Previously, on Psych:

"I do not require your assistance with the other case. What I do need is extra manpower to assist with other cases we are dealing with. That is where you come in. We are dealing with a rash of home and business break-ins. The thieves are targeting copper wherever they can find it, including wiring and fittings. They appear to be loosely organized. They leave behind no evidence to speak of. Your job, Mr. Spencer, is to get a psychic reading on who is behind the activities and where their next target may be.”

***

"Well, isn’t this just our lucky day?" The punk couldn’t have been older than twenty one. His age was tricky to determine as his stringy hair was pushed over his features by the ratty knit cap. The fact this kid was high on something took no time at all to discern. His erratic behavior screamed druggie. Henry refused to acknowledge any weakness they could feed from. However, he would have to be very careful not to push this kid too far.

"You hurt my son. I guarantee your luck ends today."

***

“He was going to snap her neck, Jules!” he straightened himself, no easy feat as he lay on his side.  The move may have made a point, but his back flared with renewed pain; the last dose of meds now completely worn off.  “What more do you want?  Is that justifiable enough?!”

***

Oh God – I just killed someone.

<*><*><*><*><*>

Present Day

It hadn't been her idea of a week long family outing. For her, fun activities did not involve bug spray and heavy boots; no sir! She would have been perfectly content with a quaint bed and breakfast near the water. Soft blankets and pillows; delicious meals prepared by someone else for a change... But when her husband and Henry Spencer had put their heads together a few weeks ago to make this plan, her desires had not been considered. Men! The two of them were well past the age where this sort of thing should have left them so giddy. Bill had practically been bouncing off the walls in anticipation. When asked if he'd even thought about whether or not Burton would want to participate, the man had actually had the nerve to scoff. “Of course he'll want to go! Why wouldn't he?” Why indeed?

So here they stood. Well, here she stood – gazing around the kitchen by herself after Bill had gone haring off to find Henry. The boys were nowhere to be seen – no doubt hiding somewhere in hopes that they wouldn't be located until this traveling circus left town. There was no sign, yet, of the last member of their party. Not surprising though, and Winnie actually felt some relief that she wouldn't yet be required to interact with someone she'd barely known in spite of the friendship of their children.

Inactivity grating on her, Winnie set her purse down on the kitchen table and headed to the counter where food items had been laid out. Bread, a variety of lunch meats, cheese, mayonnaise... not much in the way of vegetables. She'd see to it that Bill ran out to pick up some additional supplies before they left. She should have known better than to let Mr. Spencer handle the food; not all of them were carnivores after all. Tucked behind a mesh bag of potatoes, she found a small paper sack that hadn't come from the standard grocery store. Inside, it was filled with a wealth of brightly wrapped candies and confections. Though she'd just berated Henry for his lack of healthy choices, Winnie couldn't stop the little quirk of her lips as she helped herself to a toffee. Henry hadn't considered her need for lettuce and tomatoes when he'd picked out sandwich fixings. He certainly wasn't the one to purchase her favorite sweets.

That boy was bound and determined to melt her heart.

Rolling the buttery candy over her tongue, Winnie sorted the food items; making a mental list of what supplies were still needed based on the appetites of their group; specifically her son. Outside she could hear voices talking and things scraping on the concrete. Bill had apparently located Henry. She could clearly hear their conversation even with the door closed. Bill had a terrible habit of raising his voice when he was excited, and Henry wasn't a great deal better. Lord, you'd think the two of them were losing their hearing the way they carried on.

The task of organizing their meals was mindless and expedient after years of creating dinners for her children and husband. Only a few minutes were required and then she was back to having nothing to do. All of the heavy gear would be handled by the men and everything Winnie may have had to do, she'd dealt with the day before. They should have left two hours ago but, as was typical, there were dozens of small details that others of the group had left until the last minute.

She may as well see if she could locate her son and get him to move his father along. Burton could get his father to listen even if she couldn't.

She'd been planning to go upstairs, convinced the boys were hiding out in Shawn's old bedroom. But two steps into the hallway, she froze.

The couch was new. Though it occupied the same space as its predecessor, the deep green patterned fabric and thick cushions were an improvement over the previous design.

She wasn't aware of stepping further into the room. Her hands clasped together over her breasts. The floors were cleaned, the walls repainted...

Her eyes wanted to close as her feet carried her deeper into the space. In spite of the changes, the smell was the same. Gunpowder and metal – a sweetness that made the taste in her mouth suddenly vile. She could hear the gasping draws of breath... the laugh... Oh God, that laugh...

“Mom?”

Her arms flailed out to her sides at the quiet address. Turning away from the dark maw of the fireplace, she had a smile in place before catching sight of her son at the base of the stairs.

“Burton! I was just looking for you, sweetheart.” The worry creases on his forehead smoothed as she reached up to pat his cheek. “I was wondering if you could help your father outside.”

There was a creak at the top of the staircase and she looked up to see Shawn hovering there. The rumpled shyness was not something she was used to seeing in him. Most of him was hidden behind the edge of the wall, though she could see his right hand curled around his other arm, which was still in a sling. She smiled at him as well, and was rewarded with a glowing lift of the corners of his mouth in return. Stripped of his typical smarm and charm, this pure expression of delight made her mother's heart lurch with both love and pain that only a mom could relate to.

A moment later, his eyebrows lifted and his lips quirked into one of sneaky conspiracy. “Gus and I are thinking of ditching the old guys and having a camp out in my room. We got popcorn and s'mores and a bad-asss...” Winnie saw his eyes flick to Burton, who was frowning as he gave his head a sharp shake, “...sssooo totally cool collection of movies – everything from Harry and the Hendersons to Ernest Goes to Camp. What say you?”

The burst of warmth and amusement in her chest drew a giggle and she could feel her cheeks warm. Shaking her head, she shook a finger at the young man.

“Oh no, you aren't drawing me into your little plot.”

She spotted the wink shared between the two boys and realized that a different conspiracy had just taken place, one that had more to do with the past than the future.

Letting the moment pass by without comment, she turned back to her son as Shawn proceeded down the stairs.

“I'm starting to think we're never getting out of here.” She swallowed at the double meaning her words registered in her mind, but thankfully neither of the young men seemed to notice her mood shifting back towards its earlier state.

Shawn patted her son on the back after easing his way down the rest of the flight. “No worries, Mrs. G. Gus and I will get this party started!”

His enthusiasm seemed to feed into her son, who grinned back and shared a clumsy version of their fist bump handshake. However, when Shawn held his knuckles out to her, she waved off the contact with both hands. At least, until his face seemed to fall just a bit. How that child could appear so wounded with the barest curve of his eyebrows...

Holding back the eye roll, she smiled as she shook her head and reluctantly held up her fist.

The world brightened on his face once more as Shawn met her knuckles with his own. Then, with one last slap against Burton's shoulder, he jogged towards the door. A quick peck on her cheek and her son followed after.

As for Winnie, she was not about to let some room filled with dead fish and flannel curtains rule her for the rest of her life. They'd all made it through just fine. It was time to put the past in the past and move forward. After all, she had a weekend with her loved ones to get ready for.

Without glancing behind her, she headed back through the kitchen and towards the screen door.

Maybe those boys could use her help after all.

<*><*><*><*><*>

In an ideal situation, Henry would have made reservations months in advance. The best campgrounds filled up fast and by the time the plan had formed to get out of town, it had already been too late. Personally, Henry didn't mind roughing it. As long as his air mattress stayed inflated he had no problem sleeping in a tent. But, he hadn't been the only one going on this trip. Winnie had adamantly put her foot down at the notion of allowing one on one contact with the wild outdoors. Take them wherever he wanted, she'd said, but they'd be doing so with whatever civility she could bring along.

So, burying his irritation at having his week hijacked by camping rookies, he'd gone along with Bill to the RV rental place and had picked up a monstrosity on four wheels. He hadn't even argued when Bill had insisted on putting his credit card on the paperwork; the man could certainly afford it. In exchange, Henry had insisted on picking up the grocery tab. This one he had fought for – the last thing he'd needed was to feel like a charity case. So, of course, Winnie and Bill had gone behind his back and bought extra groceries anyhow.

They'd been four hours behind schedule in leaving his house that morning. He'd wanted to be on the road by six, but getting the boys to wake up before eight had been an impossibility. Then there was the wait for his ex wife. Madeleine's plane had been delayed because of bad weather in Colorado, so she hadn't made it in until nine thirty. And, finally, there was the second stop for groceries – much to his adamant complaint.

Digging through the refrigerator, and Henry's face crimped at the notion of anything other than a cooler to carry their food, he collected a few packages of steak as well as the potatoes before nudging the door shut again with his hip. He'd purposefully ignored the bundles of carrots, broccoli, zucchini, and lettuce. If anyone wanted lawn clippings they could grab a knife and prepare their own dish.

Madeleine and Winnie were setting snacks out on the picnic table when he stepped out of the motor home. The bowl of chips in Winnie's grip hadn't even made it to the table cloth before two hands were plowing into it, scattering the corn snacks as double handfuls were dragged away.

“Hey, hey there!” Winnie swatted at the boys but Shawn and Gus skipped out of her reach while stuffing chips in their mouths. Maddie, standing on the other side of the table, smiled at the play while Henry just shook his head.

Avoiding the table as the boys circled the perimeter, Henry made his way to where Bill had filled the grill with charcoal. The small blaze he'd lit had yet to fully catch on the briquettes and only a couple of flames, slender and willowy, had risen from the mound. Unless they wanted to serve dinner at midnight they'd need to step this up.

“Here hold this.” Passing the steaks to Bill, Henry traded for the lighter and small bottle of starter fluid. The older Guster may by adequate in the field of life and death, but when it came to grilling, he was about as useful as slingshot in a shootout.

Within moments the charcoal had been redistributed and flames had spread through the mound. Laying the steaks out on a platter, Henry grabbed the salt and pepper and gave each side a light coating.

“I've got some cumin and thyme in the RV.” Bill didn't wait for Henry's response before jogging across the grass to the vehicle. Rather than yell back that he had things covered, Henry finished up seasoning the meat. Just as he put the final touches in place, an arm looped over his shoulders.

