Of Good and Evil

Part 2
by Lucy

January, 2010 Cascade, Washington

"Henri, what the hell is going on here?"

Henri Brown stood up in surprise. "Jim! What're you doing here?"

Jim Ellison was furious. "What are you doing sending college kids to my place with promises of interviews? What are you doing talking about Blair Sandburg to some punk from California?"

"Jim, what're you talking about?"

"You heard me! That kid you blabbed to showed up, started asking me about Blair and Simon. Damn it, Brown! How did you think that would make me feel?"

"Jim!" Brown shouted to make himself heard over the angry man. He moved quickly over and shut the door to the office, ignoring the rather blatant stares from outside. "Calm down! I'm telling you, I don't know what you're talking about. I never talked to any students, and I definitely never sent anybody to your place. Now just have a seat and tell me what happened."

Jim caught his breath, and Brown's words seemed to sink in. He sank into the chair slowly. "You never sent some graduate student out to see me? Some long-haired guy, sounded like a surfer bum?"

"No. I never talked to anybody about you." Henri made his way back behind his desk.

Jim sat for a minute, studying him, before he slumped down suddenly, his hands going to his face. "What is going on?"

"I don't know. What did this kid do?"

Jim laughed darkly. "He wasn't a kid. He was late thirties. Said he went to Berkley, he was working on his thesis."

Henri frowned, knowing who the story would remind Jim of. "So someone came to you for information, and knew exactly what buttons to push."

Jim nodded. "That's what it looks like."

"What did he want to know? Did you get a name?"

Jim thought back, before shaking his head. "No name. I didn't even think to ask. Damn."

"That's okay, it probably would have been phony anyway."

"Uhh...he didn't really ask a lot of questions. He asked...about Blair's death. Then he brought up Simon. I kicked him out. He said he talked to you, you sent him to find me."

Brown frowned. "I don't like this, Jim."

"Yeah." Jim looked up at the man suddenly, and his face almost relaxed. "You really settled into this job, H."

Henri smiled slightly, glancing around the office. "Yeah. I'm no Simon Banks, but I'm trying."

"I know you're going through a lot. Danglars being Chief. It's gotta be rough."

Brown shrugged. "We aren't here to talk about me."

Jim sat back, looking tired. "Sorry about coming in like that. This guy got me so wired."

"That's okay, man. You want to get into the computer, see if we can find him?"

Jim thought about it, then shook his head. "That's okay. It was probably just some kook. Thanks, Henri." He stood, going to the door.

Henri stood after him. "Hey, Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"You wanna...go grab some lunch or something?"

Jim looked back at his old friend, and gave him a small smile. "No thanks. The sooner I get out of this city, the better I'll feel."

Henri nodded slowly, and Jim turned and left.



Pensacola, Florida

Joel Taggart greeted his daughter with an affectionate hug, then stooped carefully to greet the young girl clasping her hand. "Hi, darlin'. You been behaving yourself?"

"Yes, grandpa," she replied dutifully, with the gravity of a typical three-year-old.

Joel straightened. "How's Ben?"

Sheryl Taggart Johnson rolled her eyes. "Don't ask. All work and no play, lately. I swear I've never seen him so worked up about anything. Hey, dad, you drop this when you got the mail?" She held out a small envelope.

He took it, puzzled. "Mail doesn't come until later."

"Huh. I guess someone left it for you."

"Yeah. Hey, you go on and get Jackie settled upstairs. I'm taking you all out to eat tonight."

"Dad, you're spoiling us. I love it." She kissed her father on the cheek and hustled the girl out of the room.

Joel turned the envelope over. There was his name, written in firm, slanted script. Curiosity mingled with confusion as he opened the letter carefully and read the small note inside.

A minute later he was at the foot of the stairs. "Sheryl?"

"Yeah, dad?"

"I have to go for a few minutes. I'll be back in time for dinner."

She came out of the room a second later. "What is it? That letter? Is it something bad?"

"No. I don't know. Just something I have to check out."

"All right. You be careful."

Joel grinned at her meaningfully.

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Ex Police Captain. Be careful anyway."

"I will." Joel grabbed his car keys from the kitchen table and left the house quickly.



Sydney, Australia

"Conner, you've got messages. I'm not your bleedin' secretary, got it?"

"Stop griping, Jack. I brought you lunch." Megan dropped the greasy bag on the desk and picked up her yellow message slips in one graceful move.

A second later she was back. "Jack, what is this?"

He squinted at the paper, then shrugged. "I couldn't make out the guy's name. He was French or Belgian or something."

Megan read the message again. A phone number, and a note to call because her friends in Cascade were going to need help.

"Great." She reached for her phone and dialed the number, recognizing the US country code, but certain the zip code was nowhere near Washington. This was going to be interesting.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Megan? Is that you? It's Joel."

Her mouth dropped open. "Joel Taggart. What am I doing calling you?"

"I have no idea. I got some note to come out to this pay phone and wait for a call."

"Did the note say something about Cascade?"

"Yeah. It said our friends would need our help."

"That's what I've got. The call came from a foreigner, apparently. A Frenchman?"

"I dunno, I just got the note. Never heard from anyone."

"Well, I'm going to call Cascade and find out what the bloody hell is going on."

"Let me do that, Megan. Won't cost me as much. I'll call you back when I find out what's what."

"Thanks a lot, Joel."

"Sure thing. Talk to you soon."

"Hey, Joel?"

"Yeah?"

Megan smiled into the phone. "It's good to hear your voice again."

He seemed to be smiling when he answered. "You too, Conner."



Cascade, Washington

"All right, Cliff. You want to tell me why the second day of celebrations is turning into a big mope fest?"

Cliff sighed and stared at the glass he'd been nursing from all night. "Sorry, D. Guess my mind's occupied."

Daryl raised his eyebrows. "I'd say it is." He studied his friend's down-turned head. Cliff was never this solemn. Something was definitely wrong. "Aren't you the one that told me that friends share everything?"

Cliff smiled somewhat. "Does that mean if I share my problems you're gonna share the cash?"

Daryl shrugged. "You know if you ever needed anything, I'd give it to you, right?"

"Yeah." Cliff sighed, then looked up finally. "I got problems you can't help with, man. But thanks for offering."

Daryl's frown deepened. "Maybe I can't help. I can listen, though."

Cliff grinned. "Aww, come on. When have I ever whined to you about my problems?"

Daryl thought back dutifully. "Never. Nothing major, anyway. Which is kind of unfair, considering how often I've come to you. Cliff, you kept me going after dad died. Don't think I ever forgot that. Let me return the favor."

Cliff's eyes grew in surprise at the seriousness in his friend's voice. "You're being straight here? You really want me to waste a night in this grossly expensive restaurant bitching about my love life?"

"Love life?" Daryl sat up straighter, surprised. Cliff? The consummate playboy? 'Most Likely to Still be a Bachelor at Sixty and Loving It?' Had problems with love that were making him so depressed?

"Uhhh...yeah." Cliff raised the glass and downed the rest of the wine quickly.

"That's great, man! I mean, not great. But I'm glad you're serious about someone."

"I'm not."

"Oh." Daryl paused. "You're not serious?"

"I'm not glad."

"Oh," he said again. This was bad. "You wanna tell me about her?"

Cliff smiled bitterly. "I wish it was that easy."

Daryl's eyes grew suddenly, and he cleared his throat. "Uh...you wanna tell me about...him?"

Cliff's face came up in surprise, and he laughed genuinely for the first time that night. "D, you're too much. It's nothing like that, don't worry."

Daryl tried not to look too relieved. "Okay, so what is it?"

"She's....well, she's white." Cliff frowned, angered by his inability to trust in his best friend.

"That's not it, Cliff. You've dated white girls before, I know that."

"Okay, yeah. But this girl...she's...." He took a breath. "Okay, let me put it to you hypothetically."

Daryl almost rolled his eyes, but he forced himself to simply nod seriously. "All right. Lay it on me."

"Hypothetically. Let's say you had a father." Cliff stopped himself. "Oh, shit. That didn't come out right."

Daryl waved away the apologetic look. "I'm not made of glass, Cliff. All right, I've got a father. What next?"

"Well, your father's always been pretty open about who you could date. But your father has this grudge against somebody. This really bad, years-old grudge. And it just happened to be that guy's daughter that you wanted to go out with."

Daryl thought it out only briefly before he had the facts straight. "Evan Danglars has a daughter?"

Cliff nodded. "Val. Valentine." He breathed the name with something close to reverence.

Daryl would have laughed if it wasn't for the pained look in Cliff's eyes. "Huh. That is bad. Have you talked to your pop about it?"

"No. No way in hell."

"Why not? The Cap is a reasonable guy."

"Yeah, until Evan Danglars is involved. Then he turns into a maniac."

"Oh, come on. Aren't you-"

"No, D. I'm not exaggerating, or imagining things. Dad blames Danglars for...well, you brought up his old partner."

Daryl winced suddenly. "Shit, I almost forgot about that. My dad and his friends always thought Danglars had something to do with Rafe disappearing."

Cliff nodded miserably.

"Oh, man. That's tough."

Cliff kept nodding.

Daryl paused, taking a sip of water. "I wish I could help you out, here."

"Don't sweat it." Cliff shrugged. "I told you that you couldn't help with this one."

Daryl suddenly noticed, in the quiet that followed, that the rest of the restaurant had gone silent. A middle-aged man was coming in, arm in arm with a younger woman. Both were dressed immaculately, reeking of class and money. Most people in the room seemed to know who they were, and were whispering accordingly.

Except one, of course. "Who's the stiff?" Cliff asked too loudly in the quiet room.

Daryl grinned. Only Cliff. "That's Jack Villford. He's the real richest man in Cascade. If a few dozen Frenchmen came to me, I might tie him."

Cliff whistled. "And whose brother came to pay him a visit?"

