped criminal who had a past with them, Lee Brackett? And Brackett managed to kidnap Blair, which wasn't all that strange. I never knew a guy get into more trouble than Blair did." Daryl smiled fondly, but it faded sadly a moment later. "Anyway, Brackett managed to get Blair out of the state, but Jim was tracking them at every turn. But something went wrong, there was a big shootout with a bunch of SWAT guys, and Jim came back alone, muttering about heartbeats. Dad told me later that Blair had been shot by Brackett and dumped into a river. They never found the poor guy's body, either. So Jim was pretty messed up after that. That was when he retired and got that place in the woods. He came into town more often back then, but once my dad was killed, there just wasn't much else to bring him here."

"That is a depressing tale. Padric should have kept in better contact with his friends in Cascade. Now, what of a man named Joel Taggert?"

"Joel went in for early retirement. Moved somewhere warm. Pensacola, I think. In Florida," he added, unsure of the Frenchman's familiarity with America.

"Ahh. One happy story. And a woman named Conner?"

"Megan's back in Australia. She was only here for a limited amount of time."

"Wonderful. Two more stops for my journey. Australia and Florida." Gerard nodded, as though checking a mental list. "Now, I suppose we must talk business, young man."

Daryl tried not to look too anticipatory. "Yeah? I guess so."

"I understand your wish to stay silent about Danglars, but it bothers me. Can you tell me at least...were I you, Mr. Banks, and you me, would you not give anything to this man? Is he so without redemption?"

Daryl nodded firmly. "He is. Although..."

"Yes, Mr. Banks?"

"Daryl, please. You call me that and I think of..."

"Your father. Of course, how insensitive. Daryl."

"Danglars' wife is really a wonderful person. I'm not exactly sure how the two of them ended up together, but she seems to be the only person in the world who doesn't realize he's lining his pockets."

"Oh? Is this woman truly that naive?"

Daryl smiled. "Yeah, actually she is. She was another one that got hit by tragedy, and she hasn't quite ever been the same. She was Detective Rafe's fiancee before he vanished."

Gerard was silent.

Daryl cleared his throat slightly, unnerved by the lack of response. "They were gonna get married, you know? And then Rafe disappeared and Mercedes was all alone in Cascade, and Danglars was an old friend of hers or something, and he went after her without shame when Rafe was gone. I guess she was on the rebound, and she went for him."

Gerard's head tilted down towards his drink. "Frailty, thy name is woman," he said ironically.

"Hamlet. I know that one. Yeah, I kinda thought that myself for a while. Dad wouldn't speak to her for a long time, but I guess he forgave her eventually, 'cause they were friends around the time he died."

"But a woman such as that is not enough to overcome Danglar's criminal activities," Gerard said firmly, as though coming to a decision. "Well, Mr. Banks. It was my brother's wish that your father receive the greatest amount of his estate, and I shall assume that the portions that can not be given to Danglars or Mr. Sandburg shall be added on to that. My brother mentioned the young son Daryl, so I feel there will be nothing wrong in giving that share directly to you. Perhaps it would help in relieving your own financial distress."

Daryl sat up slowly. "That's very generous of you, Gerard."

"Ahh, generous of my brother. I am merely the messenger. No, actually, I am also the one who writes the checks." With that, Gerard lifted the thin black briefcase he'd been carrying and opened it, pulling out some official-looking checks, and filling one out rapidly. "I do have a confession to make. My brother's estates were mostly in France and Italy, and I did assume they wouldn't be quite economical to you Americans. So a great deal of the lands I have purchased from him, and I'll be giving you the equivalent in monies along with the money my brother had allotted you."

Daryl tried not to peek, but he was almost trembling, he was so excited.

Gerard signed the check with a flourish, and started to hand it over, but stopped abruptly. "Mr. Banks, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Yeah?" Daryl said quickly.

"I may have more business to carry out in Cascade, but I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to return. You look like a dependable young man, and, if my brother was right about your father, you come from a good line. So I would like to get a promise from you."

"Anything."

"If you ever receive a letter in the mail with my name on it, you will do whatever the letter says. It will be nothing illegal or underhanded, and if money is required it will be sent. Can I get that promise from you?"

"Uh...that's pretty vague."

"If you have any reason to suspect my request, you won't be required to go through with it. Just consider it. I will simply need a body to carry out a few deeds I may have left here."

"I'll do it," Daryl said finally.

Gerard allowed himself a small smile. "Thank you." He handed the slip of paper over to Daryl, and stood abruptly.

"Are you leaving?"

"I'm afraid so. I have many other matters to attend to."

Daryl stood, the check burning a hole in his hand, but he stifled the urge to check the amount and held out his hand. "It's been interesting, Mr....Gerard, sorry."

"Quite all right. It has been most pleasant. I thank you for telling me everything that you did. I hope things will go better for you from now on."

Daryl watched the strange Frenchman as he moved gracefully through the crowd and out the door of the small diner.

The waiter came up before he had a chance to sit back down, slapping the check on the table.

Daryl groaned. He'd have to write a check. And he wasn't sure he had enough to-

Check!

He lifted the paper he held folded in his hands and looked at it for a long time.

The waiter came back a few minutes later to grab the check, and found him still staring.

Daryl grabbed his arm before he could leave the table, and thrust the check he held in front of the man's face. "Tell me what this says."

The waiter stared, puzzled. "It says two million dollars. Oh my God! Holy shit, is that for real?"

Daryl smiled to himself. "No way in hell. But God, wouldn't it be nice?"



Four Years Earlier-

Rafe sat, rapt attention on his face as he listened to the older man talk.

Faria had to be the most well-informed person Rafe had ever met. Any subject in the world he could speak about for hours. Which was a relief to Rafe, because often he couldn't work up the energy to talk himself.