“Hey pop, how long before dinner's ready?” Shawn's question was accompanied by a brief rain of chip fragments – some of which sprayed across Henry's sleeve.

His son bent towards the steaks, his nose wrinkling. “Looks like they could use more rosemary. And possibly her baby.”

“Funny.”

Shawn grinned as Bill returned; several spices in his hands. The younger man abandoned his father – though not to a great distance as he settled himself against a nearby tree to watch. If it wasn't for the very strict orders of his doctor, Henry would have put Shawn to the task of chopping wood.

“You are gonna love this!” While Henry was glaring at his son, Bill had slipped in and begun adding several layers of seasoning to the steaks. “Winnie's old man gave me this recipe; trust me, you'll be blown away!”

Too late to chase off the unwanted help, Henry mentally threw his hands in the air and decided to shuck the corn instead. Given the way Bill was now massaging spice into the meat, it would be a while before they were added to the grill. Still leaning against the tree, Shawn appeared to be fighting a fit of giggles. Gus wandered over to stand beside his friend and now Henry had two idiots grinning at him.

“Sweetheart?” Four male heads swiveled towards the summons. However, it was Shawn that moved from his spot and headed towards his mother. Saved from the silent taunting, Henry resumed peeling the fibrous husk from the corn while, over by the grill, Bill had finally begun laying meat out on the hot surface.

Soon enough the various irritations began to smooth out as the scent of cooking meat added to the tang of the late afternoon air. Henry even managed to smile – the expression widening a little when he glanced towards his son and his ex wife. Maddie had given Shawn the task of helping her fold napkins into origami cranes. Completely ridiculous, and yet, Shawn seemed absolutely engrossed by the activity. Then Madeleine looked up and caught his eye – returning his bemused gaze with a wink.

Chuckling, Henry turned back to the bowl of corn. On the other side of the clearing, still prodding the steaks, Bill started to sing –

“So I'd like to know where, you got the notion... Said I'd like to know where, you got the notion...”

– joined seconds later by Gus and then Shawn, who kept his eyes on his task but let his voice rise and blend with the other two men.

“To rock the boat-”

“Don't rock the boat, baby-”

“Rock the boat-”

“Don't tip the boat over-”

“Rock the boat...”

<*><*><*><*><*>

“When?”

Karen sat at her desk with her phone tight to her ear. Just outside her window, she could see her detectives at their desks. She resisted the desire to pinch her eyes.

“God, that's three of them. Alright, just keep me in the loop, understand?”

After hanging up, she pushed away from her desk and opened the door to lean out.

“Lassiter, O'Hara, in my office.”

The two of them shared glances before standing and heading her way. She left the door open, returning to her desk to rest her fingertips on the edge. The moment her detectives entered, she tipped up her chin to speak.

“We have a problem.”

The gasp caught in his throat – scent of old fabric and blood whisking from his nose and replaced with the less familiar but more comforting smell of borrowed bedding and the cone shaped air freshener Mrs. G insisted on to battle the invasive stench of the outdoors.

Still dark, though he didn't know if it was seven pm or six in the morning. Snoring on all sides made him the early riser of the group – even beating out his dad from the sound of the deep rumble slightly up and to the left of his shared mattress. Next to him, Gus slept like a rock, wrapped in his own blanket plus half of Shawn's. Sticky fingered even in sleep, his best buddy had no shame in stealing the bedding from his shivering pal.

A few more seconds of blinking gave Shawn's bladder the chance to wake up as well and he swallowed an annoyed groan at the thought of moving his body. No worries of waking Gus, his buddy could sleep through an earthquake – and had on a couple occasions.

At least he'd been given the outer edge of the bed, though he'd had to battle for it. Even a broken wing wasn't enough to earn him a pass when it came to the least confining spot on the bed. Dad had actually had to intervene on that one – along with a sharp word from mamma Guster that had cowed her son instantly and had given her goddess status in Shawn's eyes.

It was a nice change of pace. Weird. Really, really freakish and kind of embarrassing, but nice regardless.

Wriggling his hips to move his legs towards the edge of the bed, Shawn winced at the pull all through his shoulder and back. Still healing wounds reminded him that a dose of pain medication was overdue by now as well and probably should take precedence over the potty break.

Shift and shuffle, soft moans between teeth and under his breath, he was finally able to grasp the nearby counter to straighten himself upright. He took a second to hug his injured arm to himself and pinch his eyes until the throb settled back to more manageable hurt.

Glancing behind himself at the soft snort, he smiled to see Gus curl a little tighter. Like a Persian kitten. He just needed a jeweled collar with a heart shaped pendant to finish the effect.

Pulling to his feet was as painful as he'd thought it would be. He didn't dwell with his audience unconscious so he made for his bag and dug out the bottle of meds. Shaking out two, he swallowed them with a mouthful of bottled water and headed for the tiny, cramped bathroom to deal with his other need.

Ten minutes later he was back in bed, one quarter of his blanket wrestled away from Scrooge McGreed. But even when he got his body perfectly aligned – left shoulder propped with a folded pillow, he found that sleep was proving difficult to recapture.

It was that dream again.

It wasn't every night – sometimes he dreamed of flying porcupines or being perused by witches on segues, all thanks to the narcotics he'd been prescribed. But sometimes, in pure ADHD quality...

“Is that the best you can do!?”

Red mist – floating out to dust the room, coat the skin, the tongue. He could still taste it sometimes during those seconds of jerking from sleep.

It made it harder to go back under, knowing he could be drifting himself right back in that living room. A place that had witnessed both arguments and making up – dozens of Christmases and birthdays, anger and unforgiveness. Now forever stained with the unstoppable evil that had led him down an equally unstoppable path. It may have been justified by the court. He may have been praised on the front page but that didn't mean he wasn't vilified on the second. And it didn't change what he was in the eyes of that kid's family. Or in his own.

Murderer.

“Hey.”

Shawn twisted his head enough to catch the blurry shape of his father leaning over the edge of his mattress, raised about a foot higher than the one Shawn shared with Gus. The attempt to connect a gaze with his peripheral vision made his eyes ache so Shawn rolled his head back down to his pillow.

“Just don't step on me if you're getting up. But feel free to step on Gus. Dirty crook.” Shawn whispered before tugging uselessly on the scrap of blanket covering barely half of his body.

A shift of cloth and he felt soft weight fall over his arm. Glancing back again, he saw the quilt that had formerly been warming his father was now draped over his body. Blushing a little, he wanted to argue the little red hen move but his dad spoke before he could start the weak fight.

“Winnie seems to think we need fifteen blankets on these beds. I was starting to think I was having hot flashes.”

Gus rolled then, swiping the rest of Shawn's original blanket. Guess he could keep the quilt a while longer. Besides, though it held some of his father's cologne, it also held his warmth. And he couldn't argue that it felt really nice.

“Thanks.” He muttered as he pulled the edge up over his shoulder. His father grunted back – managing to throw in a note of satisfaction in the non verbal tone.

He had another thirty minutes, give or take, before the medication would kick in so he held his body in a stiff curve – waiting for the ache to start seeping away.

“How's the shoulder?”

Why Henry chose to bypass tried and true interrogation for straight to the point inquiry was a mystery to Shawn. They had their game and they played it well so why the old man wanted to change the rules now – well it could only mean some sort of trick to shock out a confession or his pop had finally reached the age where strokes were inevitable.

“Fine.”

“Bull.”

Single word conversation he could handle. The less they spoke the less chance of annoying their camping companions into wakefulness. Not that Gus would be one of them, unless the smell of monkey bread was introduced into the equation. Great, now Shawn was craving cinnamon.

“It feels the same as yesterday and the day before that.” He refused to choose a smily face from the poster. Which expression best described his agony – the half smile or the quarter smile? Where was the smily with the bleeding eyes? How about the one that was actively on fire? One through ten was a perfect measuring system when the injury was a stubbed toe or a splinter. But numbers, as Gus liked to point out, could go on into infinity. So why limit the scale to ten? Especially when there were numbers like googleplex out there?

Maybe it was too early. Maybe the answer was good enough. Maybe swine were, even now, putting on goggles and preparing to launch themselves from a low flying plane. Either way, his dad didn't press and Shawn was able to snuggle deeper into his quilt.

He closed his eyes with the hope he'd pass out and skip right to the narcotic cloud nine that awaited him. Maybe he could skip the dreams too. Was it too much to ask to have a night of nothing? Maybe he should have reconsidered filling that script for Xanax.

Dad was already out again – snores cascading from the upper bunk. Falling asleep had rarely been a problem for the old man. Normally it wasn't a problem for Shawn either, though his rest was usually precipitated by a few hours of drowsy television watching. Which was probably a measure of his issue now. The only technology they'd been allowed to keep were their phones. Not that even his iPhone was of great use to him. Whatever cell tower they were using for a signal must have been at the farthest edge of their coverage because his cell had developed a bad habit of cutting out whenever he tried to download something. Movie watching was a joke – most of his time spent gazing at the little bar as it buffered and buffered...

Somewhere in his pondering he fell asleep. His next moment of awareness came with the sensation of weight dropping on him coupled with roaring pain in his shoulder. He grunted but managed to keep the scream in check long enough to open his eyes. Gus's face was three inches from his own – a pointy knee jabbing into his thigh as his friend struggled to clamber across him.

“Geez – DUDE!” Startled and very extremely uncomfortable, Shawn wriggled under the suffocation. Clearly Gus had been indulging his Del Taco cravings again because it felt as though he was being crushed by a young orca.

“Get off!”

A floppy tumble and Gus finally slipped over the side of the bed to eat the floor in a meaty thwak.

“Owww...”

Shawn struggled to feel sympathy for the groaning mess beside the bed but he was somewhat busy trying to breathe through the stabs of agony their little tussle had brought to life in his shoulder. So there were drawbacks to sleeping on the outside of the bed. He could see that now.

“You okay?”

Dad was awake again and Shawn pivoted his head to see his father leaning over the edge of his mattress.