"Nothing like that. He used to be a judge, but he played the stock market or something like that, 'cause all of the sudden he retired and bought a mansion and had all this money."

"Man, it's unbelievable, the luck that hits some people around here."

Daryl chuckled, but it stopped as he saw the wistful look across the table. He turned to face Cliff again, serious. "Hey, your time will come. If you're so worried about this Danglars girl, you'll figure something out. I know you."

Cliff shrugged, looking less than hopeful. "If you say so, D. I just don't see any way to make it work."



On a plane coming from California to Washington, a man with long, dark hair and sunglasses went from his first-class seat to the privacy of a restroom. He carried a bag with him.

After a few minutes, when someone finally got impatient enough to knock on the door, a man finally left the bathroom, carrying the same bag. Only this man was blonde, with wavy, shorter hair, and blazing blue eyes that seemed to strike everyone he looked at.



Henri Brown fidgeted as he sat in the airport waiting for the plane to finish taxiing. He pulled at the tight collar of his suit uncomfortably, wondering why it was the Captain of Major Crimes had been sent on this little expedition.

He was supposed to spend time babysitting this visiting dignitary from Europe somewhere. Danglars himself had called to give him the order, and Brown had had a suspicion that this job was mainly to keep him out of Danglars' hair while he started his race for the Senate seat.

Brown seethed over it, but there was nothing he could do. If he did anything to endanger his job, Danglars would have one of his stooges in the captain's chair before he could clean his desk out.

The passengers started coming out of the gate to the plane, and Henri stood, making himself properly presentable.

A tall, slender blonde man strode out, bags in hand, and headed right for where Brown stood. He paused closer to the captain, studying the man with a look Henri couldn't have figured out if he tried, then finished the stride over.

"Captain Brown?"

"Count Cristoff?"

The man nodded once, briskly. "I am pleased you took the time to meet me here. When I announced my visit, I failed to tell the gentleman arranging my security that I was quite familiar with this city, and quite capable of taking care of myself. I won't require your presence longer than today, I assure you."

Henri nodded. The man's Italian accent was thick, and his olive skin belied the light blonde hair and blue eyes. Interesting man, Henri found himself thinking already.

They started walking towards the baggage area. "So, Count, what brings you to Cascade?"

"Strictly pleasure. I paid a visit to this city long ago, and found it very charming. I was thinking of taking up a seasonal residence here."

Brown glanced over at his stern profile. "You would leave the wonders of Europe for Washington State?" he asked with a grin.

The man gave a smallish smile, which Henri guessed was the greatest show of happiness he ever gave. "The wonders of Europe pale with time. I am ready to explore the wonders of America."

"Well, if you ever need anything, you just ask for me."

"Grazie, Captain, though your Chief Danglars has extended that offer to me already."

Henri's jaw tightened, but he kept his smile on. "Of course he has."

The Count looked over at him, his piercing blue eyes staring. "You don't like your Chief."

Brown chuckled somewhat. "I don't think it would be very professional of me to talk about that to you."

The Count's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. You are not allowed to dislike your superiors?"

Brown shrugged, and the two men came to a stop in front of the small luggage area where the other passengers from his plane were already gathered. "I suppose I'm allowed, but it's frowned on."

"In my country, we frown only on men hiding their feelings. There are a great number of men with personal animosity towards each other who work together quite well." The Count paused, thoughtful. "I find it's human nature to wish to get along with even those you dislike. The problem is, of course, that dishonest emotions breed dishonest character."

"You think so?" Henri turned to face the Count as they waited for the gate to start spitting out bags. "You don't think human nature is dishonest in itself?"

"I had thought so, for a long time. I have met a few men who have shown me otherwise."

Henri shrugged. "They could be exceptions to the rule."

"No, I don't believe so. Human nature is in itself honest, but it is also weak. Very weak. And earthy conceits and desires are quick to lead most men to dishonesty."

Brown almost chuckled as he thought about the conversation they were having. He'd expected this guy to barely speak English, but here they were, debating the deeper side of human nature. "And you, Count? Are you an exception?"

"Oh, I wouldn't presume to think that. I am as weak as the next man. In fact, dishonesty is almost essential to me in my life."

"Really? Earthly conceits and desires motivating you?"

The Count offered a small, cold smile. "I'm afraid my motivations are even more basic and less redeemable than those." He offered no more.

Henri didn't ask. He didn't think he wanted to know.





Valentine Danglars kept watching her father through the course of the quiet dinner. He had been even more distracted than usual the last couple of days, and she wondered if it would be a good time to call Cliff Brown for another dinner.

"Is everything all right, father?"

Danglars glanced up from his meal. "Fine. How are your classes?"

Val hesitated. "Fine."

He nodded, eyes going back to his plate.

She sighed. Another in depth family discussion.

Across from her, Mercedes Danglars looked up and met her eyes. She offered a small, sincere smile to the younger woman, but didn't say anything.

Val returned the smile, but it faded as soon as her stepmother looked away. Her mother had stopped talking at meals several months ago. In fact, she had stopped talking practically anytime her husband was around.

Val studied her mother. Her huge brown eyes were always sad, her dark, thick curls were touched with gray in places. She was only thirty-four years old, but she seemed so much older some times. Val could never remember her mother being particularly happy, but as years passed she seemed to get quieter and more solemn. It was sad. Val had to watch, not knowing what could have driven the still-young woman to that state, and knowing her life with Val and her father only made it worse. If Val hadn't needed her there so much, she would have found a way to let her leave.

They were trapped. Both of them. And if nothing changed, Mercedes would go to her grave too early, and Val would never know what it meant to be free and happy.



Pensacola, Florida

Joel Taggart was feeling more restless than he had since moving down there. Even after a long, friendly talk with Henri Brown, when he discovered that everything was fine in Cascade, he had been anxious for no reason at all. Calling Megan back confirmed that she had the same feeling. Like something was going to happen, and they both knew it. But what, or why, bad or good, they had no clue.

And so, two days later, when he found an envelope on his porch as he went out to get the paper, he grabbed it eagerly.

Mr. Taggart, No doubt you are wondering what is going on. I can tell you only that soon, the tides of change will be arriving in Cascade. You will be there, of course. But before you leave this city, there is a man you should pay a visit to. More details soon.

Sinbad the Sailor

Joel read the note with a faint, disbelieving chuckle. Sinbad, huh?

Forgetting about the newspaper, having something infinitely more interesting to do, he went back into the house and placed a long-distance call.



Sydney, Australia

Megan Connor was zipping up the duffel bag when her phone rang. She picked it up after a minute of debating, knowing she might miss the flight as it was. "Hello?"

"Hi, Megan."

"Joel! I was going to call you from the airport."

"Going somewhere?"

"Apparently I need to come to Florida."

"Let me guess. Sinbad the Sailor?"

She laughed. "Do you know what's going on, mate?"

"I have no idea. He's sending you here, huh?"

"The letter said we had to pay a visit to some man. A visit that would assist 'the tides of change in Cascade'."

Joel laughed. "This guy isn't original, whoever he is. Mine said almost the same thing."

"Listen, I've got to catch my flight. I'll be in Pensacola tomorrow morning."

"I'll be there to meet you."

She smiled into the phone. "You know, Joel, we could be setting ourselves up for some kind of ambush. I mean, as my superior told me rather loudly, there's nothing to this but a couple of letters."

"You're right. So why are we going through with it?"

"Well, me, I had some vacation time coming anyway. And there's nothing like an adventure."

Joel chuckled. "True enough. And I haven't seen Cascade in...too long."

"That's another good reason." She hesitated. "Plus...I just have a feeling about this. I think we need to do what this bloke says. It doesn't make any sense, but-"

"But you're not alone, so don't worry about it. Now get to the airport, Connor."

"See you tomorrow, Joel."

"Yeah. Safe trip."



Cascade, Washington

"There's another man here to see you, Chief Danglars."

Danglars frowned into his paperwork. "Who is it this time?"

"He says he's spoken to you before. A Count Cristoff?"

"Oh!" Danglars straightened. "Send him in, please, Janine."

"Yes, sir."

The Count came in a moment later, striding in confidently and immediately taking a seat, ignoring Danglar's attempt to stand and shake his hand.

"Chief Danglars, I have heard of your decision to run for government office. It is rather big news around here."

Danglars tried not to let the words affect him, but it was hard. That was close to what the Russian had said, wasn't it? "Yes."

"Chief, I shall not waste either of our time being vague. I have a great deal of money and a great deal of time. I am sure both of those things could be of use to you in the future, just as I'm sure a friend in a position of power may be of use to me."

Ahhh, this was more like it. Danglars relaxed instantly. "Count, I am gratified to hear you're concerned with the way our government runs. You being a visitor to the country and all."

"Not just a visitor. It is my intention to stay here in this city for some time."

"Oh?"

"As I said before, I am very rich. And in my experience I find that people with money tend to hear certain facts that other people never even suspect. I, for instance, have heard that you have already received a rather definitive warning to get out of this election."

Danglars opened his mouth, then shut it. He couldn't deny it -- this man spoke with such certainty that he knew he had to be telling the truth. "It's true that certain people don't seem to like the idea of me-"

"This won't do. If I can get rid of this influence for you, you would owe me a favor, am I correct?"

His emotions bubbling up and mixing around at that statement, Danglars responded with just a suspicious nod.

"Ahh, perhaps you misinterpret. The favor I shall ask of you is simple and painless. I want to help you. I want you to give me control. Over your publicity, your funds, everything. I want to get you elected in the largest...what do you call it? Landslide...that Cascade has ever seen. If you give me this power, I promise you that you will not be bothered longer by the men who threaten you, and you will be elected painlessly."

Danglars opened his mouth with a question.

"I shall give you a few days to think it over, then return to hear your answer. Good day, Chief Danglars."