The first time he had seen Faria had been after digging through his wall, over a matter of weeks, with only that one food bowl to help him. His tunnel had finally met with the tunnel that had already been dug and Rafe had fallen awkwardly into the man's cell. The two men had stared at each other for a long time. And then, without a hint of embarrassment or discomfort, they had fallen into each other's arms, each holding the warmth of another human being for the first time in years.

They had been mostly silent that first visit, listening with terrible paranoia to noises outside the cell, any signs of the guards coming. And then Rafe had fled back to his own cell in time for the guard's check before night.

He had waited another day to return to the cell, and Faria had been waiting for him. Rafe was able, after the second visit, to handle the situation with more decorum, studying his new friend. Faria looked like he was in his sixties, but he moved and spoke with so much fire and energy that Rafe figured his years in that cell must have aged him.

"How old are you, anyway?"

Rafe had been surprised to hear the question reflecting his own thoughts. "Me? I..don't really know. I was 27 when I was brought here. I'm not sure how much time has gone by."

"When were you brought here?"

"December 18, 1999." He said the date with a dark edge.

"Ahh. So you'd be about 35 now."

"You keep track of the date?"

Faria nodded firmly. "It's the only way not to go crazy."

Rafe peered at him more closely then. "Faria. Aren't you the man the guards say is...uh-"

"Already crazy?" Faria grinned.

Rafe returned the smile. "Well, I wasn't going to put it that way."

"Perfectly all right. Yes, I'm the man they think is insane."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since August 1995," Faria answered flatly.

Four years more than Rafe. The younger man shuddered at the thought.

"Yes, it's hard to believe sometimes. Fortunately I've had my pursuit keeping me busy."

"The wall?"

Faria nodded, somewhat sadly. "I was hoping that it would lead to an outside wall. Instead it goes straight to another cell. Ironic."

"You could start over. We could do it together. We can find a way out of this place."

Faria only shook his head peacefully. "If God wants me to stay in this cell so badly, I'm not one to argue. I haven't got long for the world now anyway."

"What do you mean?" Rafe's voice took on a fearful edge -- he had just found this man. His entire existence was turned around irrevocably by the new presence, and the last thing he wanted to hear was that that presence could be going away anytime in the future.

"Rafe, I am an old man. I wasn't very healthy before I came here, and the lifestyle since I was put in here hasn't been conducive to graceful aging, if you know what I mean. I'm sick."

"So we'll wait until you get better, then we'll get out of here. Look, I'm still pretty young, I can do all the work. You just tell me what to do -- I'll get us out of here."

Faria smiled. "You ARE young, and you should try. But it will not be with my help. I see no reason to plan for a day I'll never live to see."

Rafe blew out his frustration. "Okay. Then we'll stay here together. And when you start feeling better, we'll talk about it again."

Faria nodded, almost looking like he was just humoring Rafe. "In the meantime, we have a great deal to talk about."

Rafe nodded, getting settled on the floor of the unfamiliar cell.

"So, Rafe, what were you in your old life?"

Rafe smiled slightly. "A cop. You?"

Faria laughed. "A criminal."

"You? But you seem so..."

"What? Decent? Normal? God-fearing? I am. But I mixed up with the wrong people. And I'm guessing you did the same, or you wouldn't be here in the dungeons keeping me company."

"The wrong people?" Rafe sat up suddenly, eyes burning. "I never knew. I still don't know. What I did to end up here, why any of this happened. I've thought about it, I've spent months, years, thinking about it."

Faria smiled. "Ahh. Our first order of business shall be to calm this part of your brain, then. Tell me what you know happened."

"That's the thing, I don't know anything. I had just come off a big undercover job, I was at a restaurant with all my friends and my fiancee, and these officers showed up and arrested me."

"Start over. Did this big undercover job have something to do with Jean Noirtier?"

Rafe started in shock. "How did you know?"

"Noirtier was my employer for a long time. He is responsible for me, and now I'd say you, being here."

"Noirtier." Rafe gritted the name out, his face turning pale.

"But that is the least of it. Tell me what happened next."

"This cop who'd helped me bring down Noirtier, Danglars, he showed up out of-"

"Evan Danglars?"

Rafe stopped. "You know who..."

"On Noirtier's payroll. This is making sense to me now."

"But it shouldn't have happened! Even with Danglars being dirty it should have...I mean, I talked to a judge, a man who should have let me out. He was going to, he was even taking the damned cuffs off, but then he all of the sudden changed his mind. As soon as I said it was Noirtier I had...." Rafe turned blazing eyes to Faria.

The old man was nodded to himself. "And what was this judge's name."

"Villford." Rafe studied the man.

Faria smiled, still nodded. "My poor boy. You were railroaded."

"But..why Villford? I could have sworn he was going to-"

"Villford isn't his real name. He is descended from a Frenchman. His name is de Villefort."

"And?"

"And Jean Noirtier's name before he became an anonymous criminal was Noirtier de Villefort. I'm afraid you had the misfortune of being taken to the one judge with a history with Noirtier, one who didn't want his connection to his father being traced."

"His son." Rafe's eyes went to the wall, flashing a dark, angry fire.

Faria was silent for a minute. "I wish now we hadn't figured it out."

"Why's that?" Rafe asked distractedly.

"I've planted the thirst for vengeance in you." Faria spoke with regret.

Rafe shook his head, his dark eyes going back to his friend. "It was already there. I simply needed the names to put it with."

Faria stood and strode over to Rafe, kneeling beside him anxiously. "The desire for vengeance will do nothing for you. In the circumstance we're in, it is the worst thing that could keep you going. We will talk about something else."

