"Someone's following us. Brown Ford. He's been with us for the last three turns." Jack kept his voice matter-of-fact. "Turn here."

Laura did, suddenly enough that he had to brace himself against the dashboard to keep from banging into the window. Cars honked and skidded through the half-frozen mush as they slammed on their brakes. Jack checked the back window again. The Ford had made the turn, too. "I was going to say you're getting paranoid, but," Laura began, her voice wavering. She didn't finish the sentance. She didn't need to. The Ford continued to follow as she made a right onto another random road.

"Thank God Sydney's with Emily." He was surprised the words came out aloud.

"Amen to to that," Laura agreed, glancing into the rear-view mirror. She put the car into another skidding turn, and came out on a highway overlooking the bay. The water was choppy in the wind and freezing rain. Bright headlights gave proof through the rain that the Ford was still there. "What is he, the bloody American flag?" she muttered, turning halfway around to look at the truck.

The car turned with her. "Laura!" She spun forward, but it was too late, the car was already off the road and heading straight for the bay. She tried to turn, but she hit a patch of ice. The car spun, but it continued on its original course. "Get out!" Jack screamed, unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing open his door. The car hit something. A rock, the guardrail, Jack wasn't sure. The car jolted, throwing him out the open door. In the seconds before he hit the ground, he saw Laura's body tossed into the steering wheel. Her seatbelt still holding her captive in the doomed vehicle.

He landed on his back and slid into a bush. He stood, and watched helplessly as Laura, trapped in the car, went over the side of the overhanging cliff and began sinking into the freezing cold bay. "Laura!" he screamed futilely. Blinding headlights drew his attention from the sinking wreck. The Ford bore down on him, intent on hitting its prey. He ran toward where Laura's car had gone over. The Ford drew nearer, gaining on him easily. Jack stopped in the middle of an ice patch, and turned toward the death bearing down on him.

At the very last moment, he dropped prostrate, and let the truck drive harmlessly over him. Once it was passed, he lifted his head. The Ford skidded as it tried to avoid following Laura's into the inky cold of the bay. For a second, it looked like it would make it, but then it hit another patch of ice and went through the guardrail a little farther from where Laura had.

He approached the side carefully, and looked down into the choppy water. He watched the Ford disappear beneath the waves. His own Geo was nowhere to be seen. "Laura!" The wet on his face was just the rain. He sank down to his knees, and stared down at the deceptive water. Just to look at it, one would never know it had just swallowed his wife. "Laura," he whispered his regret. "I'm sorry."

He heard another car approaching from behind him. He flirted with the idea of letting it knock him off the cliff if that's what it wished to do. But then he thought about Sydney. He scrambled to his feet, ready to run if need be. The car came to a stop about ten feet from him. The driver got out. Smart guy. He wasn't about to try the same disappearing act the first assassin did. Jack surreptiously reached for his gun, but the new arrival called out, "A bit wet out here for a stroll, buddy. Need a lift?"

Helpful Samaritan, that's all. The addrenaline in his veins seemed to suddenly wink out of existance as though never there. His hand fell away from the concealed weapon, and his best attempt at conversation was a shaky, pointed finger at the first break in the guardrail and, "My wife."

The Samaritan stared at him in stupified horror.

How he got to the hospital, he was never really sure about. One minute he was standing in the freezing rain, at the edge of fatal cliff, staring at the horrified face of a stranger, the next he was sitting in waiting room chair, wet and shivering with a blanket wrapped around him. He was fairly sure he never lost consciousness, but he had no memory of the intervening time.

Somewhere nearby a doctor was talking. "Emotional shock. Minor cuts and bruises. Possibly a mild concussion. Hypothermia. But, overall, excellent condition for having survived a car accident. You can ask your questions, but don't expect elaborate replies. The fellow who brought him in said he just lost his wife." He felt numb. He knew the doctor was talking about him, but he couldn't raise the energy to care much about what he said. If he had sustained cuts and bruises or a concussion, he certainly didn't feel them. He was peripherally aware of his chattering teeth. He attributed it to the hypothermia the doctor mentioned, and ignored it.

Someone he didn't know squatted down in front of him. He had a friendly face. "Hi," the stranger said softly. Jack didn't want want to talk anyone right now, so he stared passed the man's shoulder as though he weren't there. It wasn't difficult. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Jack." He was distantly aware that his mouth was answering without the conscious consent of his brain, but he put off worrying about that until later. He didn't want to think yet.

"Great, Jack. Do you remember what happened tonight?"

He didn't want to. He remembered he didn't want to remember. "It rained." He was wet. That seemed a safe answer. He realized he hadn't blinked in a long time, so he did so.

"Who else was in your car, Jack?"