He stood smoothly and headed out of the office, not giving Danglars a chance to say a word.

Danglars sat for a long time after he was gone, his thoughts spinning, his greed and fear of the Russian visitor mingling with natural suspicion.

Perhaps he'd better find out just who this Count Cristoff was.





"The guy was strange, son. I'm not even kidding."

Cliff grinned at his father. "It's those whacked-out foreigners, dad. Can't understand a thing they do."

Henri Brown returned the grin, taking a bite out of the burger and swallowing before admonishing his son. "You'd better not mean that, Cliff."

"Nah. It was a foreigner gave D that money. They're fine with me."

"Huh. Maybe if Cristoff had been French instead of Italian, we'd have struck it rich ourselves."

Cliff laughed, but it faded quickly and he was back to poking at his food.

"All right." Henri laid his burger down and eyed his son. "You wanna tell me what's bothering you?"

"Uhh...nothing. I guess I'm just not hungry."

"Cliff, you're a garbage disposal. You're always hungry. What's wrong?"

The younger man eyed his father, then released a sigh. "I wish I could tell you, dad, but I can't, so let it drop, okay?"

"You in any trouble?"

Cliff grinned somewhat. "Dad, I'm twenty-five years old. I can handle my own problems, okay?"

"Sure." Henri looked back down at his food, appetite gone. He was suddenly nostalgic for the old days. Back then, Cliff came running to him with any problems, like he was Super Dad and could fix it all without a thought. Back before Deb had gotten a job that took her all over the country, leading to too many nights of the two men, or just Henri himself, eating alone.

Back in the days when he was just another detective. When he didn't have to worry about everything in the world. He did have to worry about his job being snatched from him by a crooked Chief, and he had his friends around him constantly to back him up.

"-what you think?"

Henri looked up as the words broke through his thoughts. "What?"

Cliff studied him. "Nothing. I guess I'm not the only one feeling down, huh?"

Henri shook his head slowly. Down? Yeah, that was a good word for it. Nostalgic was another good one. For some reason, his past was coming back to haunt him more in the last few weeks than it had in years. Simon, Jim, the old days.

Rafe.

Geez. It was ridiculous that thinking about his old partner should still hurt. But it did. Rafe had been his best friend. He had been a brother to Henri for years. The fact that he never knew for sure what had happened to him made Henri's memories that much more painful.

When Rafe had first disappeared, Henri had dedicated every waking hour -- and a lot of nightmares -- trying to sort out what had happened. Years had passed. Henri still had trouble sleeping sometimes, wondering what was happening to his partner now, -- EX partner -- wondering if he was dead or alive. Knowing only that something had happened, that Rafe had needed him, and he hadn't been there.

"Hey, pop?"

"Yeah?" Henri tried to hold back his sigh, but it expelled from him anyway.

Cliff studied the familiar expression of pain that had snuck across his father's face. "You think about him a lot, huh?"

Surprised at his son's perception, he nodded. "Yeah, I do. You remember him?"

"Come on, dad. I was twelve when he...you know, left. I wasn't a baby."

Henri smiled somewhat.

"Yeah, I remember him. He used to come over a lot. Mom told me to treat him like family, 'cause he didn't have any family of his own. She was so happy when you told her he was getting married." Cliff grinned somewhat.

The thought of Mercedes chased the smile from Henri's face. "Yeah. He was happy, too."

Cliff studied his father for a moment, and again seemed to read exactly what he was thinking. "She isn't happy being married to Danglars, dad. She never was. I guess she just had to have someone."

"How do you know that?" Henri asked, his voice colder than he'd intended.

Cliff looked down at his plate again. "Dad. Well...hell. I gotta tell you something, and I guess this is the opening I needed, but I don't know what you're gonna say about it...."

"What?" Henri crossed his arms and waited, his attention now focused on Cliff completely.

"You know Danglars has a daughter, right?"

Henri nodded.

"Well, she's...uh, we were in a few of the same classes together last year, and...we're kinda friends, you know?"

"Really?" Henri sat up. "Such good friends she gives you details on the Danglars' home life?"

"Well, okay. We..." Cliff sucked in a breath, then spoke again in a rush. "Dad, I'm in love with her and she's in love with me and I really hope it doesn't upset you because she's nothing like her father she really doesn't even like him and she knows what he is but she's stuck there and so is her mother and-"

"Whoa! Slow down, son." Henri held up a hand, taking in the words he'd made out with a thoughtful pause. "You're in love with her?"

Cliff nodded miserably. "She's great, dad. She's nothing like her father."

There was a long silence between the two men, both lost in their own thoughts.

Henri shook his head finally. "Cliff..."

He met his father's eyes, almost challenging. "What?"

"This isn't going to be easy, son."

"No," Cliff agreed hesitantly.

Henri studied him carefully. "You're going to have problems, if you're serious about this," he reiterated, stressing the point deliberately. "Is it worth it?"

Cliff nodded. "I'll fight for her if I have to."

Brown saw the flash of fire in his son's eyes, and he relaxed, smiling slightly. "You'll have to, most likely." He waited until his son's eyes were on him. "But not with me."

Cliff drew in a breath, dared to smile somewhat. "You serious?"

Henri nodded. "It still won't be easy, not with Danglars being...Well, I'll stick with you. Just let me know if I can help."

The tension around the table melted into nothing as Cliff gave his father a grateful look, feeling suddenly ten pounds lighter and infinitely more happy.





Three Years Earlier.....

As Rafe felt the van moving, emotions surged through him that he thought were long-since dead. Fear, excitement, anticipation, apprehension.

His heart had been pounding from the moment he had heard the door to the cell open and the guards come in to take the 'corpse' and dispose of it. He was certain it was pounding so hard that the guards could hear it, but they hadn't. Not carrying the body out -- probably through the same back door they had brought Rafe in through years ago -- not loading him into the van.

Now all he could do was be patient and hope that they didn't bury him too deep.

The thought that he could have placed himself right into death's hands scared him, but only momentarily. It was this or the cell. And death was more welcome than a return to his imprisonment would be.

When the van finally shuddered to a stop, Rafe tried to get control over his breathing. Even breath seemed a hundred times too loud in the confines of the thick plastic. If he hadn't opened a gap of a couple of inches in the zipper, he would have suffocated completely.

He could hear the doors opening, and feel as the bag was grabbed from his feet and pulled roughly forward.

Another pair of hands gripped the other side of the bag, and he was brought out, remembering to keep his body limp, his breathing steady.

Outside of the bag there was a sound, a familiar sound, that he couldn't quite place, but he didn't think about it too hard.

"You ready?"

"Yeah. Sooner we get this done, the better."

The voices were muffled, but understandable. Rafe held his breath, wondering what was about to happen.

He felt a sudden rush of discomfort as he was lifted and swung carelessly.

And then the hands were gone, all pressure was off the bag, and there was only the sharp, fearful sensation of free falling.

His mouth opened to cry out, and he actually had to put a hand over his lips tightly to keep the sound from coming out. He fell, further and further, and then his back exploded with pain as he hit a surface with a splash.

Splash?

Water.

Sinking.

The realizations hit him at once, as water came pouring in from the opened gap in the zipper.

Rafe fought the urge to panic a he kept sinking, his hands shaking as he reached for the zipper. He sucked in the last air in the bag and held it as he pulled the zipper open and kicked himself free of the bag.

Muscles that he hadn't used in years were suddenly being called upon, and he fought to keep from passing out from the pain and shock as he kicked his way back to the water's surface.

Finally, he reached the top, and broke through with a gasp that brought in water and air together. Choking, he fought to stay on the surface, squinting in the dim light of the outside world.

Outside world?

He had the presence of mind to check the cliff, but the two men who had dumped him into his watery grave must have taken off fast. There was no sign of anyone.

He was alone. Outside. His hands weren't bound. He was free.

He forced his tired body to the bank of the river where he had been abandoned, and dragged himself up onto firm land.

He had to find some clothes. His own tattered fragments of cloth were now sopping wet as well as totally indecent. He had to find some quick cash, and he had to get out of....

The planning his brain immediately started stopped suddenly, as emotions overpowered logical thinking.

Free. He was free. After ten years.

"Thank you, father," he heard himself whispering, his face not lifting from the muddy ground. His eyes squeezed shut tightly, and he let himself lay there in silence for a long time.

In hours taken right from some bad movie, Rafe found himself slinking around a residential neighborhood to grab a shirt and pants that were drying on a clothesline in someone's back yard. He ducked into the neighboring trees again to put them on.

He looked around until he saw a house that looked deserted -- no lights, no cars. And he went to the back yard and through a glass door that was, luckily for him, actually unlocked.

Once inside, he went right for the bathroom.

The image that greeted him in the mirror was shocking. He hadn't paid attention to it as it happened, but a full beard had grown, his hair was long and filthy. He couldn't see his own face with all the hair.

But he didn't have time to deal with it. He went through the house quickly until he found what he was looking for -- the cash was actually hidden in a small cookie jar on top of the refrigerator.

He stayed long enough to find paper and something to write with, and he had written the address of the house down carefully. The knowledge that he would -- maybe -- be able to pay these people back with interest was the only thing that allowed him to take the money.

He left the house relatively undisturbed and headed for the trees again.

A few minutes later, he arrived at a small gas station/convenience store. He went in and grabbed a few quick things -- scissors, a razor and shaving cream, soap and shampoo, and some food, and had paid the cashier without a word.

It was strange, being confronted with people suddenly, but no one was in a hurry to talk to Rafe, and, remembering his hairy, dirty reflection, he couldn't blame them.

He was moving on autopilot, trudging down the street of the small town until he saw the cheap motel. He went in to the office and greeted the surprised, almost frightened owner by putting his money on the counter, showing he could indeed pay for a room. The man had given him a key, he had scribbled something on the register, and that was that.