“Dandy. Nothing a good soak in a hot tub can't cure. Possibly some illegal substances. You were a cop – you think you could score me something from the evidence locker?”

Henry snorted. “How about a hot water bottle and your prescription?”

Shawn sank against his pillow and stared up at the floral patterned ceiling. “Well if you feel like being stingy...”

His father's exit from the bed carried more grace than Gus's clawed scramble. His best friend was still picking himself up as Henry eased his way past Shawn's body and to the floor in time to help Gus the rest of the way up. On the other side of the small cabin, the noise had brought life back to the snoring couple and they both stretched before sitting up. Shawn noticed that the other bed was empty. The tiny bathroom was unoccupied and he had a twitch of anxiety about where his mother had gone. He wasn't allowed to indulge it long, though, as the door to the RV pushed open and Madeline stuck her head inside. “You're all awake? It's really beautiful this morning, you should come outside!”

Henry passed Shawn two of his pills and a bottle of water before following Madeline outside. Gus had claimed the bathroom seconds later and Shawn knew it would be some time before he emerged again. As it was, Shawn realized he'd need to find himself a sturdy, and preferably wide pine tree, to take care of his own needs. Unlikely he'd be able to hold it on Gus's timetable.

Grabbing his jeans from the floor, Shawn flushed as he pulled them over his boxers even though both Winnie and Bill had turned their heads to offer him privacy to dress. That's it. From now on he was sleeping in his clothes. His heavy flannel took a bit more work and he wished he had something other than his lip to mangle between his teeth as he pushed his left arm through the sleeve. He couldn't stop the shaky little noise, though, and Winnie had her bathrobe wrapped around herself and was sitting beside him in seconds.

“Here, let me help you, sweetheart.”

He allowed her to guide his sleeve in place and even help him with his sling before she patted his cheek and stood. “You go on outside now – we'll be starting breakfast in just a minute. How do blueberry pancakes and sausage sound?”

His mouth began to water. “They sound amazing, Mrs. G!” That little teaser was enough to roar life through his belly as he realized how starved he was. There better be appetizers somewhere cause no way he'd last waiting for food to cook. Oooo! He remembered his dad buying cookies at the grocery store... they were probably in the cooler.

Minutes later he was sitting at the park bench with a handful of Chips Ahoy. His father had snatched the package away after Shawn had ripped it open like a wild bear but not before he'd secured a partial bounty. His dad knew full well he would have polished off the whole package if given the chance and would have spent the rest of the afternoon with stomach cramps. It was not a lesson easily learned. Or learned at all. Some things were worth the pain.

By this point, his mother and Winnie had started breakfast. It was an odd pairing and even odder to watch them work together. While his mother was a strong and in charge woman, she was allowing Mrs. G to command the “kitchen” - obediently following through with whatever tasks were handed down. Though Shawn hated to admit it, he was glad to see Mrs. G in charge of the actual cooking. Mom was just fine with canned and boxed meals but she herself would admit to little success, or interest, in actual meal preparation. Which just added to the bizarre of watching her slice onions and mushrooms.

Shawn turned from the sight to catch his father also watching the two women ready their breakfast. However, there was a small upward twist to his lips as his eyes followed his ex wife around the table. Shawn frowned at the expression but stayed where he was. He was just too tired to call his dad on his leering right then. Maybe after the medication started to work.

<*><*><*><*><*>

Madeleine had finished with the mushrooms and without a word, Winnie passed her a bowl of strawberries to slice. Unlike Bill, she was fairly silent when she prepared meals – preferring to concentrate on preparations rather than risk burning something. The same couldn't be said for her husband but he meant well and she rarely chastised him for the charcoal finish he brought to his efforts. Nearby, Madeleine chopped the berries into pieces and divided them into separate bowls. They'd be delicious with the cream Winnie had bought the previous day.

She'd served berries and cream that day too...

The house was dark and there was a... smell. It was familiar but she couldn't place it. Not that it really mattered; no doubt Henry Spencer had left something to rot in his pantry. Her dishes were by the sink and she collected them while considering that they'd need a more thorough cleaning when she got home again. She saw him on the couch, spread out and sleeping the night away. Lazy. Useless. A string of accusations flooded her mind as she collected her purse. And then she looked up...

The spatula slipped from her fingers and Winnie gulped before bending to retrieve it – rinsing it with bottled water even though it had fallen on what appeared to be clean grass. Her luck Madeleine had seen the fumble and was now looking at her a bit too knowingly.

“I know we haven't spoken much in the past but I was hoping there could be a time for that this weekend.”

Winnie lifted her brows but didn't turn from the skillet. “There's never been much for us to talk about.”

If the high and mighty Madeleine Spencer thought this was the prime opportunity to gain another client, she was sorely mistaken. Her chance of emotional understand had come and gone when her son was still wreaking havoc on the public school system. Sure, she probably had all sorts of lovely words about healing and moving on and finding inner peace. Winnie snorted. Madeleine could talk to her about inner peace the next time she had to rinse her own son's blood from her hands.

Winnie remembered washing Shawn's blood from the back seat of her car. She pondered what may have gone through Henry's mind as he'd scrubbed it from his floors. Two parents, bonded by the blood of their children. She shuddered as she flipped the last stack of pancakes; no longer as appetizing as they'd seemed while in batter form.

“Can you grab me a platter from the RV? The green one above the sink, please.”

Sending Madeleine for the platter was easier than dealing with her attempted conversation. Aside from their lack of common ground, the woman brought out something else that Winnie had never managed to bury. Guilt. Guilt compounded a thousand times when she considered that Shawn had been raised with a mostly absent mother and that maybe... just maybe he'd been seeking that loss from her. And she'd pushed him away. No, it wasn't her place to foster that child, but certainly she could have been kinder to him. Could have understood. She glanced over her shoulder to see him watching her from the table. The moment she met his eyes, he grinned widely and waved. She gave him a weak smile in return and pivoted back to flip the last pancakes and wipe at her eyes.

They lingered over breakfast. It was nice not to have a need to hurry. To not have to rush to work or do the many errands that hadn't even abated when the kids had moved out. To just sit and eat a delicious meal – to sip coffee and feel the rising sun warm her shoulders. There was something to be said for the outdoors after all. Not that she wouldn't have preferred it on her own porch with the screens up to ward off insects but still, it wasn't bad.

Both Shawn and Burton filled their plates several times, plenty of pancakes and sausage to feed them all thrice over and leave enough for the next morning as well. She knew well the appetites of those boys as well as her husband and had prepared accordingly. The only one among them that seemed to lack an appetite was Madeline. Still, the woman seemed like the type to be a picky eater. Probably used to scones or poached eggs with caviar.

After about an hour sitting around the table, Winnie finally sighed and stood to begin clearing. However, Bill surprised her by grabbing her plate and pushing her back down.

“We got this, baby. After all, you did the cooking; it's only fair the men take care of the cleaning.”

Henry sat for an extra second before looking up. “Ah – of course.” He replied and stood too, arching his back to crack joints before lifting the platters of remaining food. Both Shawn and Gus snatched several sausages each before he could get the food away from them.

Munching the pilfered food, the two boys also moved to leave the table – Lord knows what they planned to do with the lack of internet and cable to distract them. And Winnie realized that would leave just herself and Madeleine at the table. Alone.

“I could use a refill. You want some more coffee, Madeleine?”

“You can call me Maddie, and yes, that sounds great. Oh, but I can get it.” Before Winnie could stand, Madeleine (who would remain that as far as Winnie was concerned – nicknames were for family and close friends only) had grabbed both of their mugs and headed for the thick glass pot gently bubbling next to the fire pit.

Determined not to get stuck at the table with the other woman, Winnie stood as well and discretely settled herself next to Bill as he began to bag up the remains of breakfast. Perhaps catching her mood, Madeleine delivered the refilled cup before wandering off towards her ex husband who was busy setting up a large screened tent. Burton had been recruited to help though her son seemed to be making the task more difficult when some of the netting twisted around his leg. Bless his heart, Burton never was much of an outdoorsman. Nearby, Shawn was leaning against a tree and watching the whole production.

But this time, when he looked her way and grinned, she found she was able to grin back.

<*><*><*><*><*>

The body was still on the floor, the other inmates locked in their cells while the two officers crouched beside the victim. Barely room for them much less the two guys from forensics that were forced to squeeze over and around them as they documented arterial spray and countless fingerprints. Catcalls and lewd shouts had finally begun to abate with the guards threatening any number of punishments, the least of which being a few days in solitary. Unruffled, O'Hara kneeled beside her partner and squinted at the small wound in the side of the man's neck.

“Anybody locate the weapon yet?”

The three guards assigned to them shook their heads though it was the tall one in charge that answered her verbally. “We've already performed a sweep of all cells and we have guards checking the grounds now but so far nothing has turned up.”

Lassiter tipped his head as he moved from studying the wound to looking at the man's arms. Juliet peered over his shoulder and caught what he'd been looking at. Needle marks. A lot of them. “From the bruising it looks like some of those are fresh.” She looked up at the guard. “How easy is it for inmates to get ahold of drugs in here?”

The guard shrugged. “Easier than you'd think. We check their cells regularly but there's just no way to catch everything. A lot of times contraband is hidden out in the yard. We check there too but...” He lifted his hands and Juliet nodded before straightening. Turning around, she began to wander the small room. Not a lot of places where needles could be hidden. The cot had been checked already as had the tiny bookshelf, toilet, and books themselves. Randomly grabbing a thicker text, she flipped through the pages, half hoping to find a cut out compartment ala Shawshank. Nothing.

Behind her, she heard her partner stand as well.

“Just like the other two. Dammit.” Barely above a whisper, Lassiter could easily have been talking to himself. Peeling his gloves, he tucked them in his pocket before heading for the door of the cell. “We need to find that damn weapon.”

“Probably just a shiv.” Lassiter looked back at the guard that had spoken – a pudgy man barely older than McNab though twice his weight and about a foot shorter. “These prisoners ain't exactly Cub Scouts, detective. No doubt your guy got mouthy with someone and they iced him for it. Not the first and won't be the last. Sorry if the brass jumped the gun on this but I just don't see how this is any of the SBPD's concern.”