Rafe nodded. The anger, the inhuman need for revenge rising up in him, it wouldn't go away. But he would do nothing to upset his new friend. "All right, what should we talk about?"

Of course, Rafe realized later that that question was a mistake. Faria started talking, and he just didn't stop. He knew everything, Rafe finally decided. Everything about everything. He'd gone to college, gotten his degree, although Rafe never did find out which subject he'd gotten a degree in. It could have been any number of things, judging by the man's conversation. He spoke four or five languages fluently -- he was the most learned man Rafe had ever met. Rafe felt like an idiot even sitting near him.

He made that comment to Faria one day, and just like that, the lessons began. Rafe's days were suddenly spent learning, everything Faria knew. In six months he was able to converse, jerkily, in each of the languages Faria knew. He learned math, history, and Faria was the best teacher he could have hoped for. Having nothing else to keep his mind occupied, Rafe picked up everything faster than he ever would have thought possible.

It kept both men going, as Faria did seem to get weaker and weaker, and Rafe's thirst for revenge, his new, terrible knowledge about the men who had destroyed his life for no reason, made him more and more anxious to find a way out of the prison.



January, 2010 Cascade, Washington

The car had made it all the way up the road and in sight of the cabin before Jim Ellison heard it.

It was strange, even after all that time, to be snuck up on like that. To be taken by surprise. But Jim was slowly getting used to it.

Assuming someone had gotten lost -- it happened quite a few times through the year -- Jim went out to meet the car as it pulled up.

It was a slick black thing, the kind of car that did not belong anywhere near the woods. And it pulled to a stop in front of him.

A man climbed out, dressed pseudo-casually in slacks and a sweater. His dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail behind him, dark glasses on his face.

"Can I help you?" It was all Jim could do to keep his voice hospitable. He hated strangers coming into his land.

"You can if you're Jim Ellison." The man spoke with the slightly airy voice of a Californian.

"Who's asking?"

The man reached in and grabbed a notebook and pen from inside the car. "Mr. Ellison, I'm a student at Berkley. I was hoping I could-"

"You're a student?" Jim gave the thirty-something man a dubious look.

The man grimaced, as if he heard that a lot. "Got a late start on life, you could say."

"So what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, I'm trying to get a psychology degree, and I want to work with law enforcement officers. I was hoping I could interview you for my thesis."

Jim shook his head, already backing off. "No way. Look, I'm not a cop anymore. It's been a long time. Go talk to Henri Brown in Cascade, he'll tell you whatever you need to know."

"Yeah, yeah. I talked to Captain Brown. He's the one that told me to come out here and talk to you myself."

"He did, did he?" Looked like Jim would have to go into town and have a little talk with H.

"Yeah. He didn't think you'd be too happy, but I have come a long way to do this, and I was hoping you could give me just a few minutes."

Jim gazed at the face, and felt a twinge tugging somewhere inside of him. College student. Figured. Going for his doctorate. Eager, excited.

Damn, but the comparison his mind supplied him still hurt, even after those few years. "All right. Just a few minutes."

"Great!"

Jim led the younger man in to his small, bare cabin.

The student looked around eagerly. "Huh. This is...spartan."

"My decorating choices going into the paper?"

"No."

"Then have a seat and stop gawking."

The man obeyed. "All right. Jim Ellison. You know you're a legend in some circles."

"Which circles would those be?"

"Oh, you know. Circles. Other cops, and a few cult-types who still believe that story that came out about you years ago. That you were a Sentinel."

Jim laughed bitterly, and didn't even have to fake it. No, he was no Sentinel. No protector. If he had been meant to be the Guardian of the Great City, fate wouldn't have taken his Guide away, right?

Right.

"So. Tell me about Blair Sandburg."

"What?" Jim stood quickly, shaking his head. "No. No way. That's a forbidden topic, pal."

"Whoa, calm down. It's just that this is the focus of my interest in you."

"Yeah?" Jim gritted his teeth. "What exactly is your focus?"

"Well, Sandburg was your partner, right? Story goes you two went through a lot together. You saved his life over and over again, he called himself a fraud to protect you. Close, right?"

"Where you going with this?" Jim wandered the room restlessly.

"Well, Sandburg was killed..." He checked his notes. "Five years ago? Is that right?"

Jim nodded silently.

"And after that you quit the force and moved out here."

"So what -- exactly -- is your point here?"

The man seemed to recognize the tone in his voice. "Um. Well, it's a long-standing mystery why you didn't even go out and catch the man that murdered Sandburg. As many times as you went to his aid in your career, and I'm sure there were more than are in the case files, it would be logical to think you would want to avenge his murder. Instead you shut down and became a hermit. And I'm interested in finding out why that is."

Jim's steps slowed to a stop, and he found himself gazing in the small mirror perched on the mantel over his fire place. No, this Jim Ellison wasn't the man who'd partnered with Blair Sandburg. He wasn't the man who had gone out of his way to solve crimes, to save the city of Cascade over and over again in his time as a cop. He was older, he was more bitter. There were lines on his face, his hairline was receded. And his eyes sparked with darkness.

He had control over himself in the woods. That's what he wouldn't be able to tell the guy perched on his chair. When Blair was shot, Jim hadn't even seen it. He hadn't seen Blair being dumped into the river. But he knew it the second it happened. It was as though half of himself was ripped away. He could hear himself screaming, he could feel every single sense going out of control, and then vanishing to nothing. He had staggered back to the hotel Simon had booked for them, and only time there, alone, with no distractions, had allowed him to get back his tenuous control and figure out what had happened.

His senses had gone. Vanished, without a trace. There were no more dials in his head. He was normal. What he had prayed for a few times, especially when his senses first came on-line. No more Sentinel.