When he got to his room the first place he went was the bathroom. He quickly tore off the strange clothes and put his tired body under a full blast of hot water.

He stayed there, almost frozen under the luxury of the shower, until the water went cold. He forced himself to wash under lukewarm water, and then stepped out to greet his reflection in the mirror. With a shudder he couldn't hide, he got the scissors and razor and went to work.

It took him a long time to make himself look somewhat normal again, and cutting his own hair proved difficult. He would have to go to a barber eventually, but that was a luxury on a scale that he couldn't quite grasp right then.

Finally, beard gone, hair cut short, he faced himself in the mirror again.

And he saw with mixed emotions that the face looking back at him was still that of a stranger.

His olive skin had paled. His eyes still couldn't open fully in the artificial light. His face was lined with age and strain, and his expression was coldly blank. He had lost weight -- his cheekbones jutted out, his eyes were sunken in.

The emotions stirred for a long time, but they eventually came together under one thought and he found himself smiling. The cold smile that met his in the mirror was one he never would have seen on himself ten years ago.

No, he wouldn't be recognized now. How would his enemies or his friends know him? He didn't even know himself.

And the plan he had set for himself suddenly came back into focus. Nebraska. Money. If it wasn't there, if the building was gone or torn down or Faria had truly been insane, Rafe would go from there. But if it was there, if he could get to it --

Well, there were things he had to do first. He had to travel, he had to learn things that Faria couldn't teach him in a prison cell. But after that....

He would return to Cascade, somehow. And he would make sure that everyone who had helped to ruin his life paid for it.



January, 2010 Cascade, Washington

"Mr. Danglars, I have given you three days. You will tell me your decision now."

Danglars eyed his guest for a moment, reaching slowly into his desk and pulling out a file. "Count Cristoff, I hope this won't offend you, but I did a little checking into your background."

Cristoff smiled tightly. "I would expect nothing less. And what did you find out?"

"I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that your history is a little vague. Nothing much is known about you previous to the last two years. You were telling me the truth -- you are rich. So rich that you bought your title. You own land in Italy and France, but you have no occupation, no family history. You seem to have simply purchased everything you needed to establish yourself in Europe."

Cristoff nodded, the same cold smile on his face. "Are you now going to tell me that this is unacceptable in America? Chief Danglars, I would not expect this history to satisfy you if I was asking for the hand of your daughter, or even asking for partnership in business. But my history should show you that if nothing else, I know how to use my money to get what I want. That skill is the only thing you require of me. You will tell me your decision, or I shall find another man to offer my assistance to."

Danglars met the man's cold blue eyes, indecision coating his features.

After a moment of silence, Cristoff nodded once and stood. "I have your answer, then."

"Wait." Danglars stood as the Count headed for the door. "What's in this for you?"

Cristoff turned back. "It gives me something to do," he answered vaguely.

Danglars steeled himself and stuck out a hand. "I would be honored to work with you, Count."

Cristoff stepped back towards him, shook his hand briskly, and turned back to the door without a single change in expression. "I'll be in touch."

Danglars sat after the strange man had left, his mind a blur, hoping he had just made as good a decision as he thought he had.



"Dad, get the door."

Captain Brown forced himself off the couch with a groan and went to answer the resounding knock. He pulled the door open and smiled slightly. "Hello, Count. You're early."

"Forgive me, Captain, I have such a terrible habit of being late that I tend to overcompensate. Should I go?"

"No, no." Henri gestured widely, letting the man come in. "But forgive us if we're not fit to receive guests."

Cristoff smiled stiffly. "Nonsense. I find your home charming."

Henri returned the smile and went to the kitchen door. "Cliff? How long is this gonna take?"

"Few more minutes." Cliff looked up from his dinner preperations. "Is that D or your friend?"

Henri came in, his voice lowered. "He's not exactly my friend, Cliff. But he's a strange guy. You'll get a kick out of talking to him."

Cliff and his dad exchanged grins, and Henri went back out to be a good host. "Can I offer you a drink, Count?"

"I am a guest in your house, Captain. No titles, please. Call me Cristoff. And yes, I would accept a drink."

"All right, Cristoff. Call me Henri, please."

Cristoff seemed to stiffen slightly. "That would...it would not be proper, Captain. This is your city, and your house. I should show the proper respect."

Henri shrugged easily. "Suit yourself. I'll be right back."

The moment Henri left the room, a change came over the stolid Count. He seemed to relax, looking around the small house, a strange light in his eyes. He let a genuine, if somewhat sad, smile come to his face. "Henri." He said the name so quietly it was almost a whisper.

The door opened again and Henri came out, two glasses in hand. "I hope you like Scotch, Cristoff." He handed the glass over.

The Count took it with a small nod. "Thank you."

There was a moment of silence between the two men, broken by another knock on the door.

"Excuse me." Henri left his guest's side to answer the door. He greeted the face that appeared with a grin. "Hey, Daryl. Come on in."

Daryl came in grinning, energy making his steps faster. He went straight for the kitchen, opening the door. "Hey, Cliff. You cooking? You coulda warned me."

Cliff grinned back. "Get screwed, rich boy."

Daryl chuckled and shut the door, turning back to the living room. He saw the man still standing quietly to the side and his grin froze. "Oops. I didn't know we were having company, Cap."

Henri nodded. "Daryl Banks, this is Count Cristoff."

Daryl shot Henri a curious look even as he came forward to shake the man's hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Cristoff seemed suddenly more tense than he had moments ago. "Mr. Banks." He shook the offered hand, then turned to Henri. "Captain, I am an idiot. I remember now that I have forgotten a rather important phone call coming to my hotel from overseas. I'm afraid I will need to take a rain check for the dinner. Forgive me if this is any inconvenience." He handed Henri his glass and quickly started for the door. "Offer my apologies to your son. Mr. Banks, it was nice to meet you." And then he was out the door.

Daryl turned to Henri. "What the hell was that all about? Who was that guy?"

Henri was staring after the man, shaking his head with a small, crooked smile. "I don't really know, Daryl."

"Who he is? Or why he jetted out?"

"Either one." Henri laughed slightly. "Cliff, one less for dinner," he shouted back towards the kitchen, turning for the back of the house, still chuckling to himself.





Jim Ellison may have lost his Sentinel senses, but he still had his intuition. He hadn't spent years in the military and then the police force to not know when someone was in his house before he entered it.

He was armed with only the large knife he'd been hunting with all day, and he clutched it tightly in his fist as he pushed open his door slowly. He peered into the darkness, wishing for the millionth time that he could simply kick up his sense of sight and see through the darkness.

"Mr. Ellison."

Jim stood up straighter, went into the house completely, and reached for the light switch. He flipped it on, throwing light on the dark room.

The man inside barely had to squint at the sudden light. He simply smiled faintly.

"Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?"

The blonde man with the frosty blue eyes took a step forward. "I am a friend, Mr. Ellison. Of Evan Danglars."

Jim almost growled at the name, but he restrained his emotions, clearing his throat slightly. "He sent you here?"

"We decided I should pay you a visit, yes. Danglars has confided in me that he has a certain amount of control over you. He has explained the situation to me, but I'm afraid that as a stranger to your country, many of the names he used were quite beyond me. Nevertheless, the point was clear to me. He has something on you, and so you do what he asks of you, is that correct?"

"Wait a damn minute here. The deal was, I would stay out of his face. I never agreed to do whatever he said."

The man smiled grimly. "Things have changed."

"Bull shit!"

"Does the name Daryl Banks mean anything to you, Mr. Ellison?"

Jim's eyes shut briefly. "What does he want me to do?" he asked quietly.

"There is a man giving him a certain amount of trouble. A Mr. Petrov. Danglars is going to arrange to meet this man tomorrow, here at your cabin. When Mr. Petrov arrives here, you will kill him. It is as easy as that."

"No."

Not taken aback in the slightest, the blonde met his eyes. "Yes." He held the gaze for another long moment, then brushed past Jim and out the door.

Jim stood for a long time, his eyes shut, frustration and pain making his body tremble slightly. He heard the sound of the car engine, and the tires taking the car away from the house.

Once it was totally silent in his world again, he went into the house and collapsed on the chair, wondering just when this nightmare was going to end.



The Next Day-

"I want Henri Brown out of my god damned hair!" Danglars was pacing around his office, his frustration evident. "He's arrested one of my officers, he's accusing him of fraud and dealing in stolen goods. This isn't going to do."

Cristoff watched him impassively. "We arranged to dispose of your friend Petrov. Why not go about this the same way?"

"I can't touch Brown, damn it. There are too many people that know he's suspicious of me. With my luck, he's got some envelope stashed away 'in case of death' that points fingers right at me. He couldn't prove anything, but-"

"But it would not be good for your political career." Cristoff nodded. He grew thoughtful. "Captain Brown has a son."

Danglars stopped in his tracks and faced Cristoff. The icy blonde Count was gazing back without emotion.

"I don't suggest we kill the young man, but if we were to get our hands on him, at least until after the election, we could keep the Captain under our control."

Danglars shook his head. "Brown would know it was me. Especially if our demands say he has to stay quiet about me."

Another frozen smile floated up to him. "I am not stupid, Chief. You yourself will have a public, very visible alibi, and our demands will be very vague. Trust me, to save his son, Brown will not cause a problem."

Danglars thought about it. "You do what you have to do," he agreed finally. "But if this kid finds out who's responsible, if my name comes up at all....you would have to kill him. Could you do that?"

The Count gave him a measured stare.

Danglars peered into the flat, dead eyes, and almost shivered. Yeah. He could do it.

"Tonight I have an engagement, I'm afraid. But tomorrow evening you are hosting a charity ball given by the Cascade Police Department. There will be reporters, photographers, and philanthropists present. All good people to back up your story."

Danglars grinned. "This may work."