Juliet took a few steps forward as her partner got right up in the guy's face, his finger nearly stabbing the man in the eye.

“Listen up, Barney Fife. You see the placement of that wound? Notice how clean the edges are? This was no random attack by one of these lowlifes. This was done by a professional. The guy knew what he was doing. What I want to know, is how the hell he was able to get in and out of this cell without anyone seeing a damn thing! Now what you're going to do is start rounding up all the pond scum with a clear view of this cell as well as anyone else that knew this guy or seemed to spend a lot of time with him. After that, I want to speak to every guard stationed on this block. You copy?”

A swallow and the guard gave a stilted nod. “Copy.”

Brushing past the unfortunate man, Lassiter stalked back down the catwalk, Juliet rushing to catch up with him as the shouts and whistles resumed with vicious enthusiasm.

“Carlton...”

Barely slowing enough to let her catch up, Lassiter positioned himself between her and the line of cells while glaring at the rows of hooting inmates just a few feet away and too close for comfort. “We need to get ahold of Henry Spencer right now.”

Ignoring the continued verbal assault, Juliet was beyond grateful to pass through the first set of doors and away from the prison populace. “Why, what are you thinking?”

The second set of doors came up fast, the guards assigned to them splitting off to resume their duties as they approached the front desk to collect their weapons. Lassiter glowered as he fit both guns back in place along with his knife. His next move was to pull out his cell and begin dialing as he led the way towards the front door.

“This is looking like a clean up operation. And I have a feeling I know who's next on the list.”

Six calls to Henry Spencer's phone, five of them going to voicemail. The third time Carlton had dialed, there'd been a fuzzy connection made and his voice had gone up in volume with every “hello” on the other end until, with an irritated rumble, the call had been dropped.

“Damn it... you know, satellite phones were invented for a reason!”

“Detective.” Vick poking her head out her door stopped him more from the intensity of her voice than the call for his attention. He could see O'Hara already standing just behind their chief, so he stuck his cell back on his belt and headed their way.

Door shut behind him, he joined his partner in standing before the desk while Vick sat behind it. Carlton didn't wait for her to start.

“Chief, I haven't been able to reach Henry Spencer or Shawn. Guster's phone just goes to voicemail and yes, that includes both his work and private cell numbers.”

He'd been expecting an interruption during his abrupt report. However, Vick, rather than appear irritated, was sighing into her clasped fists. Her pause wasn't long – she wasn't given to indecision for any length of time.

“Do we know where the Spencers and Gusters are right now?”

Juliet shrugged. “Shawn said they were going to be out of town for about a week. He was complaining that he'd been shot down about renting a yurt because Henry hadn't wanted to spend the money on a glorified teepee.”

Vick lifted her head. “Do we know how many campgrounds offer yurt rentals?”

Lassiter tipped his head, thinking. “Cachuma does...”

Juliet looked at him, her eyebrows high.

“What? Hank used to take me bowfishing there. They'd have those things scattered all up and down the banks; you wouldn't believe how many hippies they could pack into one of them.”

The look he got for his reveal begged for details. He glared back but knew there was no way Juliet would be dropping it. Vick brought both of their lapsed attentions to her desk.

“Find out how many others offer rentals and keep trying to get into contact. Meanwhile, what sort of progress have you made with the other half of the investigation?”

Not much. Sussing out one or more bad eggs from any prison would be a challenge even without the time restraints. It wasn't as though they had weeks at their disposal to set up some sort of sting; aside from a completely biased policy regarding his own involvement with undercover work.

The meeting ended and he returned to his desk with O'Hara at his heels. The amount of research in his immediate future was giving him a headache. Television tended to skip over the mundane, making it seem as though police work was a series of car chases and shootouts. Reality was that on the average week, the only time he draw his weapon was at the shooting range. Car chases were even fewer and farther between and more the domain of highway patrol. As a detective, better than half of his time was spent sitting at a desk with his trigger finger put to use punching keys.

Exactly which black hole had Henry driven his caravan into anyhow? Well the lack of decent reception, in and of itself, was a starting point for narrowing the search. Cross check cell towers against how many campgrounds offered yurt rentals. Granted, the whole yurt thing was thin at best. Spencer tended to spout off any and all insanity that crossed his mind so hanging their search on that single, inane comment was hardly a solid move.

River Park was out. For one, it only catered to groups of twelve or more and two, it was devoted to the sort of risk taking rapids running that would have appealed to the child-like members of the party but certainly not the adults. Yosemite Pines was also unlikely as he couldn't imagine Henry agreeing to a place that didn't include fishing.

Three other places on his list were quickly discarded for various reasons; too far away, too many camping restrictions, too crowded. He'd narrowed it to four possibilities before deciding to check in with his partner, who'd won the coin toss for digging into the stack of personnel files on the prison guards.

“What have you got so far?”

Her fingers pushed her hair over her ears before she leaned back from her monitor. They'd gathered information on for three guards who'd had shifts on all of the nights when the three men had been murdered. Preliminary background checks hadn't popped any obvious red flags and from O'Hara's sigh, it didn't sound like a lot more had been unearthed the second time around. “Williams was raised in foster care after his mother died and his father abandoned him and his brother. A single instance of shoplifting when he was nineteen but he returned the merchandise and the store owner dropped the charges. Guess being a bad guy didn't stick.”

Carlton grunted. Clearly they had wildly different views on what constituted a bad guy.

“And Kenley?”

Juliet pulled up the next file, a bald man with wispy goatee. “Couple traffic violations. About the most heinous thing I could find was his tendency to show up late for his shift. He's had a few written warnings but that's pretty much it.”

That left one more. Pudgy, shifty, looked like the type that ate peanut butter straight from the container with his bare hands. “What about Hill?”

O'Hara shook her head. “He went home early the night of the second murder. His CO confirmed that he'd clocked out and was off premises by five that evening. Apparently he'd had food poisoning.”

Carlton sat up, brain suddenly buzzing.

“Who covered his shift?”

<*><*><*><*><*>

“How is Joy doing? I was sorry to have missed her last Christmas.”

Winnie looked up as Madeleine sat down beside her in one of the folding lawn chairs. Busy poking some life back into the dwindling fire, she hadn't noticed the other woman's approach and was neatly caught. Unless she wanted to adopt a manner as uncivilized as their surroundings, she'd have to accept that a little conversation couldn't be avoided forever. And then she chastised herself. Now what sort of image was she presenting anyhow? Not like words could ever hurt anyone. She winced at the thought.

“Joy is doing fine, thank you for asking! In fact, she told me just last week that her firm is involved in an art forgery case. Of course, she couldn't tell me any details but it sounded very exciting.”

Madeleine smiled, her hands folded over her knees. “I know what you mean. Shawn has told me about a few of his cases now and then. He's a lot more willing to talk about his work than Henry ever was.” She lost only a little of her smile, but Winnie didn't require Madeleine's education to look right into her soul and know exactly what was troubling her. It wasn't quite a moment of bonding but she felt herself soften just a bit in sympathy. She hadn't truly considered how awkward this vacation would be for the other woman. Of the group, she was the odd one out on many levels. Still, she was grateful for the timely appearance of her son and his best friend as they tumbled out of the RV loaded down with enough treats to feed three families.

“Party tiiiiime!” Shawn was making good use of his sling, balancing a package of graham crackers and a stack of king sized Hershey bars. Her son followed with several cartons of soda and two bags of marshmallows dangling off one crooked finger.

“Goodness, let me help you!” The parade was starting to wobble as the boys struggled beneath the weight of snacks. Shawn's face had begun to flush red. Winnie took the marshmallows but Burton refused to let her grab any soda from him.

“No, it's good, mom. I got it – I got it...” He grinned and nodded though his eyes had gone wide with strain. Still, Winnie understood how important it was for her boy to appear strong and independent so she let it pass. However, she stayed close just in case his arms gave out.

A few feet away, Madeleine had relieved Shawn of his sliding stack of chocolate and was peeling the wrapper from one while Shawn fought to open the crackers with one hand. His tongue peeped from the side of his mouth and Winnie could almost swear there was sweat on his forehead when, from over his shoulder, Henry's hand took the box from his fingers.

One thumb peeled up the glued flap while Shawn stood nearby, his fingers now occupied with shoveling chocolate squares in his mouth. “I looshened that.” He muttered through melting candy.

By this point, Bill had returned from the RV carrying the bundle of long aluminum forks they'd purchased along with the crackers and candy. And, of course, Henry immediately weighed in with his opinion.

“What ever happened to sharpening some sticks you could easily find in the woods?”

Winnie raised an eyebrow but Shawn stepped in to save her the trouble of a reply.

“I dunno, pops. Maybe you feel differently but me? I don't like termites in my marshmallows.”

Bill readied a couple of marshmallows for the two of them and Winnie joined her husband near the fire. Pulling their chairs a little closer to the flames, they sat, side by side, and watched the treats slowly brown. Winnie had a precise technique when it came to a properly cooked marshmallow. Evenly browned on all sides and held to the heat just long enough to get gooey on the inside. As for her son and husband, they preferred a firmer marshmallow. She knew that, in her son's case, it stemmed from a desire to keep melted goo from his clothing.

As for the Spencers, Henry seemed to favor her methods. But Shawn... Winnie chuckled and shook her head at the flambe that had engulfed Shawn's marshmallow. Purposefully keeping the treat encased in fire, Shawn grinned widely at the mini torch.

For the next few hours they snacked on s'mores and chatted and watched the fire burn down to embers. Winnie was the first to begin yawning. Shawn, unsurprisingly, was the second. He was still on pain medication and had taken a dose less than an hour earlier. In fact, he'd already slumped sideways and now had his head resting against his father's shoulder. The image was incredibly sweet and Winnie felt her heart tighten at the sight.

“Henry.” Madeleine, sitting on the other side of Shawn, had been watching the two as well. The softly spoken name caught his attention and he met his former wife's eyes before looking down at his son, who blinked soupily at the fire. Madeleine didn't need to say more and Henry nodded before helping Shawn sit up before easing them both into a stand.