It was the last, great proof that Blair was gone for good.

Cascade had been torture for him, from the hour he got back. He couldn't face anyone, he couldn't handle the questions, or the looks. He couldn't stand even the idea of going to the funeral. So he got out of the city and went to where he could control himself. Where things made sense.

He started talking slowly. "Lee Brackett killed Blair. Brackett was then apprehended by FBI agents and placed under arrest. There was nothing for me to do."

"Ahh, but that doesn't sound like the Jim Ellison in the stories."

"Maybe I wasn't that Jim Ellison anymore." He turned on the man. "It's not a story I'm gonna tell some student so he can get his Ph.D., all right? Go prod someone else's mind."

The man stood obediently, but didn't move towards the door. "I just found it strange, Mr. Ellison. You weren't there when Blair was killed, they never found his body. And yet you simply accepted that he was dead and didn't do anything about it."

"Get out of here."

"Perhaps there's some other reason that isn't in the files?"

"Get-"

"Maybe the stories were true, Mr. Ellison. Maybe you are a Sentinel, and Blair was your Guide, and that has something to do with your reaction to his death."

Jim sneered at the thin younger man. "Smarter people have dug harder than that and not gotten a thing out of me. Why don't you stop wasting both our time?"

"Maybe someone else figured this out, huh? Someone who wasn't inclined to be nice about it."

Jim stopped abruptly, facing him in surprise.

"Maybe someone is holding your identity over your head, keeping you safe and quiet here. Otherwise, I can't understand how two of your best friends could be killed and you not do anything about it."

Two? God, this punk was bringing up Simon now. "Get out of here."

"Henri Brown concurred when I suggested this idea. He said it was distinctly possible, the way you made such a hurried exit out of the city, and didn't come back for a long time after Simon Banks was killed by a car bomb."

Jim snapped. "That's it!" He grabbed the man by his shirt and started hauling him to the door. "You get the hell out of here, you piece of shit. The interview's over."

The man went without a protest, but he stopped once he was out the door, turning back to face Jim, who stood framed in the doorway, shaking with anger. "Mr. Ellison?"

Jim didn't answer, just started shutting the door.

"Every time you go into Cascade, you go to the Chief of Police and pay a visit. Can I ask why?"

The door stopped its motion, but there was no response.

"I was told you and the detectives you worked with were no friends of Chief Danglars. Yet you go see him. Why is that?"

There was a long pause, and the door finished its arc and shut without another sound.

The thirty-something student looked at the doorway with a small, unidentifiable smile, before he went back to his car and peeled away from the solitary cabin and its lone occupant.





Three Years Earlier....

"Rafe?"

"Da?"

Faria chuckled. "You picked the Russian up well."

Rafe smiled. "Da. Orchin horisha."

"I need to talk to you." Faria's smile faded quickly.

"You hardly need to ask permission."

"Rafe, I'm not going to last much longer."

Rafe rolled his eyes. "You tell me that almost every day now."

Faria met his eyes, serious.

Rafe's grin faded finally. "All right. You keep saying it, so for the moment I'll believe you."

"When I do finally breathe my last, you've got to get yourself out of here."

Rafe turned to him, surprised at this turn.

"You are still a young man. You are sharp, you're kind, and you being put here was a grave injustice. You are....Rafe, you are like the son I never had. I don't want you dying here too."

"Faria-"

"Hear me out. You will find a way out of here, yes? You get out, as fast as you can. And then, once you're out in the world...." Faria let out a breath shakily. "I need to tell you about something."

"Anything." The solemness in Faria's tone was making Rafe equally serious.

"The guards here think I'm insane because I used to offer them treasures if they let me out."

Rafe's shoulders tensed. The entire time the two men had been spending their days together, neither had mentioned this apparent lapse of sense from the older man. "Uh huh?"

"Well, I'm not crazy. You've known me for only two years, but you know me well. You have to know that I'm not insane."

Rafe thought about that. Faria...Faria was the sanest man he'd ever known. "No, you're not."

"Then you believe me?"

He frowned, shifting slightly. "I....I want to...."

Faria smiled slightly in understanding. "Perhaps my archaic use of the word treasure is throwing you off. I like to think of it as treasure, but I'll describe it to you in more believable terms. Rafe, I worked with Jean Noirtier for years. Ever since he arrived in this country. You know that I was a criminal. You didn't know that I was also a thief."

Rafe's eyes came up in surprise.

Faria nodded somewhat sadly. "There are hundreds of ways to cheat people if they depend on you to keep control of their finances. And you wouldn't believe the amount of money Noirtier would bring in. For years I would take off the top. A hundred thousand, a million, every week I would funnel the money out. The man...you wouldn't believe. A man like Noirtier has a reputation that's unheard of anywhere else. People offer him fortunes to do his job, here and in Europe. If he is smart, he's retired and living like a king, literally, somewhere warm." Faria shrugged. "But back to my own story. I could feel, towards the end, as Faria began to suspect me, and his trust in me lessened. I made sure to take all the money I had stolen from him over almost two decades out of the dozen or so banks I had it spread around in. I've got cash, bonds, stocks. Stocks that have either multiplied in value or are now worthless, there was no way for me to keep track." He faced Rafe squarely. "This is my treasure. Doesn't seem so much like a fantasy now, does it?"

Rafe shook his head, stunned. "Are you serious? You have all this money...buried in a well somewhere or something?"

Faria grinned. "Something like that. I had always hoped for a release or escape, to get to my treasure and live happily with what time I had left, but it won't happen. I know that now. It's God's revenge for the evils I've committed. But Rafe, the sin that is on that money is my sin, and I've paid for it now. You, who have committed no sin and been punished just the same, are clean. Just as this money, for you, would be clean."