Cristoff blinked. "My ideas usually do."



This time, the car didn't surprise Jim. He had been watching for it for the better part of three hours. And even as he watched the door of the little red sports car open and the man in the dark suit step out, he had no idea how he was going to play this.

He went to the door and opened it. "Mr. Petrov?"

The man faced him. His green eyes stood out in contrast to the dark hair he hid under a hat. "Da? Yes? I am to meet Evan Danglars here."

Jim was hit with the strange feeling that he had seen this man before, but he ignored it, pushing the door open and gesturing inside of the house. "Come in."

Petrov glanced around suspiciously before coming in to the house.

Jim watched him move stiffly to the living room without even looking around. The Russian stood almost as if he were at attention.

Jim went in past him, facing his guest.

"This is a set-up, yes?" Petrov gazed at him squarely.

Jim nodded. "Yes. Danglars wants me to kill you."

Petrov's head cocked slightly. "But you are not going to do it." It wasn't a question.

"No, I'm not. I wanted to warn you, though. You ought to get out of Cascade. He'll send someone else after you as soon as he sees you're still alive."

"Why do you spare me?"

Jim frowned. "You're not my enemy. And whatever you have against Danglars, we probably share the sentiment. And I'm not a murderer."

"Then why does he come to you for this crime?"

Jim paused. Why couldn't guests to his house ever just take a hint and leave? "He thinks I'll do it."

"Why?"

"It isn't important," Jim barked, his patience quickly diminishing.

"Ahhh. What does he have to hold over you?" Petrov's eyes were full of understanding.

Jim clenched his fists, and gestured to the door. "You should leave here, in case Danglars sent anyone to make sure I go through with this."

"And you?"

"Why do you care about me?"

"You are saving my life." Petrov shrugged easily.

"Well, don't worry about me. There are good people in Cascade you should be worried about, thanks to this. Not me."

"Ahhh. You have friends in the city." Petrov's nod said he understood completely now.

"Yeah, and I'm going to go warn them as soon as you get out of here, so why don't you leave?"

Petrov held out his hand suddenly. "Thank you, sir. I will leave."

Jim shook the cool hand and let the man go without another word.

He waited until the car had gone out or earshot before he grabbed his own rarely-used truck keys. He went to the door, then stopped suddenly.

Three visitors, three total strangers. All tall men, around the same age, slender.

Was he getting paranoid?

Or had he been out of civilization for so long that all strangers looked alike to him?

Strange.

But he couldn't let it slow him down. He had to get to Cascade. He had to find Henri Brown and Daryl Banks before Danglars saw that Petrov was still alive.





"Daryl, meet Val. Val, Daryl Banks."

Daryl smiled amiably at the girl. "At last, I get to meet someone richer than I am."

Val shook her head with a smile. "My father's rich, not me. I'm just a poor college kid like Cliff here."

Cliff grinned at the two of them, and looked up at the waiter. "Oh, just water for me."

"I'm buying tonight," Daryl said in response. "Bring us a bottle of...something nice."

The waiter nodded and whisked away.

Cliff shook his head. "You know, I've rubbed in this whole friend-sharing thing since you got that money, but if you keep buying my dinners I'm gonna get spoiled."

Daryl laughed. "I'm not really worried about it. I think we all deserve to get spoiled a little bit. It's too bad your dad couldn't come."

"Yeah." Cliff smiled at Val sincerely. "I wanted him to meet you."

Her eyes grew in surprise. "You...you told him?"

He nodded with a smile. "He's like your step-mom. He just wants us to be happy."

She laughed out loud. "That's great!"

Daryl shook his head slightly. "Now you have to tell your father, right?"

Her grin faded. "Yeah. The last step's always the doozy."

Cliff reached out and squeezed her hand. "Let's not worry about it now," he directed Daryl meaningfully.

He nodded apologetically.

The three young people sat, chatting amiably, for another couple of hours, before their relative peace in the nearly abandoned restaurant was broken.

A man came in, tall and blonde, and headed straight for their table.

Cliff stiffened, his hand going to Val almost protectively.

But Daryl stood in surprise, recognizing the man. "Count Cristoff, wasn't it?"

He nodded briskly.

"My dad's friend." Cliff grinned at him, his tension diminishing somewhat.

Cristoff didn't smile. "I'm here about your father."

Cliff stood quickly. "What happened?"

"He's in trouble. One of his friends has found out about a crime being planned against your family. He's in a safe place now, but he wants me to bring you to him, Mr. Brown."

Cliff glanced over at Daryl, uncertainty obvious on his face. "What do you think, D?"

Daryl pulled him over to him and lowered his voice. "Does the captain really trust this guy?"

Cliff glanced over at the Count, who seemed content to let them whisper. "I don't know. I think so."

Cristoff spoke up suddenly. "He instructed me to give his friend's name if you had suspicions. Jim Ellison?"

Cliff turned to Daryl eagerly. "Dad wouldn't have mentioned Jim, ever, if it wasn't important."

Daryl turned to the Count. "All right, but I'm coming with you."

Cristoff smiled somewhat. "Captain Brown told me to ask, but not force you to come."

Daryl returned the smile cautiously.

Cliff turned to his date. "Val, I'm sorry about this, but-"

She was pale, but calm, holding a hand up to stop him. "It's okay, Cliff. If your father's life is in danger, you should go." Her shaking voice said that she knew exactly who was putting Henri Brown's life in danger.

Cristoff turned to her. "You are Danglar's daughter?"

She nodded nervously.

"Captain Brown says you are not like your father. I must instruct you then, whatever happens, not to mention his suspicions or this evening to your father."

She swallowed. "Of course not. I wouldn't endanger any of you like that."

Cliff tried to give her a comforting smile. "I'll see you soon, Val."

"You'd better." She returned the smile shakily and watched as the three men headed for the door.

Daryl headed for his own car, but Cristoff stopped him. "Mr. Banks, please. The men plotting this may know your car. Please come with me."

Daryl went to his car and grabbed his revolver, then turned and followed the Count and Cliff to the small red car.

He drove them out towards the outskirts of the town, to where the buildings got further apart. Finally he stopped, pulling the small car directly into a garage and shutting the door electronically behind them.

Daryl got out quickly and looked around in surprise. "Is this your home?"

The Count nodded. "Danglars does not know about me. You will be safe here."

"Where's my dad?"

"Come with me, please."

He led them up stairs into the main house, which Daryl saw he must have just moved into. There was very little in the way of furniture and, surprisingly, no boxes or packing crates.

The Count led them down a hall and into a small room. "In here."

The two younger men went in quickly, eager to make sure Brown was all right.

Daryl looked around the empty room in surprise. He turned back to the door. "What's going-" He stopped when he saw the gun the Count now held pointed at the two of them.

"I know what you must be thinking, Daryl, but I really am your friend. Please, could you give me your gun?"

Daryl and Cliff exchanged a dark look, and Daryl pulled his revolver out slowly, holding it out with two fingers.

The Count smiled slightly, reaching out and grabbing it quickly. "Thank you. I really am sorry for the charade, but it's necessary. I mean you no harm, but I must make sure Danglars cannot find you. Please, if you need anything, just ask. I must go now, but I will return." He offered them another tempered smile, then shut the door.

Daryl went up to the knob and tried it, unsurprisingly without success. He sighed heavily and turned to Cliff. "Well. So much for the man being a friend."

Cliff was thoughtful. "I believe him."

"What?"

"He said he was a friend. I believe it."

Daryl stared at his friend in surprise. "We're locked in a small room alone in the country, Cliff."

"I know. But I think we can trust the guy. There's something about him..." He shrugged sheepishly. "But hey, you're the cop."

Daryl winced. Yeah, some cop.

And the two men settled down in the small room to wait for their mysterious, friendly captor to return.





Jim sat with Henri all night long, waiting in vain for Cliff Brown to come home from a dinner with Daryl and his girlfriend.

Henri had greeted the news of Danglar's blackmailing Jim without much surprise, but with a measure of sadness. To think that it was the threat of violence against him and his family, and Daryl Banks, that had kept Jim in check for three years, it made him sad. It made him guilty. And it made him very, very angry.

And then, as the hours went by and Cliff didn't show, the anger turned into fear.

By the time the sun came up, Brown and Jim were out on the streets, going to the restaurant where they had been meeting, questioning people.

No one seemed to have remembered anything strange happening the night before, and the search drew a complete blank.

As they drove back to the Browns' house to see if somehow they had returned, or therr were messages or ransom notes waiting, Jim broke the tense silence awkwardly. "Henri, if I had known Danglars would make a move so fast, I would have..."

"Would have what?" Henri's voice was dull, but his eyes burned. "Killed that man? No. This isn't your fault, Jim. I should have dealt with Danglars a long time ago."

"We'll find them, H."

Henri turned to him abruptly. "Jim, you still got those superpowers of yours?"

Jim glanced over briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. "You never did believe I was just a good cop, did you?"

Henri actually smiled, but it was lined with stress. "Nope. We were all good cops, Jim."

"No," Jim said quietly. "I don't have them anymore. I lost them..."

"When Blair died," Henri completed for him.

Jim nodded, swallowing hard.

Brown faced the front, and the rest of the ride was silent.



Danglars was nervous, and it showed. It was a good thing he didn't have to go to the office that day. It was hard enough trying to hide his shaking nerves from his wife.

"Are you all right?" Mercedes had asked it quietly, almost flatly.

But the fact that she even asked -- Mercedes and Danglars didn't talk much any more -- told him that he was being very obvious. "Nothing at all. I'm nervous about tomorrow night, that's all."

Tomorrow night. The biggest political rally he could speak at in Cascade, before he moved to the bigger ones in Seattle and other cities. He was counting on the Cascade votes to get him in, he admitted that much to Cristoff.