Strong enough medication and still, obviously, aching from his injury, Shawn didn't protest what normally would have embarrassed him as his father guided him towards the camper. Noticeably, Madeleine remained behind, watching their progress while she stood, one hand still resting on the chair where her son had been sitting.

Winnie was more than ready for her own mattress, but decided to give the two men a few minutes to settle in to allow Shawn some privacy.

“I'm going to get some more coffee. Hon, you want some?” Winnie shook her head. She didn't need caffeine this time of night; was a little surprised that Bill would be going for another cup himself what with his acid reflux.

Burton looked ready to tip forward right into the fire. Winnie stood and walked to her son, brushing her hand against his cheek. He winced as she did and she stroked her other hand over his forehead. “Your head bothering you again?”

He shrugged first, never liked to worry her, bless his heart. But then, probably from weariness as well, he nodded.

“A little. I'm fine though, mom.”

He'd been able to dispense of the crutches a few weeks ago but that didn't mean he wasn't still hurting. All over again, Winnie felt the same helpless rage at what those monsters had done to her child. To Shawn as well. How dare they assault her family!? And with her mind spiraling in, she lost the woods.

Heady, sticky sweet like the meat that had gone to rot in their freezer three summers ago after a power outage. It coated the air – microscopic powder of human blood. The carcass that had been a young man lying just inches away. The life already lost from it clung, hard-wired through neurons, making heels dance against the floor before going still. And Shawn, stiff before her, face raw with shock. With agony.

It should have been her burden. She would have gladly carried that weight. She would have fired whatever rounds that gun contained long after the body had grown quiet. She would have taken up the shotgun held by that beast and obliterated whatever remained. She would have erased him with her rage.

She would have wept.

She had wept.

She would have felt horror.

She felt it every night.

She would have drowned in nightmares.

As if they ever left her.

She would have endured it. Because Shawn, and her own son, could not. Shouldn't have to. Didn't deserve that.

“Momma?” Little boy voice, she looked down at her son as the smell of charred wood and damp pine replaced the stench of gore. It must have been raining. She wiped at her cheeks.

“Come on, Burton. Time for you to get some sleep too.”

He was looking at her. Not only Burton, Bill stood only feet away with an empty cup in his hands. Had he already finished his coffee or had he decided against it? It troubled her that she didn't know.

“I'm alright, baby.” She stepped back so that he could stand. He did. But instead of moving towards the camper, he suddenly turned and wrapped his arms around her. His voice was rough against her shoulder.

“I love you, mom.”

He went off to bed, then.

Winnie was exhausted, heartsick, nauseated. But rather than escape as well, she returned to her chair. Bill, her dear, dear husband, kissed her cheek before handing her a plastic cup of water. Her thirst hit her with the first sip and she drained the cup in seconds. Bill took her cup when she was done, resting his hand on her shoulder for a moment before heading back to the table. She could hear him putting away the candy and other food that had been left out.

Madeleine sat across from her. Her face was blushed red from the coals. Winnie looked down at her hands; nearly buried in the windbreaker she'd put on when the night became chilly.

“They never really grow up, do they.” It was her own voice speaking. She'd been ready for Madeline to start in with questions the moment they were alone, but the other woman had remained silent. And here, Winnie was the one pushing for conversation. Well so what? She'd rather speak, no matter that it was uncomfortable, than to remain in silence where she could so easily slip back into the dark.

Madeleine pushed a burnt branch deeper into the embers with the toe of her sneaker, sending up sparks before a tiny flame burst across the dry wood. “I used to think they did...”

Winnie looked up at Madeleine's reply, spoken with almost pain. Her face showed the same emotion – her eyes also on the flames before her. There was a story twisted within her words. Something that hurt deeply. But Winnie wasn't wasn't about to seek the reason. Not when her intuition filled in the blanks far too easily.

She'd spent so much time worried about speaking to this woman, yet now she was tight with the stress of trying to create conversation. She felt guilt that she was so resistant to the idea of friendship. Wasn't that just a replay of the past all over again? She'd been taught a lesson about her attitude in the most brutal way imaginable yet here she was, falling back into that same way of thinking.

Her temples ached – a soft drumbeat now but it was already building. It wasn't going to get better by worrying over whatever she and Madeline weren't discussing. These were thoughts better processed in the light. Bright, glorious sunlight and not the dull glow of a fading fire.

The door to the RV opened and Henry carefully stepped down, watching the placement of his feet in the dark. He joined his ex wife and sat beside her, holding his hands out towards the subdued flames. “He's sleeping.” He said with a glance towards Madeleine. Hopefully that meant that Burton was also asleep. He always was a good sleeper. He took after his father that way.

“Coffee, Henry?” Bill held out the filled cup and Henry accepted with a smile.

“Thanks.”

Bill added wood to the fire before sitting as well, wrapping his hand over the joined pair in Winnie's lap. She turned her fingers to squeeze back, grateful for the warmth on all sides. Only minutes ago she'd been desperate to get away and pull her heavy comforter over her head. She wasn't the wilting flower type. She didn't think her life was dependent upon a strong male presence to make her feel safe. She'd gone hand to hand with an armed thug and come out alive. Scarred, jumpy at shadows, but alive.

But it would be a lie to say she wasn't comforted to have her husband beside her now. Even Henry. They'd both proven, unconditionally, at what lengths they'd go to protect their families.

The swell of love in her chest nearly shed the tears she'd been holding back. These people. They were her family. They'd gone through the worst together and had grown stronger because of it.

Her eyes moved to Madeleine, now leaned back in her chair and smiling at Henry as he told her about both Shawn and Gus insisting on a bedtime story before settling into sleep.

She wasn't a part of their group. Not in the sense of sharing a life and death event. But she had faced death, once. Faced it and defeated it. Maybe she hadn't done so in Winnie's presence but what sort of hubris was it to make that a requirement of relatable trauma?

Besides, if there was some invisible balance weighing the measure and worth of experience, there was an undeniable element that mattered far more than a game of Chance with the Devil. The two boys sleeping less than fifteen feet away. Yes, they were family. Family in its basic as well as profound sense. Until now, it had just been the five of them.

But maybe... there was room for one more.

Shawn squirmed, lifted his shoulder in slow stretch, winced, and slumped over his knees again. The raft rose and dipped as it traveled down the river. The fishing pole sagged closer to the rubber walls... bulkhead... whatever the edges were called on their blow up boat. Arguably much more fun when pulled behind a speedboat on an open lake, Shawn was struggling to find the fun in their current adventure. He ached. He was thirsty. He was too hot.

“Dad.”

“Just a minute, Shawn.” Dad, of course, was having the time of his life. Third time in the last two hours something had snapped at the tempting and colorful bait on the end of his line. Two metalheads in the cooler and, from the look of things, a third about to join them.

“Dad...”

“Bill, grab the net...” A large silver beast began flopping on the water a few feet from the edge of the raft. Mr. G leaned over Gus, who had abandoned the whole concept of fishing to breathe deeply and say the Lord's prayer in a raspy litany, to grab the requested item.

Shawn's eyes flicked back to a certain spot beyond his father's right shoulder. He did a few calculations; something he was damn good at as long as math wasn't an equation. Give or take the current speed, best use of pun eveeer... they had about thirty seconds.

“DAD!”

“Shawn, wha...”

Shawn rolled his eyes and bypassed needless, meandering, and reference heavy explanation to thrust out his hand in a savage point.

His dad turned. Mr. G turned. Gus swallowed back whatever was creeping up his throat and turned. The fish, aware that everyone was distracted, calmly removed the hook from its mouth and flipped them off before snaking back into the deep. Likely headed towards the same rapids about to eat their boat.

Now that their attention was quite nicely focused, he felt he could add the verbal accompaniment to his show and tell.

“So... anybody want to grab a paddle or should I just start swimming? Cause working this sling into a butterfly stroke is gonna be a bitch.”

The two non mountain men of the group, himself excluded after all those forced marches through the wilderness, immediately became useful in setting the musical score to their near death experience. Gus could hit some high registers but even he was being out-shined by his father. He came by it honestly.

Old man Spencer, however, just leaned down and grabbed the oars, shoving them towards the two wailers before plunking his own set in the oar docks at the back of the raft. Shawn, as with all labor involved projects, was allowed to exclude himself from the fun and lean back against the cushy side of the raft while the other three sweated and griped and glared at him with hungry jealousy. Or maybe just hunger – seemed like years since they'd had breakfast...

Gus panted as he dug his oar in the water. “I think... I just pulled... my inguinal ligament! I can feel the stress on... my iliac crest! I... could be limping for... weeks!”

Shawn scoffed. “Dude, you can't limp while you're sitting.” Ooo, there was that pesky chip bag. All the kicking around had wedged it behind his dad's ginormous tackle box. Shawn whimpered as he tried snatching for it. An inch could be a mile as far as his injury was concerned.

Gus glared back. “Maybe not but... even with a sore shoulder... you can apparently... still be lame.”

The chip retrieval was postponed for commentary. Like that would go unchallenged. “Your face is lame!”

“Both of you shut up!”

Shawn decided he wanted his dad to be Mr. G. Not for the first time either. Mr. G didn't yell. Plus, he could carry a tune. Also, he could paddle like an Irish nun.

By this point they were well away from the rougher water. Still, Henry kept them going until they reached the fork where their coin toss of a choice, left or right, had taken place.

“Told ya we should have gone right.”

Gus dropped his oar back to the bottom of the raft and wiped at the three inch layer of sweat on his face. “No you did not! You said we should go back to the campsite and have a hotdog eating contest.”

Shawn nodded. “And you agreed.” He rubbed his shoulder as he sank back. Then he leaned to the side to snag a beverage from the cooler. One handed popping the tab on the warm soda, he took a long, lingering swallow.

“By the way, that suggestion still stands.”

Henry, though, shook his head. “Nope. You want lunch, then you help catch it. If you didn't want to go fishing then you should have picked a different vacation spot.”

Shawn stared. “Uh, if you recall, I was all for getting a yurt about ten miles closer to the campgrounds. And that was after you blasted my suggestion for DisneyLand out of the running.”