Rafe's eyes were huge. "Are you saying...."

"It's yours. You get out of here, find that well, and be happy for the rest of your life. It's the least I can do for you, my son."

Emotion overtook Rafe at that moment. He no longer cared if it was a fantasy, ravings of an old man who'd been in prison for the last twelve years, or if there was really so much unclaimed money buried somewhere in the world. He reached out and grasped the hand of the older man that he truly had started thinking of as a father, and he squeezed. "We'll do it together," he said hoarsely. "I'll find a way to get us both out of here, and we'll be happy together."

Faria squeezed back. "No. This won't be, Rafe. You have to accept that now."

Rafe shook his head mutely, staggering to his feet. "The...the guards will be here soon. I have to go back."

Faria nodded, releasing his hand. "Rafe, before you go. There is a small rental facility in Omaha, Nebraska. I wasn't sure how long this punishment was going to last, but I rented the space I have for fifteen years. If nothing has happened to that business, it will still be there."

"Later, father." Rafe tried to smile, using his nickname for the older man intentionally. "We'll talk about it later."

"I may not have later." Faria's voice rose, and he got himself to his feet with difficulty. "Find it, Rafe. When you get out, find the rental warehouse, find my reserved room. There's one small box, buried with the rest of my belongings. In that box is a key. That key will open another box, a much larger one. In that box is everything I have suffered for all these years. Take it, son. Please."

Rafe could see the flashes of near-desperation in his friend's eyes, and he nodded. "I will." He spoke quietly, already heading for the small moved block covering his entrance to the other man's cell.

Faria relaxed finally at his agreement. "You are an honest man, Rafe. I will expect you to go through with this. If you don't, I'll haunt you. I'm not above it."

Rafe returned the smile weakly. "I will. I promise you I will."

"Good." Faria stood watching as Rafe made his escape, placing the rock behind him carefully -- not that the guards ever took a close look in their cells, but just in case. And then his strength failed him, and he sagged to the floor again, a sick man.



January, 2010 Cascade, Washington

"God damn it!"

Evan Danglars hung the phone up with a bang. That was it. He'd had it with Henri Brown and his god damned detectives. He just had to figure out what to do about it.

But that shouldn't be too hard.

There was a light knock on his door. "Sir?"

"What is it, Janine?"

"There's a man here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says it's urgent." She shut the door behind her and came in to the office.

Danglars lowered his voice. "How's he look?"

Obviously used to the question, Janine grinned. "Rich. Fancy everything, down to the shoes. He's also a foreigner, Russian, I think. You want to talk to this guy."

Danglars grinned. "Sure, send him in."

Ever since his decision to run for the Senate two days ago, he'd already received a host of visitors, patrons, supporters. Rich guys who wanted to make sure he stood where they wanted him to stand. Ahh, politics. He loved it already.

The door opened a second later, and Danglars stood to greet his guest.

The man came forward with a long stride, his dark hair tied up neatly behind his head. "Chief Danglars."

Danglars grinned. Russian. This would be interesting. "What can I do for you?" He reached out his hand.

The man hesitated, but shook it firmly. "I have heard of your decision to run for office. May I be the first to tell you congratulations?"

"I appreciate that." Danglars gave a huge smile. This man was, of course, the twelfth to be the first to congratulate him, but he wouldn't let on. "Mr..."

"Petrov." He offered nothing more.

"Mr. Petrov. Please, have a seat."

"I wish to stand."

"Very well." Not missing a beat, Danglars sat himself anyway. He let the man stand over him -- he let him believe his was the position of power. Why not?

"Chief Danglars, your decision has disturbed the men I am here to represent."

His grin faded somewhat. "Oh?"

"There is a concern among my peers that the quality of government in this state is already low. We do not wish to see the problem get worse before it gets better."

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Petrov?" His tone was still light, but his eyes were gleaming suddenly.

"Mr. Danglars, let's not mince words. You are a criminal. We don't wish to see you representing our state. We are prepared to offer you recompense for stepping down from the election."

"I...those are strong words, Mr. Petrov. Do you mind telling me exactly what you have to back it up?"

The sunglasses swung towards him. "Jean Noirtier."

Danglars felt the blood drain from his face, but he didn't react in any other way. "Mr. Petrov, I'm a busy man. I thank you for coming by, but you should leave. Now."

Petrov stood dutifully. "Danglars, this is only the beginning. There are people out there who know what you are and what you have done, and those people will stop you from ascending any higher than has already been allowed."

"Allowed?" His face twisted in anger, but he kept his voice level. "Get out of here."

Petrov turned and walked out the door without an argument.

Danglars sat back down, his heart racing. His hand shook as he reached for the glass of water on the desk.



The next day, a man with long, dark hair and sunglasses he refused to take off went to the Cascade Airport and caught the next available flight to Whittier, California.



"To the richest man in Cascade, and my best friend! You know what they say, D. Friends share everything."

Daryl laughed. "Look, Cliff, I love ya like a brother and all, but-"

"But nothing! What are you gonna do with two million dollars?" Cliff Brown grinned. "Two million dollars. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Daryl grinned. "It's rolled off my tongue so much in the past week I'm worried it's gonna just keep rolling one of these days."

Cliff sagged against the couch. "Man. This goes beyond luck, D. And you had to get it, of everyone in Cascade."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Daryl demanded, good-natured.

"Nothin'." Cliff met his eyes, more sincere now. "You deserve it. I'm happy for you."

Daryl grinned back. "When's your pop getting home?"

"What's this?" A voice behind them answered the question before Cliff could. "The boy becomes a millionaire and thinks he can stop respecting his elders?"

Daryl turned with a smile. "You know, I meant to say when is Captain Brown, the esteemed leader of Major Crimes and my ever-forgiving boss, going to bless us with his presence?"