The man had responded accordingly. Danglars had left to drive to work the next morning, and his face and name were everywhere in the city. Signs, billboards, Cristoff had spared no expense to get his face shown.

As a result, the rally tomorrow was sold out already. And the tables at the dinner before-hand, selling for a thousand dollars a plate, were also sold out.

This would make or break him in Cascade, and probably in the state. Danglars didn't have time to be worried about Henri Brown or his missing son, but he did.

The arrival of Count Cristoff did a lot to settle his nerves. The man's coldly confident bearing did wonders for Danglars. So much that he actually called his wife back down to introduce the two of them.

Mercedes moved with her typical slow, solemn air, and Danglars grinned at the Count almost apologetically.

Count Cristoff watched her come in, his face studiously blank, his body tense. "Mrs. Danglars."

She looked at the stranger for a long time, and grasped his offered hand softly.

They exchanged gazes, silent, until she pulled away.

Danglars threw a hand over the Count's shoulder. "This is the man who's going to get me elected. Isn't that right, Count?"

He had tensed at the contact, but gave a brittle smile. "I'm going to try."

Mercedes simply nodded slowly, her eyes still on his.

Footsteps came pounding down the stairs, and Valentine Danglars came to a stop as she saw the man standing in their drawing room. Her father's arm around his shoulder. She couldn't help but recognize him from last night.

"Ahh, Valentine, please come in." Danglars grinned at his daughter. "Count, this is my daughter."

Mercedes seemed frozen as the younger woman came in and greeted the Count as though he were a total stranger.

"Darling, why don't you go get our guest a drink?"

Mercedes didn't seem to hear.

Danglars cleared his throat loudly. "Darling?" He grinned at the Count nervously, then went over and grabbed his wife's arm. "Mercedes, come in to the kitchen with me for a moment, please."

She went reluctantly with her husband, leaving Val and the Count alone.

Val looked to him eagerly. "Is Cliff all right?"

The Count gave a brief nod. "It's dangerous to speak of that here."

She relaxed. "Of course. Sorry."

Muffled voices were heard from the kitchen -- one muffled voice, anyway.

The Count saw Val's smile fade as she looked to the closed door. "Your parents do not get along?"

She faced him squarely. "I know you're a friend, so I can tell you freely that my father holds her here against her will."

"Really?" His face was impassive.

She nodded firmly, but didn't say anything as the door opened and Danglars came out. "I'm sorry, Count. We'll have drinks out shortly."

"I'm afraid I can't stay, Chief. I will probably not see you again until tomorrow before your speech." He turned a frosty smile to Val. "A pleasure meeting you. Sir, tell your wife thank you for the drink, I'm sorry I had to run."

Danglars watched the man as he went to the door and let himself out, and shook his head with a smile. "He's going to get me elected," he stated again with a grin.

Val echoed the smile, though her thoughts were quite different. She turned and went back up the stairs without another word to her father. There were no guests for them to perform for now, after all.



That Night Whittier, California

Blair Sandburg was awakened by a phone call. He reached over blindly and picked it up. "Hullo?"

"Is this Blair Sandburg?"

Blair was instantly awake, sitting up in shock. No one had called him Blair in three years. "Who is this?"

The voice was tinged with an accent. Italian, he guessed. "I am a friend. Mr. Sandburg, your friends in Cascade need your help. Can you get here tomorrow?"

Blair shut his eyes briefly, stretching his aching back. "Listen, this isn't a good time." No time was a good time. He never wanted to have to face his friends in Cascade ever again. But now was twice as bad, when he was frantically trying to come up with a way to save his small, humble business, and not get arrested for fraud when the bank reported him.

"Mr. Sandburg, there has been a kidnapping. Cliff Brown and Daryl Banks are missing. You are needed here by Mr. Brown to help. It is important."

Blair frowned. "Missing? What do you mean, missing?"

"I can tell you no more. At the airport there is a ticket waiting for you. The plane leaves at ten in the morning. You will arrive here at noon. Please be on that plane."

"I can't just leave my-"

"Their lives are in danger, Mr. Sandburg," the voice reminded him sternly.

"How long do they need me?" Blair asked quietly.

"I don't know. It could be a day, it could be weeks. Whatever you have going on there, it can wait, surely." The man spoke with certainty. "I hope to see you tomorrow, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair hung the phone up with a shaky breath. Daryl and Cliff, in danger. If he went, he could help save them. He had no idea how, but he didn't doubt that if nothing else Henri would need a shoulder to lean on. But going to Cascade for however long it took to find those young men would mean no income, no payments, and he would probably get thrown in jail for fraud.

Blair fell back into bed. There was no decision. He'd be on the plane. They were in danger, so he would help.

He just didn't look forward to what he would return home to.

He went to sleep thinking about Cascade and in his dreams the city was a jungle, and a black jaguar was roaring somewhere in the darkness.



Cascade, Washington-

Jim slept in the city of Cascade for the first time in years. He had to be nearby, he didn't think twice about it. Henri was rapidly turning in to a wreck, and there was no sign of the two men anywhere. He was needed here now, and he would stay, as much as it hurt him.

So he slept in Cliff's bedroom, in Cascade.

And in his dreams he could hear the distant sound of a wolf baying, getting closer and closer to where he lay.



The Next Day-

Henri paced the small confines of his office, cursing his own helplessness, straining to keep his mind from thinking about what was happening to his son.

He should be out there doing something, damn it. But Jim had instructed him to go to work, saying Danglars would be watching his moves. Jim was out there now, searching for signs.

And he was standing here doing nothing. If Cliff died, if either of them did, he would never forgive himself.

The knock on his door was welcomed as it broke into his thoughts.

"Come in!"

Count Cristoff stood in the doorway, his blue eyes piercing through the room. "Captain Brown."

"Count." Brown sat down, trying to calm his nerves.

The Count came in and shut the door behind him. "Captain, there are things being said about your son's disappearance."

"Like what?" Brown asked sharply. It hadn't leaked to the press yet -- who could be talking about it?

"Captain, you do know already that Evan Danglars is responsible for this, don't you?"

"How the hell did YOU know?" Brown asked without answering directly.

The Count simply smiled. "The question, Mr. Brown, is what are you prepared to do about it? Danglars has your son. He has Daryl Banks. And he knows that you know this. He expects you to stay away from him from now on, to silence any accusations you may have. To, essentially, let him carry on his business in this city, and possibly in your national government, without opposition. This is why he has your son. And he is confident the entire police force will not be able to rescue these men. How will you respond to this?"

Brown shut his eyes with a groan. Cristoff spoke with such flat confidence, that it no longer mattered how he knew. What mattered was that what he knew was the truth. "I don't know, Count. If I listen to him, there's no telling if I'd ever get Cliff back. If I don't, he'll kill them."

"Captain, tonight the Chief is speaking at a political gathering. After that, he will be leaving Cascade to campaign elsewhere. He will have your answer before he goes."

Brown's intuition flared suddenly, and his sharp gaze went to the blonde. "He sent you here, didn't he?"

"No one sent me, Captain, but it may come down to that. If he wants an answer, he may well send me to get it."

"You're working for him?" Brown's eyes were wide with disbelief.

The Count smiled tightly. "I work for no one but myself. But this is not about me, Captain. If you had a chance to make yourself heard tonight, what would you say? Would you go along with Danglar's wishes, or would you denounce him as the criminal we both know that he is?"

Brown sat up, his lips pursed tightly. He had to assume, now that the Count's motives were uncertain, that what he said here would get back to Danglars. So he sat up straighter and looked the man in the eye. "I would tell the world exactly what I know to be true about the Chief. If Cliff gets through this alive, it will be against Danglar's wishes. I know that. I won't abandon my son and my principles both."

The Count nodded, a look that was almost approval on his face. He looked down at the weary form behind the desk and spoke sincerely. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, Captain. Everything will work out as it is meant to."

"Meant to by who?" Brown asked darkly.

The Count smiled then, an almost genuine-looking expression.

And Henri Brown was suddenly struck by the thought that he had known this man before. In another life.

The Count turned and left quickly, before he could say anything.

No, it was silly. His mind playing tricks on him. God knew he hadn't slept for the last two days. He was worried, he was more scared then he had been in his entire life.

It was his imagination.



"I've almost got it...." Daryl couldn't believe the credit card was actually working.

Cliff was smiling behind the detective. "About time that thing came to good use. It's been maxed-out for months."

"There!" Daryl felt the lock slipping, and he grasped the knob and twisted with a quick prayer.

It opened easily.

Daryl shot Cliff a triumphant grin. "Let's get the hell out of here and figure out what's going-"

Cliff heard him cut off and saw him stop in the doorway. "What's wrong, D?" He came up behind his friend and saw that the Count was standing in the hall, gazing at them with a dark look on his face.

Daryl came out, seeing that the man was obviously unarmed. "You wanna tell us what's going on here?"

The blonde shook his head firmly. "No. But somehow I didn't think the two of you would stay put for long. You take after your fathers."

Daryl glanced at Cliff in surprise. "What do you know about our fathers?"

"That isn't important."

"Bull! You haven't answered a straight question yet. Tell us what's going on here, or we're out of here, and you can't stop us."

The Count looked at him, for the first time appearing hesitant. Finally he gave a huge sigh, another first. "If I tell you I'm a friend, that isn't good enough for you?"

"No." Daryl met his gaze, crossing his arms firmly.

"Fine. Come with me." The Count turned and went to the front of the house.

Daryl glanced at Cliff, but they both followed silently. As eager as they were to get out and make sure Henri was all right, this was turning into quite a mystery.

When they reached the small, bare living room, they saw the Count standing with a small bag, setting it on the table -- the only furnishings they could see. Silently he pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses and a handful of black. "Recognize these?"

Daryl started in surprise -- the man's accent had vanished completely. He looked down at the sunglasses and...wig. A long black wig. His eyes narrowed, and he mentally put the items on the Count. He sucked in a breath as it struck him. "You're Gerard!"