“And I lobbied for a spa weekend at Billet Doux.” Added Gus.

Henry glared at Bill before he could remind them of the Las Vegas vacation he'd suggested. Letting his oars rest in the water, the narrow paddles cutting rippling grooves, Henry set to work resetting his line.

Shawn dropped the back of his head on the spongy rubber of the raft. The spot was toasty from the sun beating against the black and yellow sides. Sunglasses over his eyes, he munched another chip and listened to the sounds of reels spinning out line ending with the dull plup of bait hitting the water. He daydreamed about the river beasts living out their river beast lives just under the surface.

Another plup struck the water inches from where Shawn's hand trailed in the water. He creaked an eye open. “You mind? I'd like to make it back to the campsite without a hook through my scalpel.”

Gus, wrestling with a can of cheese balls, didn't bother even looking at him as he wheezed back a response. “That isn't a body part, Shawn. I think you meant scapula.”

“I've heard it both ways.”

His father pulled on the line feeding from his reel, adjusting the drag before flipping the bail open and leaning back in his seat. “Calm down, nobody is casting anywhere near you. You probably just heard a fish jumping.”

A second later Shawn felt a hot sting slice across his shin. He jerked, yelping before yanking off his sunglasses. “Really!? Let me guess, that was just a fish jumping too!” He hissed as he gripped his leg.

Gus, in that same moment, had finally breached the security seal locking him away from cheesy goodness. At Shawn's cry, he jerked hard and cheese balls exploded all over the raft, many landing in the water where they floated like bright orange bobbers.

Henry quickly reeled up and looked back. “What happened? Bill?”

The other man shook his head. “It wasn't me! I haven't even baited my hook yet!”

Pushing Gus out of the way, Henry crawled over two seats, violently rocking the raft, to crouch in the small space next to his son.

“Here, let me see.” When Shawn showed an unwillingness to cooperate, Henry gently tugged his grip free, one finger at a time, until he could see the wound.

Shawn, not wanting to look, looked anyway as his dad pulled apart the gash that had manifested in his jeans. Bleeding, holy crap he was bleeding! What...!? But his father had only given the injury a single look, his head quickly pivoting to the left... where a tiny hole had appeared in the side of the raft.

“Oh my God...”

<*><*><*><*><*>

He'd only been back to the house once since the incident several months ago. He'd taken Henry's statement about the home invasion slash kidnapping slash attempted murder while the elder man had been sitting vigil at his son's bedside at the hospital. It was that or nothing at all, the offer of a drive to the station bluntly refused.

Couch was different. Some of the brickwork around the mantle had been replaced as well, right where two bullet holes had scarred the wall. He assumed the rug had been changed out too though it was hard to say for certain with the mass of papers, and a broken lamp covering the floor. Standing close to the fireplace, Carlton was out of the way of the flashing cameras from the two officers gathering evidence. About an hour ago, a neighbor had called about something amiss with Henry's place. As it was, a garage door left suspiciously open had led officers to the back door of the house where they discovered signs of tampering around the door.

It didn't immediately appear that anything had been stolen. Henry wasn't exactly on the cutting edge of technology, the highest ticket item in the room being the DVD player that had probably set him back about sixty bucks. As break ins went, this wasn't the worst Lassiter had seen, by far. Little damage beyond the lamp and that may have been knocked over by accident. Probably had been considering the fragile and untouched collection of, he shuddered, snow globes resting within easy reach of a destructive burglar.

Stepping over a toppled picture frame, he headed into the kitchen where yet more guys in gloves were dusting and marking and photographing. Hell of a lot of activity for a simple break in but then, Henry wasn't the average citizen. Off the force he may be but even drawing a pension, cops got the gold standard of investigative treatment. And much as he hated, nay, loathed to admit... Spencer Jr. had somehow connived his way into receiving that same treatment.

Nothing yet to say when the break in had actually occurred. The neighbor who'd called had only gotten home from vacation the day before. He'd noticed the open garage door but had assumed Henry had been working on some project or other. It wasn't until that morning that the man had suspected something wasn't absolutely kosher. Lucky for Henry, most of his neighbors were in the same age bracket as Bob Barker and had the busy body status to match.

Passing the stairs, Carlton gave a glance up the flight, spotting a bit of the door on the left just beyond the edge of the wall. “Anybody check out the upstairs yet?”

An older officer nodded. “Just on my way up there now, sir.”

Carlton moved aside to let him pass. “Ewan, go with him.”

The two men passed him, their soles thumping on the way up. Continuing on through the kitchen, Carlton spotted more breakage. A coffee mug that had probably been sitting on the table was now shattered on the floor. More papers were scattered around, both on the table as well as the floor. Stepping over the busted mug, he moved to the far side of the room.

The point of entry was the French doors, though it wasn't immediately obvious. The doors had been forced but the damage was minimal – a single crack about an inch long next to the lock that very nearly blended with the rest of the wood.

He turned away from the doors, squinting at the darker interior of the kitchen after staring at that bright streak of light that had cut through the curtains. At table, he leaned forward to dig through the scattered papers with his pen. Bills, ads, a crumpled fifth grade reading assignment? He noted the C+ on the upper corner of the page along with a surplus of doodles in the margins that looked like... cats flying rocket ships. Shaking his head, he moved on.

Deeper into the pile he uncovered a couple of receipts and a brochure. He stopped, lifting the brochure by one flap. Bright scenery, smiling family, list of activities... Wholesome, fun, and just the thought of Spencer trapped there with his father for a whole week was enough to cheer him to the soles of his feet. He grinned at the varied tortures facing the young annoyance. Fishing, sleeping on rocks, peeing in a giant patch of stinging nettles... A vacation that Carlton would enjoy almost as much as an afternoon at the shooting range would be Spencer's worst nightmare.

Then the smile started to fall with horrible realization, his eyes moving back to the brochure.

“Crap...”

<*><*><*><*><*>

“We need to get out of here! Now!”

Shawn gulped, still staring at that little hole in the rubber as the rest of the men and Gus grabbed for the oars.

“Shawn, get down!” His father's hand shoved the top of his head and he felt himself being wedged into the tight space at the prow of the raft. Moving jostled his shoulder against his father's mammoth tackle box in an agonizing way, but it wasn't the reason for his gasping attempts to breathe.

Gus had crouched down too, his paddle barely skimming the water as he tried to work the oar and keep below the edge of the raft at the same time. Shawn could feel the raft jerk as it was guided quickly into the middle of the river where the current turned the wavelets into whitewater. Cold splashes poured up over the sides as they hit a trench and Henry yelled at them all to hang on as the raft picked up speed.

Shawn grunted as the bottom of the raft lifted up beneath him, only to slam down, hard. Then he shouted as another hole punched into the raft right behind Mr. G.

“They're shooting at us!” Not at his best, managing to spatter out that observation about three minutes after even the poor saps watching from the nosebleeds had picked up on the action. Nobody had the breath to spare him a “well, duh” response. But that was fine because he was too busy covering his face with his arm to have noticed anyway.

The next, this time unvocalized realization, was that the shooters must be using silencers because he'd heard nothing, that whole time, but the roaring river and birds cheeping. And the hard gasps of his overworked chauffeurs.

He should be doing something – throwing in with another paddle or making smoke signals. He had two standard responses to threat. The first, most successful reaction was to run screaming. In the manliest way possible, while imitating a woman imitating the screaming five year old girl child from Signs.

The second, less utilized but growing in popularity, what with his increasing interest in proving to blonde haired detectives how studly he could be, involved readily available weapons and fisticuffs.

It was rare that neither option was... optional. He literally did not know what to do. Everyone else in the boat, even Gus, had something on their plate to syphon off the terror. But Shawn, pinned down and barely sucking air, was the Webster's Expanded definition of helpless.

Another slam of the raft briefly rapped all the remaining air from Shawn's chest and he wheezed, appropriately fish-like, as he fought to get it back.

“Hold on!”

His father's voice, barely louder than the thunder of the rapids, roared a warning. And suddenly he yipped, his hand flailing to grab the safety rope lining the raft as the whole thing wrenched into a hard spin. Front end plowing through another trough, the raft bucked and snapped; tossing the riders scarcely hanging on inside.

Gus had dropped his paddle and was clinging to his pops, shrieking with his eyes pinned tightly shut. Henry was too far away for Shawn to velco to but, in a moment of seconds that lasted forever, he locked eyes with his father.

And then the world spun on its access, an explosion of pain as the sky went from noisy vivid blue to throbbing endless black.

Black.

White.

Black.

White.

Rolling and spinning and no sound.

“Is that the best you can do?”

His body slammed against stone. Slammed back with the gun discharging in his hands. Blood mist fanned from the boy's jugular. Gurgling, desperate sounds and the clatter of the shotgun hitting the fireplace brick. A hand lifted, trembling, towards the wound, only to fall away without ever reaching the hurt.

He was dead.

Murdered.

Gagging on water, garbled retch as his face broke towards air. Sucking – pulling mouthfuls of oxygen – chest pounding in a sob and the water wrenched him down once more.

Falling under, the wall rushing at his back and then pain. Crushing weight of black rolling down to seal him forever. Dying. He knew he was dying even as he was dying.

Eyes shut in the flickering... gasp... He didn't want to see his death a second time. Didn't want the only life flashing before his eyes to be the one he'd taken away.

Murdered.

He didn't kill people, he helped people!

He'd killed to help. Killed. He'd never be free of the red.

He tumbled into nothingness. Into the belly of ice.

Cold. Freezing, muffled cold.

<*><*><*><*><*>

He was going to die out here. Fourth grade prediction coming true twenty-two years later. Like hell Shawn was the psychic of the group. That whole fingers to temple bit had nothing on a ten year old Burton Guster covered neck to ankles in a blanket of poison oak.

Gus sputtered, barely holding his lips out of the boiling foam rushing over his chin. His teeth chattered and he clung, claws in, to the slimy boulder jutting from the middle of the river. No sign of Henry or Shawn or his own father. The moment the raft had capsized he'd lost sight of everyone.