"That's better." Henri Brown came in, dropping his coat with a sigh and heading for the two young men. "Cliff," he greeted his son with a quick hug. "How was class?"

"Didn't go," Cliff reported cheerfully. "Had to have an I-can't-believe-that-check-cleared celebration with my best friend here."

Henri glared, trying to look intimidating. "Yeah, your friend's money troubles are over. Not yours, son. You get your ass to class and graduate and become a doctor, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah. D, you're lucky you don't have to worry about this hassle any more. No work, no school."

Daryl cleared his throat slightly and turned to Henri. "Actually, I kinda wanted to talk to you about that, sir."

"Oh? You turning in notice? I was wondering why you hadn't yet."

"Had to wait for the check to clear," Cliff chirped from the couch.

"No. Actually, I don't want to turn in notice."

Cliff sat up. "What?"

Henri blinked in surprise. "You wanna keep working?"

Daryl nodded. "Yeah. What else would I do?"

"You mean," Cliff started out, staring at his friend as though he'd gone mental. "you inherit two million big ones from a total stranger, no strings attached, and you're gonna keep going back to the station? Come on, D, you know how this story goes. The minute you get back you're gonna get shot or something, and the money'll be wasted."

Daryl exchanged grins with Henri. "I have no intention of not spending the money, Cliff. I have bills, I can get a new place, and I can quit my part-times. But I like being a cop. It's what I do. It's what my father would want me to do."

Cliff shut his mouth quickly. He had learned long ago that Daryl's near-saintly memory of his father couldn't be touched.

"Daryl, I'm surprised to hear that. But I'm not gonna argue. You're the best detective we've got."

Daryl met the Captain's eyes, touched. "Thank you, sir."

Cliff cleared his throat. "Well, at least tell me you're gonna show up at the station in a Mercedes wearing Armani or something."

Daryl grinned. "I could do that."

"Nah. On second thought, don't lose your style. What kind of cop wears Armani, anyway? You'd get laughed at by the other shmoes working there."

Henri's grin faded suddenly, and he looked away from the two men. "I'm...uh, I'm gonna go change." He headed out of the room quickly.

"Huh. What brought that on?"

Daryl watched him go, not having missed the flash of pain that came over him. "I think you brought up some memories."

"Memories? What'd I say?"

Daryl flopped down on the couch, letting out a sigh. "Cops in Armani. Your dad's old partner?"

Cliff shut his eyes for a minute. "Damn. That was dumb."

Daryl sighed. "You know, I was talking about Rafe the other day. To that French guy."

"Your benefactor?" Cliff smiled again slightly. "I wonder if Frenchy would be offended that you can't remember his name."

"I remember Gerard. But the last name was...you know. French. And it was a business check. I guess I could go look up the guy's brother in the records and get it from there."

"Why worry about it? Think of him as a nameless spirit, dropping good fortune on your lap. Kinda mysterious."

Daryl chuckled. "I can do that. He fit the image, that's for sure."



Whittier, California

Blair Sandburg took a long, deep breath, and opened the large notebook in front of him.

Ughh. Red ink. All over the page, no end in sight. Red ink. He raised the pen to make a few more entries, but frowned and slammed it shut suddenly.

He was tired. Tired of red, tired of writing in negative numbers. Tired of worrying every second about how he was going to keep this place running.

There was a knock on the door just then, blessedly taking his mind off his problems. "Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yeah?"

"There's a man here to see you. He says it's important." A young woman stuck her head in the door. She took in Blair's tired face and slumped body. "I could tell him you're not here," she offered softly.

Blair grinned tightly. "No thank, Bren. Send him on back."

She nodded and left quickly.

Blair's hand came up, rubbing his face tiredly. What was it now? Visitors to see him were never good news, not any more.

A moment later the door opened again, and a tall, slender man stood there. He wore dark glasses and a hat pulled over his hair. He was wearing a plain, cheap suit with a rather unattractive tie.

Blair knew instantly. He was from a bank. He was a creditor. Oh, hell.

"Mr. Sandburg." The man spoke with a clipped, nervous speech. "My name is James Gershwin. I'm a representative for First National Bank here in Whittier."

Uh oh. First National. The biggest loan he'd taken out to start this business was from them. "Sit down, Mr. Gershwin." He kept his voice amazingly steady.

"Thank you." He sat, clutching his thin briefcase to him closely. The glasses were aimed at him for a long moment in silence, and Blair found himself fidgeting.

He could see himself suddenly in the way he always did when anyone in a suit came in. He made quite a sad picture, he imagined. Long, curly hair touched with premature gray, always carefully pulled back when he was at work. Thin glasses with bent frames that he couldn't afford to fix, dressed too casually to be the owner of a business. The office itself was no better -- messy, disorganized, covered with papers, books lying on every available surface.

"What can I do for you?" he asked finally when the silence got to be too much.

"Mr. Sandburg, I'll be blunt. We're worried. Given your requests for deferments on payments, and similar deferments from other institutions from which you've borrowed money, we're afraid that our money isn't safe in this business." He fell silent, waiting for Blair to speak.

"Oh." Blair's hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing aching muscles nervously. "Well. I haven't missed any payments before. This has been a bad...well, a bad month. Couple of months. It's going to get better."

"I see. Can you give us any assurance of that?"

"Assurance? Like what?" Blair knew he shouldn't be asking, but the guy was making him really nervous, sitting their frozen, eyes hidden by dark lenses. "Um, look. I can't really make any promises. But I'm doing my best here. I know I owe you money, I know-"

"One hundred and twenty three thousand dollars, Mr. Sandburg."

"What?" Blair looked up in shock.