"Yeah."

Cliff looked over at Daryl, confused. "Gerard? The French guy? With the brother, and the money??"

Daryl nodded, his eyes staying on the Count. "But...why? Who are you?"

He put the items back into the bag, a sad smile touching his face. "I'm an old friend of both your fathers."

Cliff's eyes narrowed suddenly. That voice, now that it was free of accents, did sound familiar. "Hang on. I know you."

"You did."

Daryl looked over the man, from the dark, Italian suit to the blonde hair.

The Count seemed to feel his eyes, and he reached up to his hair almost self-consciously. "Not a very good dye job, really. I'm surprised it's lasted this long." He shrugged, and his hand came down somewhat. "These are contacts. You'd be amazed how easy it is to make yourself look different."

Cliff and Daryl were both staring, both an inch away from placing the man in front of them. "Take them out," Daryl replied quietly.

The man studied them both, then shrugged slightly and reached up, gingerly taking the blue contacts out of his eyes.

Two pairs of brown eyes were suddenly locked to a pair of hazel ones. And Cliff knew, suddenly, as certain as if thirteen years had not gone by. "Rafe?" He spoke quietly, shocked.

Daryl's eyes grew and his mouth dropped open.

Rafe smiled sadly. "Will you listen to me now when I say I'm doing this for your own good?"

"But...how?"

"It's a long story. And I don't have time now. I have to get to the airport."

"The airport?" Daryl took a step forward in consternation.

Rafe zipped the bag up carefully. "I'm not going anywhere. I have to pick up another old friend."

Daryl wanted to ask who, but the look on the older man's face stopped him. Rafe's eyes went to both the young men, as piercing as they had been the last few days. "Can I trust you two to stay put here? I promise you that things are going to be fine, but I need you to stay put."

Daryl found himself nodding.

Cliff spoke finally. "Can you...make sure dad's okay?"

Rafe looked down, but they both caught the flash of pain that crossed his features. "I will."

"You're not going to tell them, are you?" Daryl knew it as definitely as if Rafe had already said it.

He stopped his preparations and looked up at Daryl. "There's no place for me here anymore, Daryl. I'm...making things right. For everyone. But there isn't any room for me."

Daryl opened his mouth to argue.

"Please. I'm going to be late." Rafe looked them over for a moment before heading to the back hallway again.

Daryl and Cliff exchanged shocked looks, and neither of them said a word.

A minute later, Rafe was back. His eyes were once again blue, and his coldly impassive Count mask was back in place. "I'll return here tonight, when everything has been taken care of. After that you will be free to go." He gazed at them both, once again carrying the look of a stranger. Then he was gone, out the front door, leaving the two men once again in stunned silence.



Blair Sandburg got off the plane, his one small, threadbare bag in his hand, and looked around. Cascade. Even the airport was familiar. Too many memories came swamping back at once, and he had to take a seat in one of those plastic chairs to gather his energy to make the trip into the city itself.

A shadow fell over him as he sat there, and he looked up to see a tall blonde man gazing down at him. "Mr. Sandburg, I'm glad you came."

Blair easily recognized the Italian's accent as his mysterious caller, and he stood. "Who are you?"

"A friend. I will drive you where you need to go."

Uneasy, Blair looked at the slender face and his brows furrowed. "Hey, do I know you?"

"I find it doubtful," the man replied easily, turning and leading Blair further into the crowd, towards the front doors.

Blair followed, but he had a strange feeling about what he was going to find here. The dream last night hadn't helped, of course. It was the first time he had dreamed of jungles and black cats in three years. Jim's presence was in this city, and he had recognized that in his dream.

But Jim wasn't here. And he would, sooner or later, have to accept that fact and deal with it as best he could.





Megan and Joel walked through the busy airport, flanking the old man walking with them, going slowly for his sake. Both were looking around in wonder at the old place. Cascade.

"It feels good to be back here," Megan said finally.

Joel turned a grin to her. "Yeah. Yeah it does."

The old man remained studiously silent, a glare on his face as he walked.

Suddenly Megan stopped, sucking in a breath, her face going pale.

"What?" Joel was instantly alert. "What is it?"

"I thought..." She laughed nervously, shaking her head. "For a minute I thought I saw Sandy."

Joel looked to the crowd with a frown. "I wondered if that was going to happen when we got here."

Megan nodded shakily. "I guess Simon's next."

They kept walking, not missing a step, but the air between them was suddenly darker.





Danglars read through his speech again as the crowds gathered, taking their seats around the huge room. Everyone was charmingly, stylishly dressed, and gabbing pleasently. This was the Republican center of Cascade, in this room. They mingled along with dozens of reporters, here to record his speech. It was the night of a lifetime.

His hands kept sweating. He looked around the room every minute, searching for the familiar blonde hair and blue eyes that had become so essential to him the last weeks.

As it turned out, the Count snuck up on him.

"Chief?"

He turned with a rush of air, surprised. "Count!" He broke into a smile, the tension immediately vanishing. "How is everything?"

"Under control, just as you requested. But you should not be worried about this. Be worried about your speech."

Danglars nodded, glancing down at the notes, then back up to the angular face. "Have you given any thoughts to my offer?"

The Count faced him squarely. "I have, and I accept your invitation to speak a few words."

"Great!" Danglars grinned. The idea of getting this rich foreigner to speak on his behalf was calculated. Danglars was convinced, knowing how the Count could talk, that he would come out glowing. Just the finishing touch on a night sure to be magical.

"You will bring me up before you make the speech, yes?"

"Oh, sure. However you want to do it."

"Good. And you have reserved seats for me?"

"Two, right up here with me, as you have requested."

"Perfect. Then let me go and collect myself, and don't worry about tonight. Everything will go according to plan."

If Danglars had noticed the darkness in the smile Cristoff shot him, he ignored it, turning right back to his notes.





Henri Brown paced the men's room, tugging at his tight collar, wondering for the hundredth time what the hell he was doing here.

Jim Ellison watched him moving, his own thoughts in turmoil. Henri had told him about the day's conversation with some man that Henri had trusted, and so he knew what his old friend was going through. Cliff was as good as dead, however this night played out.

The door to the bathroom opened, and a man familiar to both occupants stepped in.

Henri froze in his tracks and looked at Count Cristoff warily.

Jim Ellison straightened from where he had been slumped against the wall, glaring at the man. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Henri glanced over at him. "Jim, you know the Count?"

"Count?" Jim nodded at the man. "I just know that this guy works for Danglars. He paid me a visit the other night."

Cristoff acknowledged both men with looks. "I want to thank you for coming, Captain Brown. I assure you that everything will be made clear to you by the end of this evening."

Henri took a step towards him, looking for once open and vulnerable. "Do you know if Cliff is all right? Can you tell me?"

"Captain Brown, if you follow my lead through this night, I assure you that your son will be delivered to you unharmed before the sun rises."

Brown sagged against the counters, his eyes wide with mingled hope and disbelief. "Can you promise me that?"

"Henri, don't listen to this guy. He works for Danglars, I'm telling you."

"He works for no one but himself," Henri answered, not taking his eyes from the Count.

The man nodded. "Mr. Ellison, if you would please take your seat, you have a spot reserved at a table in the front."

"I do?" Jim's glare didn't fade.

"Yes. Please do as I ask."

"What about me?" Henri asked slowly.

"Captain, you will be in the front table beside me, if you don't mind. You will be seated next to an old gentleman, and I would appreciate it if you would watch him and make sure he doesn't try to leave the dais."

Henri looked into those calm blue eyes, and nodded. He still hadn't figured out why this man struck such a cord in him, but he trusted him. However crazy it might be, when he said Cliff and Daryl were going to be fine, Henri believed it.

"Excellent. Now, if you will take your places, I believe they are almost ready to start."

The Count turned and headed out of the bathroom.

Henri followed, but an arm stopped him.

Jim looked at him closely. "Do you know what you're doing here, H?"

Henri nodded slowly. "I think so. I trust him, Jim. I don't know why, but I do. You should do what he says."

Jim sighed, but he followed Henri towards the dining room without a word.





Danglars was just standing up to approach the podium when Count Cristoff came back to take his seat, followed by...

Danglar's eyes grew wide. Brown? What the hell was Brown doing there?

He turned to the Count, but Cristoff only nodded confidently and gestured him forward.

Danglars relaxed somewhat. The Count had this all planned. He had a reason for bringing Henri Brown there, so the Chief ignored the man's presence.

As soon as he was behind the podium, the chattering in the room silenced. Danglars opened his mouth to start introducing his foreign guest, but a movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him. It turned out to be just some old man Danglars didn't know, being sat in the Count's other reserved spot. The Count saw him seated and then took his own chair quietly, facing Danglars.

Danglars cleared his throat and faced the front again. He started talking confidently, introducing his guest as one of Italy's finest political minds, a new citizen of their fair state and a man impressed by the wonders of American government. And oh, how the BS flowed from his mouth like air.

The audience applauded politely, and Danglars let the Count stand and take over for him at the podium.

The Count had no notes -- he simply gazed at the crowd, looking directly at Jim Ellison, then at a rich, middle-aged man seated right beside Ellison, and then over the entire room. "Chief Danglars has given me, I fear, too warm an introduction." He smiled slightly at the crowd. "He is right about a few things. One, I am new to this country, and two, I am very interested in how the political system works here. I made it a point to get involved with this election immediately after I arrived, determined to study how the wheels of the electorate turned in Washington State. I was counting on Evan Danglars to teach me. It was to my great shock, and I believe it will be to the shock of everyone here, that I found in my time spent here that Evan Danglars is nothing but a common criminal and a fraud."

The room erupted in surprised voices, and the bored reporters suddenly came to attention.

Henri Brown and Jim Ellison exchanged shocked looks.