His hands slipped and he scrambled to readjust, then shouted as his hold was suddenly gone.

“Oh, Go...mpph!” Water poured in his mouth, snaked up his nose, and he was tumbling and thrashing – body slamming against more boulders. He wanted to scream for his father. Wanted to feel that muscled arm reach down like God from heaven to snatch him to safety. Hear that soothing voice tell him everything was okay.

His head exploded with white, pain forcing a water choked gasp that was spared the addition of drowning when he somehow broke the surface again. Heaving the river he'd swallowed, Gus slapped his hands wildly. And another miracle when his fingers wrapped in the shredded bark of a tree branch arced over the water.

He whimpered as his other arm flailed against the river's surface, his one handed hold fighting the current that spun him onto his back. The ribbons of bark wrapped around his wrist and immediately began cutting into his circulation. Coughing and spitting, he tried to kick himself around but only ended up twisting his hold even more.

Thrashing his feet, he managed to reposition himself partially on his side, a desperate scan spotting the riverbank about fifteen feet away. He swallowed another gulp of water and shook his head, trying to built up the courage to let go and try to get to shore. All he had to do was let go. Let go... and hope like hell he didn't drown.

He put incredible concentration into the act of releasing the muscle tension in his hands. Just one finger. One finger and then another. Just lift one finger from the matted fibers. The ancient bark was like witch's hair – did he really want to keep holding onto it?

It occurred to him that half of his mind could very easily be invested in killing him. Evil Gus was in the midst of a Ku, preparing to take down Good Gus in a hostile takeover. First order of business? Bump off the CEO. Apparently Evil Gus was unaware that snuffing the head of the company would have far reaching repercussions all the way down the line. Sure, the first few weeks are great with bottles of wine handed out like maple syrup. But all too soon the reality of it hits home. Hours are cut, benefits are slashed, and certain best friends are banned from the premises under threat of litigation.

Rustling in the branches right next to the rapids switched off the analogy under this new and far more horrible threat of a bear mauling. Pinching his eyes to slits his inner chanting became audible.

“Please, please, please...”

“Burton! Hold on!”

“Dad!” Eyes wicked open and he managed to twist a bit more onto his side. Praise Jesus, there was his father, dripping and muddied but also alive and rescuing him! The foliage was thick along the riverbank, forcing his dad to wrestle his body between the branches. But then he stopped and looked around himself. Gus knew what the problem was even though his panicked brain panicked more at the delay. The water was deep right up to the bank. And though the current was slower closer to the edge, it quickly picked up speed five feet out from where his father was perched. The spot where Gus clung tight to his flimsy branch was a torrent. If his dad tried to reach him, he'd be swept away downriver long before he made contact.

All those thoughts boiled through Gus's mind in a whip snap and he gave his father a crumpled look of fear and grief. He'd never celebrate his dad's sixty-sixth birthday or watch him open his massive stack of gifts. He'd never get married, or have children, or grandchildren!

He was three seconds from a full fledged doom meltdown when something sharp stabbed into his shoulder.

“Grab it, son!”

It didn't help to blink rapidly, his face was wet no matter what. Lotta river washing across his lids though unlike certain emotionally stunted Spencers, he had no shame to owning up to a bit of manly and completely justified weeping. Even Jesus wept and no way in hell his apostles ever called him out on it. Blurred though it was, Gus saw that his dad had found a very, very long stick and was leaning out, one hand gripping a branch above his head, to extend it as far as possible.

It took another second before the order his father had given clicked in his terror frozen brain.

He didn't want to let go of his perch. But he didn't want to die.

Gus lunged for the branch.

<*><*><*><*><*>

He was on his knees again. Not in prayer. He had no time for prayers beyond the frantic babble that whirled in a wild spiral through his brain. He pulled in another drag of oxygen before digging his fingers into the tree that braced him up. The pain seared through his leg the moment weight bore down on that limb. Not broken, at least, but the boulder he'd struck after falling from the raft had bruised deep into his thigh. Henry took one more second he couldn't spare to blink through his vertigo. Then, in a strained shout, he pushed back to his feet.

He was freezing; drenched through and shivering under the shade of the trees. Still plenty of sunlight, for the moment, but he knew it wasn't expected to last. Rain showers had been predicted through the night but he hadn't put much thought into it earlier. But already in the distance he could see clouds clumping together. The prospects of dying out in the near future were looking grim.

All of that, though, was incidental. What mattered... what tore him... was the silence. He hadn't heard another voice in over fifteen minutes. The density of the trees and the sound of the river muffled out anything not in the immediate vicinity. The only thing in his ears were his own gasps and the occasional thread of distress that slipped free amidst breaths. He couldn't risk yelling; not with snipers somewhere out of sight. Shawn would tell him he sounded like a mother cat looking for her little lost kitten. Embarrassing, ridiculous, and far too on point for him to care. His boy was injured and lost somewhere along that length of river – or in it, God, please no – and he'd put up with whatever comparison to frantic feline parents he had to if it meant hearing it from Shawn himself.

Still shaking through his limbs, but Henry shifted his body around the tree trunk supporting him and stumbled to the next pine. He made headway like this for the next hour – tripping, catching feet and ankles on the crisscross of brush rising to mid thigh. He stayed as close to the river's edge as he could; scanning... always scanning. An odd shaped boulder or floating bit of detritus would catch his attention and he'd stop, heart ramming through his jugular, until he saw what it was and the panic would shrivel to a sodden gray anguish.

Shoving branches away only to have them spring back and swipe their claws across his face and arms. Eyes worked to focus in the light that shifted between patches of brilliant green to the olive dark shadows.

Feet would catch and he'd stagger – catching against rough bark that ground skin from his palms.

Wet green leaves slapped in his eyes – roaring spray from the river had kicked up close to the shore. Foam had build up in a small cutback up ahead. The water had slowed to a gentle purl.

The pool had carved out the bank, forming a peaceful space away from the boil of rapids. Even the trees had pulled back somewhat in this solemn glen. The light softer and even the motes floating in the air seemed reluctant to invade that quite place.

That was where he found him.

Henry felt himself frozen on the bank, staring at the body of his son. Even as he was charging through the brush and hobbling from the sear in his thigh, his mind was still trapped in that moment of recognition. His son was dead.

In one breath, he was ripped back to that bloodied scene, standing in the ruin of his home. His son, leeched of color but for the red. Red in streams and large streaks – still shiny wet on the wall. Knowing he'd been too late. That he was watching the paramedics attempting to revive a corpse.

No.

No!

“Shawn! Shawn... kid...”

The bank sloughed under the weight of his heel and he tumbled forward into the water. Warmer in the shallows, knee deep, he took two lunging steps to keep his balance. Water and silt sloshed up with his long steps, the pace of his run forced into a horrific slow motion stride.

And then he was next to his boy.

Shawn was face down in the leaves and foam. His shirt was torn and his sling was gone – his right arm awkwardly pulled across his back. His body rocked a bit as the water was disturbed by Henry's movements.

There was the taste of vomit in his mouth as he reached down for the still form. Cold under his fingertips and he gulped through a sound that was choked and shrill. He wrapped his arms around Shawn's sodden body and heaved – dragging him closer to the bank. Muddy yellow silt curled up where Shawn's feet dug into the river bottom. Both shoes were missing along with one sock. Henry felt the strain of lifting dead weight low in his back. It settled in like a cold spear of blunt metal.

He rested Shawn's chest on the grass; the trees too close to completely pull him from the water. Then he cupped the back of Shawn's head as he rolled him onto his back. A large flat leaf was plastered against Shawn's cheek. Henry brushed it away as he leaned in to check Shawn's airway. Fine mud coated Shawn's tongue. Henry quickly scraped out as much as he could before leaning in to begin forcing breaths back into his son.

“We should have brought more eggs; Lord, can those boys put it away.”

Madeleine smiled as she poured more coffee. Cooking wasn't her strength but between Winnie and herself, they'd managed to put together a sizable breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries. Not without some mishap as both Henry and Bill had hung over their shoulders to offer their input on the meal while Shawn and Burton had coordinated to steal strips of bacon – though they'd paid for it with burnt fingers.

“Shawn has always...” Madeleine trailed off and turned her head, frowning. Something...

“What is is?” Winnie was at her shoulder, her voice dropped low. The river, nearby, filled the campsite with its rush. And then...

Barely heard and muted with distance.

Madeleine could feel the tensed anxiety of her companion. “I suppose it could be hunters...”

A snapping branch made them both jump and Maddie hissed as coffee spattered her fingers. She set her mug on the table and wiped her hand off on a hunk of paper towel. Winnie had moved closer; her face drawn tight. Knowing what the other woman had been though, Madeleine didn't comment on her anxiety, nor did she attempt to soothe it away. If Winnie wanted to speak of it, she would. As it was, so far, any amount of pressure would close her down more.

Still focused on the trees where the snapping sound had originated, Madeleine stepped to the left, attempting to see through some of the thicker brush. There was movement – deep within the trees. The men returning? It seemed early, though. Henry had implied wanting to make a day of it. Of course, that was dependent on how much Shawn could handle. Well, how much any of the other men could handle...

She saw a hand. Something... a glint of dull silver and...

Stepping backward, Maddie caught Winnie's wrist in her hand. She could feel the pulse hammering under her fingers.

“We need to get out of here. Now!”

<*><*><*><*><*>

Cheeks were cold. The tip of his nose was cold, too, where his fingers pinched.

You never think about the breaths you take until you can't. He thought.

“Dad, you've ruined everything!”

Panic – watching his child barreling towards tragedy. He had just one chance... to pull him back.

Pushing. Always pushing – back – forcing his will, forcing the fight...

“Of all the boneheaded stunts you've pulled in your life, this is, without a doubt, the dumbest!”

Always fighting. Why were they always fighting? Why were they always so...

“One day I won't be living in your house! Then I can take whatever risk I want! What do you think about that?”

That was all he'd thought about – back then. The risk. Always prepare – be prepared, the Boyscout motto. His son was anything but...

On the fly.

Seat of his pants.

Even waterlogged, his skin was still cold, clammy. A drizzle of water from the corner of his mouth.