"First National has been approached by several lesser institutions, and we've purchased from them several high-risk loans. That means we have assumed three other of your accounts. The total of these plus the loan you took out with us directly is one hundred twenty three thousand eight hundred dollars and change. Counting the payments you've made over the last three years."

Blair slumped in his chair. "I see." He couldn't think of a single other thing to say to the news.

"I am here to assess your business, and your plans for the future, to determine whether or not we're going to recommend you file for bankruptcy."

Blair's eyes came up again, another blow dealt. "No! No, I don't have to file. I can pay you back. Listen, it's been bad, but things are going to get better. Business has just been a little-"

"Mr. Sandburg, you own a relatively small used book store in the middle of a city filled with chain stores, and citizens who have no interest in antiques. Your business has made no money since it opened two years ago."

Blair opened his mouth, closed it again. And stared, unable to argue.

"I've taken it upon myself to go through your records, Mr. Sandburg. Credit reports and such. And I have found nothing. There are no Jacob Sandburgs listed whose social security numbers come close to the one you gave us."

Uh-oh. This was getting way too serious.

"I did find a listing for a Blair Jacob Sandburg, identical number. I found that odd, considering that your files with our bank give your name rather definitely as Jacob James Sandburg."

"Yeah. I know. Look, it's a long-"

"I also found it interesting that the Blair Jacob Sandburg from Cascade has been reported as deceased."

Blair looked down, his eyes dark. "Yeah."

"Do you want to tell me why we should trust our money to a corpse, Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair swallowed, hard.

There was a pause, and the man stood suddenly. "I suspected you would have no answer. Mr. Sandburg, First National is going to give you two months to pay us the money we're owed. After that time, we will seek a law suit unless you volunteer to file for bankruptcy. I hope that's clear enough."

Gershwin peered at him for another moment behind the glasses, then turned and left without a sound.

Blair slumped in his chair, his hand going to his eyes. It was crashing down. After five years, it was all crashing down around his ears. He would be turned in, reported to the police. He would be taken back to Cascade to face his former friends, and he would have to face them knowing he had been responsible for his best friend and partner being murdered by Lee Brackett.

Shouldn't a Sentinel be allowed to haunt his Guide?

Jim, I could really use your advice right now, buddy.



Cascade, Washington

Cliff Brown took a long look around the streets before he drew in a deep breath and got out of his car, heading for the door of the restaurant as fast as he could and almost jumping inside.

The hostess looked up at him with a smile. "Hi there. She's sitting at your table."

Cliff nodded his thanks and headed towards the dark back of the nearly-empty Chinese restaurant, making a beeline for the very back, very corner booth, the darkest spot in the room.

A head of dark hair looked up as he sat quickly, and a beaming face greeted him. "Hi."

He relaxed instantly. "Hey." He glanced out at the empty room quickly before stretching across the booth and pressing a quick kiss to the girl's lips.

Her smile grew as he pulled away. "Boy, I've missed this."

"Me, too." Cliff reached out and grabbed her hand. "I'm glad you called."

"Well. Dad's finally gone back to work, so he's not watching me like a hawk."

"Where are you right now?"

"The library." Val laughed. "It was the first thing I could think of. But midterms are coming up, so it wasn't that hard to convince him."

"Val....I don't want you to get in trouble for this."

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't want either of us to get into trouble. But we're Romeo and Juliet, we've got to accept that."

He laughed. "Yeah. It's hard, though. I want to be able to take you out. Show you off."

She echoed his laugh. "I wish. But if my father or your father or anyone who knew either of them or either of us..." She stopped. "Well, anyone in Cascade, pretty much."

"I know. They can't see us. If our folks found out, we'd be toast. I know." His smile was long gone.

She looked down for a minute. "I...I told mother."

His eyes grew. "About me?"

She nodded.

Cliff was quiet for a minute. Daryl had always had nothing but good things to say about Mercedes Danglars. He just hoped D was right. "What did she say?"

"She's pretty upset."

He frowned. "Damn."

"Oh, no! Not about us! About...everything. About our fathers, about the fact that we can only meet here once a week, when we're lucky. She just wants me to be happy, Cliff, and she's afraid of what will happen. But she doesn't disapprove."

He relaxed slightly, twining his fingers with hers. "That's good."

She smiled slightly. "She likes your father, you know."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Of course. She knew him before she knew me. Before father decided he hated Captain Brown, so we had to hate him too."

"Yeah, but...she doesn't...I mean-"

Val shrugged, her eyes growing slightly dark. "Mom's not very happy, Cliff. She doesn't love my father, not anymore. I don't know if she ever did. She's told me this much herself."

"Wow." Now and as far back as Cliff could remember, his mom and dad had been deeply in love. He wondered, looking at Val's sad eyes, what it would be like to grow up in a loveless home. "How did you feel about that?"

Val hesitated. "I suspected it. But I don't love her any the less. If it wasn't for mom I would have left this city by now. The moment I could have gotten out, gone to school out of state, I'd have left. My father is...he's not a good man."

Cliff nodded slightly. "I don't like to say that in front of you, but my father's convinced he is...."

"A criminal?" She saw his surprise with a smile. "I know it. Mother does, too. That's why I don't much care for what he says about your family."

"Why...why doesn't she leave him?"

"Because of me," Val answered simply. "Father has threatened her before. If she leaves him, he'll make sure she never sees me again. I know, it's silly. I'm almost twenty years old. But I wouldn't be able to afford college if not for him, and as long as I don't have a job I can't afford to live on my own. I feel horrible, forcing her to put up with him for my sake." She drew in a breath. "But I can't lose her and be alone with him. And she loves me."

Cliff reached out and laid a hand on her arm. "We're going to work it out. Somehow, Val. We'll find a way to be together, and...hell, your mom can come live with us if she wants."