Evan Danglars sat like he was sure he had heard incorrectly.

Cristoff's eyes swept over the room, and the voices died down. "This was not the end of my surprises, I'm afraid. Several of the most important men in this city, men who help Danglars now and helped him years ago, are also nothing but fraudulent criminals. I will cite an example. The gentleman at this front table." He pointed rather specifically at the man seated next to Jim Ellison.

Jack Villford opened his mouth in shock, his eyes going to Danglars.

"Villford and Danglars go back a long way, it seems. As younger men they liked to sentence innocent people to slow deaths in prison. They were motivated by different things, of course, but I find Americans hold motivations at too high importance. What is important is that at least two men lived their lives and died in solitary, hidden prison cells over the whims of these men."

Danglars shot out of his chair finally. "This is outrageous," he shouted.

Several flashes lit the room as photographers captured the would-be politician's rage.

Danglars strode over to the Count. "Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?"

The Count met him halfway, and grabbed his arms, pulling him closer and whispering a name into his ear.

Danglars jerked away, his mouth opening and shutting, his eyes going again to Villford, wide in sudden fear. He seemed incapable of voicing his other protests.

The Count took advantage of his silence and returned to the podium. "I have here Captain Henri Brown, of the Major Crimes division of a precinct here in Cascade. Many of you here know Captain Brown. What you may not know is that Evan Danglars asked me, as a political favor, to kidnap Captain Brown's son and another young detective. This was to keep Captain Brown silent about what he knew of Danglar's crimes. Fortunately, I have both young men in a safe place, where Danglars and his men cannot get to them."

Henri Brown stood as he was talking, backing up slightly, his eyes on Danglars, and then going back to the Count in immeasurable relief at the news about his son.

The Count glanced over at him, then turned back to the microphone. "I realize that perhaps my accusations will not mean much to men as rich and powerful as these two, but I have managed to bring with me a man who can testify to both of their crimes, and has agreed to do just that for a measure of immunity against his own crimes. Perhaps some of you remember a criminal by the name of Jean Noirtier?"

The old man beside Henri was nothing if not a showman. At the mention of his name he stood, tall and straight, his eyes glaring fiercely out at the crowd.

Villford lurched out of his chair and instantly made a break to get away, but Jim Ellison, realizing exactly why he had been placed where he had, grabbed the man's arm and held him firmly.

Henri Brown, somehow maintaining his professionalism even that night, went to the old man and spoke to him briefly. The crowd and the reporters were going crazy, snapping pictures and almost shouting to be heard over the rest of the room.

Henri broke away from the man and went for the microphone. The Count stepped out of his way gracefully, and Henri directed his gaze to the uniformed policemen edging closer, uncertain about what they should do. "Arrest Villford and Danglars, and hold Noirtier for questioning."

The uniforms moved swiftly to follow his orders.

Henri turned wide eyes to the Count, but the blonde man was already walking away. He turned back to the microphone. "The rest of you, sorry to spoil the evening. Enjoy your meals, 'cause the show is over." He stepped away from the podium, leaving it abandoned.

Relieved of his burden, Jim Ellison came over and joined Henri as he left the stage. "I don't think I've quite figured out what's happened here," he said softly.

Henri pulled Jim's arm, leading him out of the room when he saw the reporters approaching. "Until I get Cliff and Daryl back safe and sound, I'm not even going to think about it."

Jim nodded, and the two men headed for the exit. Suddenly Henri stopped, the search for his keys arrested by the discovery of a small slip of paper. He lifted it and read it quickly.

"What's that?" Jim didn't fail to notice.

Henri looked like he wanted to grin but didn't quite dare. "It says we'll find the people we're looking for at this address."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Two guesses who placed that on you."

"Right now I don't care," Henri stated, heading for the door at a jog.



There were three cars parked outside of the house when the two men arrived. Jim and Henri got out, looking around the empty road and encroaching forests in surprise. This place was almost in the country, and it was occupied, by the look of it.

The front door opened, and a familiar blonde came out, heading for the two men. "Captain, Mr. Ellison, if you would join us."

Henri nodded, his eyes glittering in wonder, and the two men followed their gaunt host into the house.

Jim glanced around as they entered, looking at the address on the door -- in case they needed it later. He still had no idea who or what this guy-

Then he froze, stunned, seeing the gathering waiting for them.

Henri, who had entered before him, was hugging his son fiercely, as Daryl stood by, chatting with...Joel Taggart and Megan Conner?

The Count stood watching them all, and noticed Jim standing there. Before anyone could greet him, the Count approached, and took his arm gently. "If you will come back here, I think you need a moment of privacy."

Jim went with him woodenly. Privacy? What was this strange guy talking about now?

The Count led him to a door and opened it, pushing Jim through and shutting it behind him.

Jim almost turned to see what was going on, but a movement caught his eye, and he turned into the room fully.

The man already in that room was standing frozen, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide, pale and trembling visibly in shock.

Jim became aware of his own similar state, and he shut his mouth, swallowing hard. When he finally trusted himself to speak, it was still just a whisper. "Blair?"

The man started, as if surprised, and his mouth managed to close also. He took a shaky step forward. "Jim?"

The familiar voice slammed home to Jim Ellison, and he stumbled forward. "You're dead," he whispered haltingly.

The long, achingly familiar curls bobbed as the man shook his head. "I thought...I thought you were. I saw the funeral, and the stations in Whittier didn't release the name, and you weren't there, and he -- Brackett -- told me you'd been killed, and..." He stopped suddenly, falling silent again.

He's learned to stop himself from rambling, Jim thought to himself inexplicably.

But he was still nervous. His heart was going a mile a....

The onslaught hit him the moment he realized he could hear his Guide's heart beating.

Suddenly everything jumped at him at once. He could hear every noise in that house, every heart beat, every voice, every movement. He could hear the birds and insects, the leaves rustling outside. The light in the room entered his eyes and he slammed them shut, just as the feel of the clothes on his skin and the wood against his feet drove him to his knees.

And then, the other man was there, on his knees beside him. "Jim?"

The thunderous noise echoed through Jim's brain, and he shook his head against the onslaught.

"Jim, it's okay. This hasn't happened in a while, huh? Come on, pretend it's old times. You've got to remember those dials. Come on, Jim. This is instinct, just bring down the levels. We can do this together, Jim. Come on, concentrate."

And so Jim did. Listening to the soft, sing-song voice of his Guide, he slowly began to imagine the five dials. And slowly he managed to get them all turned back down, until the fire on his skin vanished, and the thunder of noise and the blast of light had faded down to normal.

He breathed deeply, opening his eyes to gaze at the concerned blue eyes now inches away from his own. "I...I lost them. The last few years."

Blair, of course, understood perfectly. His eyes grew and he sat back on his knees. "That's why you thought I..." He nodded to himself.

Probably thinking up new tests, Jim heard himself thinking. Suddenly, a smile appeared on his face, small and uncertain.

Blair echoed the expression, his eyes still mirroring his disbelief.

"You're alive." Jim stepped even closer, his hand going up apprehensively, touching his Guide's arm as though afraid it would pass right through and Blair would vanish.

Blair sucked in a breath at the contact, meeting his eyes.

Without another word, the two men fell together, wrapped tightly in the other's arms, shaking with tears that neither even pretended to ignore.



Outside the door, Rafe smiled to himself.

That was it. Justice had been done. The bad had proven themselves as being still bad, and he had seen them all punished. For him, and for Faria, and for everyone else they might have hurt.

And the good, his old friends, had proven themselves worthy. Jim and Henri had stood up to the criminal who thought he had them under his thumb, even under threat of the death of friends or family. Blair had been willing to sacrifice his life, his freedom, to return to Cascade and help his friends. Megan and Joel had left their lives with no warning and followed his instructions, just on the word that it would help the people they had left behind here. Cliff and Daryl had proven themselves as being worthy of the names they carried. Simon....

Rafe's smile faded. It was too late for Simon, and it pained him to think about.

Nonetheless, it was over. That was it. Noirtier, Villford, and Danglars were all going to prison. He had made things better for his friends.

The door to the room burst open minutes later, and the reunited partners came out, arms still around each other. They went into the living room together, and Blair greeted the crowd of friends who had thought he was dead.

Rafe followed them into the room quietly, and his smile returned. It was too late for Simon, and too late for him, but he had money, and a whole world he could explore.

So he started edging his way around the boisterous crowd, heading for the door. The Count was going to vanish without a trace, and he figured if anyone here thought of him, at least it would be with affection.

He was easing the door open when the shout stopped him in his tracks.

"Rafe!"

He paused, but forced himself to breathe. He's heard wrong, that was all.

"Rafe?"

The room behind him had fallen suddenly silent, and Rafe drew in a breath, turning around.

Daryl had pushed to the edge of the group, and was staring at him squarely. "You can't leave, Rafe. This is your home. It always was, it always will be."

Henri stared between Daryl and the Count in shock. The room was silent as everyone dealt with their own reactions to Daryl's revelation. Cliff came up behind his father suddenly and pushed him towards his old partner.

Henri stumbled forward, his eyes wide, and he approached the man he'd thought to be a stranger. He studied the gaunt, lined face, the blonde hair and blue eyes.

And he saw his partner of thirteen years ago, suddenly. It was hard, but not impossible. "Rafe?"

Rafe swallowed, and looked down at his feet. "Henri, I..." He paused, unsure of what to say.

He found himself suddenly caught up in the arms of his old partner, and after only a second's hesitation he squeezed Henri back for all he was worth.

They pulled apart finally and gazed at each other. Rafe saw the tears on his old friend's face and realized suddenly that Daryl was right. This was home.

Henri seemed to see the decision steel in Rafe's eyes. He put an arm over the slender shoulder and silently steered his partner back to the crowd, to the family he thought he had lost long ago.