He didn't want to think about the car. "Thank God Sydney's with Emily." The words sounded familiar, like he'd heard them recently.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the man shift slightly. The stranger was staring at him intently. "Who's Sydney, Jack?"

"My daughter." Jack smiled a little, thinking fondly about Sydney. She, at least, was safe. A horrible fear began to crowd that relief. "My daughter," he repeated, this time in alarm. "I need to see to my daughter!"

"Where is she? We'll bring her to you." The stranger's voice was calm, soothing.

Jack's eyes narrowed in suspicion, instinctively distrusting the tone. "I'll call her." The stranger nodded easily, and helped Jack to his feet. He lead the way to a reception area. The man convince the nurse supervising the station to allow Jack to use the telephone. After being instructed to 'Press nine, then dial the number," Jack positioned his body so that nobody could tell which numbers he pressed. After the third ring a cheerful female voice said, "Hello?"

"Is Sydney safe?"

There was a startled pause on the other end. "Jack? She's right here, painting with water in one of her books. Why, what's wrong?"

"Call Arvin at work, if he's still there, tell him to come home, and make sure Sydney stays safe."

"What happened? Jack, you're scaring me." The what happened question again. Why did people keep asking him that? He didn't want to think about it. He handed the phone to the stranger, momentarily forgetting that he didn't trust the man.

A puzzled expression crossed the man's face, but he took the phone, and said, "Hello?"

Jack could barely hear her voice coming from the earpiece. "Who are you? What happened to Jack?"

"I'm Nick Denning from the Los Angeles police department. Jack was in a car accident," the man said calmly. "Whom am I talking with?" Police. That explained his interest. Jack felt he should have been able to figure that out sooner.

"My God. Is Jack alright? Is Laura? Oh, forgive my manners, Officer, I'm Emily Sloane. A friend of Jack's."

"Jack is . . . physically fine. Emotionally, he's shaken up, and won't answer some questions. Perhaps you can help me with some basics."

"What do you need to know?"

The stranger smiled apologetically at Jack. "Let's start with his last name."

"Bristow," Emily answered, the name fairly dripping with concern that even this much was news.

The policeman pulled out a pad of paper and a pen and jotted something down on it. Jack guessed it was his name. "Do you know where he was going or who he might have been with?"

"He was probably on his way here to pick up Sydney. Sydney, honey, why don't you go in the other room and watch television? There's a good girl. His wife, Laura, should have been with him, wasn't she?"

"The car went through a guardrail and into the bay. God and Jack only know how he stayed on the cliff's edge, and they're not talking."

Emily said something too softly for Jack to make out. A prayer or a curse, he'd guess. He wondered if maybe he should be doing one or both as well. His eyes itched and he realized he'd been staring at the same floor tile since he'd handed over the phone. He let himself blink again. Then he did it again, just for good measure. Only on the fifth blink did he notice his own tears. He abruptly turned to face a wall.

Behind him, he could hear neither the policeman's voice, nor Emily. The sounds of the nurse shuffling through papers, a pencil scratching against paper. Other people talking, too far away to make out anything more than a buzz. Footsteps. He willed the tears to stop, and used the heel of his hand to quickly swipe at the evidence. The pull of the blanket as he moved his arm reminded him he was still wet enough that any new moisture might not have been noticed. He had stopped shivering and chattering, he noted belatedly.

He turned around. The policeman had hung up, and was watching him in concern. "You should sit down again." Jack nodded, and let himself be led back to his former seat.

"This is important, Jack. Was there another car that went over the side?"

Jack nodded. "The brown Ford. Licence plate, um," he closed his eyes and drew up a picture of the Ford as it tried to run him down. "TVA 843, California plates. Pick-up truck. Laura swerved to avoid it, slipped on ice, and went over. I told her to jump out, but she didn't. I fell out before I could make sure she got out. The Ford swerved to avoid hitting me, then it went over, too." He recited the modified sequence of events emotionlessly. He locked away his inner screams in a deep corner of his mind and warned himself against ever going near there again. Right now he had to do his job, which was to make sure no one suspected him of being in the CIA. And there was no reason anyone would try to assassinate him if he were just the airplane part exporter he claimed to be.

"You're sure of that plate number? It was getting dark, raining -"

Jack looked at him evenly, and he stopped talking. "When you almost get run over, and you can't see every detail of that truck for the rest of your life, then you may ask me if I'm certain about the plate number."

The policeman winced. "Sorry."

Jack Bristow was kept overnight in the hospital 'for observation', ostesensibly because he had a concussion, but the reality of the cause was more complicated. The doctors had him on suicide watch, and didn't think him capable of caring for a daughter yet. The police wanted time to verify that he hadn't murdered his wife. The FBI quietly encouraged both the medical and investigative personnel to keep him close. The concussion was a very convenient diagnosis.