Val laughed slightly, shaking her head as though to clear it of negative thoughts. "Enough about father. We only get a little time together, let's not waste it. Tell me how you've been."

So Cliff talked for a while, telling her about Daryl's miracle, and they joked wistfully about how easy their lives would be if two million dollars fell into their laps. And she filled him in on her classes, and how stifled she'd felt the entire time her father was on vacation, watching her constantly.

They talked for hours, until after the restaurant had closed, and when they had to say goodbye, they did it with the reluctance that came with not knowing when they would be able to see each other again.

And Cliff left the restaurant the same way he'd come in, checking the streets, running to his car, driving away as fast as he could.

He was being paranoid, maybe, but if there was any chance that his not being paranoid led to their discovery, and he would lose these few precious hours a week, he would give himself ulcers worrying, he would wear out his feet running.

He was in love. With Valentine Danglars. And it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.



Three Years Earlier --

It had been easy for Rafe to put the thoughts of treasure and money out of his mind. He swore to himself he would never mention it again -- it caused too much stress between he and Faria, and it wasted precious time between the two of them. And aside from one more paniced moment when Faria had begged Rafe to memorize details he needed -- security codes, passwords, things to help him locate the warehouse and get this 'treasure', it hadn't come up again.

So they went on for a couple of months as if the conversation had never taken place. Faria resumed teaching Rafe, who he swore now knew everything he did himself, with the exception of a few details. And Rafe continued to be a good student, soaking up everything Faria would give him.

And one day he asked Faria something he'd been meaning to for a long time.

"Faria?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you realize I don't even know your name?"

Faria grinned at that. "Sure you do."

Rafe laughed. "No, I don't. Faria, that's all. You do have a first name, don't you?"

"Same as everyone, Rafe, my boy."

"Well?"

Faria crossed his arms and glared. "You may remember me as father. Or teacher. Or Faria, as you have."

"Remember you?"

Faria nodded.

Rafe shook his head with a grin. "You're serious."

"Of course."

And they'd gone on with their lesson.

And the next day, Rafe crept in to see him, same as always, and discovered that he'd never have a chance to find out what his full name was.

He was lying curled up against the wall, the way he did sometimes. Rafe had learned to move so quietly through that wall that he didn't even wake Faria up. He would creep in and sit there until the older man woke naturally. And Faria would never fail to bitch him out for making them lose time together, time he could have been learning.

Always learning. Rafe learned more in these trips, over the last two years, then he ever had in his life, college included.

This morning, though, the pallor of Faria's face as he slept, and the dark tones of the last few days' conversations, made Rafe unnaturally anxious, and he went to his mentor's side. "Faria?" He shook the man gently, knowing his body had grown fragile.

Faria didn't stir.

"Father?"

Rafe tried for a minute longer, before it dawned on him that he was sitting in a room with a corpse.

He cried harder than he ever had in his life, even when first thrown in that cell. He sobbed out years of pain, of loneliness -- he cried for pain and loneliness yet to come, now that he was alone again.

And then he crawled back to his own cell, despondent, and sat for hours, silent, sniffling, until the guards disturbed him with the evening offering of slimy food.

"Looks like the loon finally kicked the bucket. Your turn next, pal."

Rafe hardly glanced up, even though it was the most that had been said to him in years by anyone other than Faria.

Faria.

He couldn't take it. As soon as the guards were gone, he slowly counted to a hundred, just to be sure, then moved that rock and started through the narrow tunnel to his only source of happiness.

He fell into the old man's cell gracelessly, his eyes shedding tears, and he went over to the dark form.

And saw in surprise that the guards had been there, and zipped Faria into a body bag already. They must just be waiting for a chance to sneak him out and dump him somewhere.

He stared at the dark plastic of the bag, sniffling. This meant the guards would probably be back any time now, but he didn't care. Let them find him in there. Let them beat him, or kill him, or do whatever they wanted. He was as good as dead now that Faria was gone.

He remembered his promise, the money, that rental warehouse in Nebraska, and felt a twinge of guilt, but he buried it quickly under grief and anger. Escape?

It seemed clear to him now that death was the only way to escape from this hell. Faria was escaping now.

He held onto that thought, looking at the black lump in the bag. Escaping.

And suddenly, a flash seemed to strike his brain, and he almost stumbled in his sudden shock. Escape!

The plan formulated in his mind, and he moved quickly. The knowledge that the guards could be back any time was now a motivator, and he went to the bag and zipped it open quickly.

Looking at the pale, dead face was hard, but he steeled his heart and moved quickly, pulled the bag off the body.

He pulled the limp form slowly, dragging Faria on the ground towards the hole in the wall.

The trip down the tunnel was agonizingly slow and difficult. He had to go feet-first so he could drag Faria after him, and creeping through he got the sudden feeling that the tunnel had grown twice its length since he went over. His breath came in gasps, his heart was pounding in his chest so hard that he wouldn't have heard if the guards opened either of the cells. And he had nothing to look at but the hands he was tugging, and the body they were attached to.

But he made it over finally, and pulled Faria into his own cell. Mumbling words of apology for the ill-treatment of his mentor's corpse, he pushed Faria against the wall, where he usually slept, and pulled the thin blanket over him, turning him to face the wall, and covering up to the top of his head.

He stood, but hesitated. Finally he bent down and uncovered the face. He pressed a quick kiss onto the cold cheek, and stood again, his eyes blurring.

He pulled the stone after him as he started back for Faria's cell, and when he got there he repositioned the other stone. He wouldn't make this easy for those guards, damn them.

And then he fit himself into the dark bag, making sure to position himself where Faria had been.

And he carefully zipped the bag around him.