“When you and Gus are thirty years old, you can go out and be as wild and reckless as you want...”

Forcing. Always forcing.

Forcing back.

“KUHCK! GUUCH...Muuhh...”

“Come on, Kid, cough it out...”

Relief was a hot wave pouring down his shoulders, chased by shuddering cold that matched them both – trembling forms on the riverbank. Shawn couldn't speak for coughing – gagging a double lungful of silty murk. Twice he vomited – held up by his father's arms as the strength wasn't in him to avoid the mess.

Henry held him close to his body. He shared what heat he could as he waited for his son to come back to himself. He expected confusion and fear. Questions of what had happened to everyone else. Answers he didn't have. Didn't know. But when Shawn's voice rasped – barely higher than the sound of the water...

“F-feel like... drowned k-kitten. Heh... thah... makes y-you... momma cat...”

Henry just rubbed his back and kissed the top of his head – desperately grateful. “Yeah, it does.”

<*><*><*><*><*>

He'd stopped hugging his father a few minutes ago but hadn't quite reached the point of actually releasing the man just yet. A few minutes more. Of course, dad wasn't letting go either so it was okay, right? The only thing watching them was a beady-eyed yellow bird. Gus eyed it back. Bring it, bird.

“You're okay, son. I got you.”

Dad had been saying that for the past ten minutes – counting the eight minutes it took to reach the bank. Gus wasn't in a hurry, though. Well, assuming the shooters weren't still watching them. Oh gosh, the shooters could still be watching them!

“Dad...” He patted his father's arm while swiveling his eyes towards the opposite bank – trying to see through all the green – expecting a cluster of red laser sights to converge on his forehead. Had the birds stopped singing? Had there been birds singing earlier?

“Dad, we should probably...”

The embrace tightened for a second before dad finally stepped back – stumbling a little on wet moss. “You're right, son. We need to find Henry and Shawn.”

Crap! “Shawn!”

<*><*><*><*><*>

“How far are we from the campground?” Even with a headset the helicopter blades roared through the small cockpit. Lassiter was trying to pick out any breaks in the green and gold below but other than a couple of ranger stations and a cabin here and there, the area below was primarily wilderness.

The pilot, face half covered by wrap around sunglasses, dipped the chopper through the next valley before tipping them left towards the distant silver of a lake.

“Another six minutes and we'll be able to set down near Calmetta Station! One of the rangers will be waiting for us when we land to take you the rest of the way! About thirty minutes by ATV!”

Lassiter pushed the headset closer to his ears. “What? Wait, I said we needed to go directly to the station – not take some backwoods, hillybilly, gallivant!”

The pilot turned his head slightly without taking his eyes off the landscape. “Sorry, sir, but it's the only way in! The trees are too thick around the campground so this is the closest place to land!”

Lassiter, growling, sat back again and shifted his shoulders in the cramping space; holding nothing back in his scowl. O'Hara, seated next to him, slid a tiny bit closer to the window when his elbow bashed against her. He didn't apologize but he did pull his arms in a little more.

“Told you, you should have changed before we left!” O'Hara was actually daring to smirk at him, though the sunglasses hid what would no doubt have been an insubordinate eye twinkle.

“I did change!” He yelled back, pointing to his feet and the dark brown boots. Like hell he planned to sully his loafers in mountain hippy scat. Though, with the prospect of four-wheelers, he was beginning to regret passing on the denim and flannel.

He'd had contact with Chief Vick right before they'd lifted off. Following up on his suspicions about the guards, she'd sent two officers to bring in Hill and another guard, Roger Brook. Wanting nothing more than to interrogate the alleged scum himself, Lassiter had, instead, been shuffled off on this rescue mission. Sure, he was the one to alert Chief Vick about the “possibility” that Spencer might have wormed himself into a hit but that idiot could find danger in an outhouse!

Which had basically been Vick's point. Dammit...

O'Hara leaned forward as they cleared the next ridge. Tiny from their altitude, the station they were headed towards was like a scale model – fragile and lost amongst all the forest. Carlton hated how uneasy that made him. Camping trips he could do. Sleeping on a bedroll downwind from a herd of farting longhorns – been there done that. But tracking down the Goof Troop with the possibility of assassins tacked on made his hairline itch.

His partner shifted next to him again. It was a tight fit in the chopper; their knees constantly fighting for space which, really, O'Hara should quit hogging. He was the one with the long limbs that were cramping after this damnable journey.

Everything from knees to ass was dead numb by the time the chopper began its decent towards the large clearing about half a mile from the station. Only a mild jerk when they touched down, Carlton already ripping the headgear from his ears and unfolding in a graceless scramble to the grass. O'Hara actually jumped down beside him – none the worse to the ride. From her sneakers to her windbreaker, she looked more than prepared for a day on the trails. Without the weapon and handcuffs peeping beneath the edge of her jacket, she'd look like any other young person ready to have a good time cavorting with the wilderness.

“Just follow the trail North towards that stand of pines!” Their pilot shouted over the still whirling blades. “The station is just on the other side of the ridge!”

Carlton frowned. “I thought you were coming with us!”

The pilot grinned. “They just pay me to fly!”

Still mumbling crude oaths as the chopper lifted away towards the building cloud cover, Carlton turned towards the trees. Slapping lightly at his chest, O'Hara smiled.

“Come on; it's not that far. I'll race you!”

Pride was a backseat issue in that moment; irritation taking precedence. In spite of the taunt, though, O'Hara was managing a dignified if rushed pace. Still, more than ever, Carlton was determined to find Spencer; if for no other reason than to slug the guy in the jaw for infecting O'Hara with his ridiculous flippishness.

Fifteen minutes of sweating and tripping through brush, leaves, and mud and/or varied animal shit and they finally reached the station. Stained wood, two-story structure, it looked as though the elements had barely touched it. The Ranger, a man named Bixby Sturges, met them out on the deck. Defying the stereotypical backwoods country sheriff vaguely clueless yet charmingly affable corncob pipe persona, he came off a tad more like Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive.

“Detectives,” he nodded, unsmiling, “I was briefed on your situation by your Chief of police.”

O'Hara quirked her brows. “How did Chief Vick know to brief you? We didn't even know we were detouring here until about half an hour ago.”

Sturges actually tipped his hat in a “ma'am” gesture that Carlton knew would make a puddle of O'Hara's normally practical mind. “Actually, I contacted your Chief right after your helicopter pilot radioed in to say he had a couple of officers headed my way. He gave me your names so I went ahead and called the SBPD to confirm your identity and clue in on what's going on here in my forest. Now, I've got two deputies ready to accompany us in...”

“Woah there, Tex,” Lassiter stopped the word procession just before it reached the “hard target search” part of the greeting. “Look, we appreciate you fellas wanting to chip in on this, but these aren't littering campers we're dealing with here but real bad guys with real weapons. Now, if this was a clan of Yogi Bears...”

“What my partner means to say,” Juliet paused long enough to stare Carlton into snapping his lips shut, “is that we are very grateful for your offer of assistance, but your men aren't trained to handle the sort of criminals we could be facing. We can't risk your personnel in what could potentially be a very dangerous confrontation.”

That hat tip thing again and Sturges crossed his arms. “Look, I don't mean to step on your toes, here. You're right that we don't exactly see a lot of action out here. Truth is, the most exciting event we had all year was when a family of squirrels stumbled on some fermented pumpkins leftover from Halloween.” Lassiter shuddered as Sturges went on. “Thing is, though, there's just two of you and an unknown number of possible unfriendly folk out in those woods and threatening civilians. Now, I'm aware we aren't SWAT, but on the other hand we also know this forest. Seems to me you could benefit from whatever help you could get.”

The two partners shared a look. O'Hara shrugged and Lassiter rolled his eyes.

“Fine. But you listen up! You and your men follow my lead, got it?”

“Got it.” One last hat tip before Sturges retreated back into the station. He returned in less than three seconds, holding out a pair of blocky radios. “Real bad cell reception out here. You'll need these.”

The two aforementioned deputies appeared a few moments later. One of them, a woman with cropped red hair, caught the attention of her superior with a tap on his arm. “Boss, I was just checking in on the latest weather report. Says we could be looking at anywhere from five to eight inches of rainfall.”

Lassiter glanced at his partner; then glared as she subtly zipped up her jacket. He turned back to the main group. “Alright, enough jabberjaw. You, Sturges, you have any weapons outside of a sligshot?”

Not appearing overly slighted, the Ranger nodded. “Well I do keep a large stick in the rec room, sir, but if you need something of a higher calibre, I've got a couple of .12 gauge shotguns and a .22 pistol.”

Still working up a retort that would encompass both the sarcasm as well as stab at the woefully underwhelming “armory”, Lassiter swallowed the diatribe at the gentle throat clearing behind him. Instead, he cricked his neck and nodded at the Ranger. “Get them. You two,” he pointed to the deputies, “show me where you keep the ATVs.” Following at the back while O'Hara remained behind, waiting for Sturges, Carlton dug out his cell to report back to the Chief. Still three bars – with any luck the signal would hold long enough for an update.

Shawn was shivering – drenched though and aching all the way to his fingertips. Dad was fussing; actually fussing with the whole 'floral apron and wooden spoon baking cookies and busting out the He-Man bandaids' fussing over the scraped flesh of his leg where the bullet had tried to make a hole. He yelped at the sudden and brutal pain that ripped through his leg when he tried to twist to his side.

“Woah, woah, woah, don't move.”

Don't move. Great advice though delivered a bit beyond the expiration date – like experience hadn't drilled home that lesson already. Whatever dad might say, Shawn could learn if he chose to. Crippling injury and babble inducing pain was a better teacher than Mrs. Fergison and her blackboard of correction. Being forced to write grammatically accurate sentences a thousand times while everyone else was out playing dodge-ball had a way of ensuring he never spoke another word accurately ever again. Well Shawn never said he learned the correct lesson.

“Hold still – I need to look at your leg.”

More of that amazingly stellar advice. As if he planned to move agai- “AAAAH! OW, OW, OW!”

“Shh!”

“Did you just shush me? And right after that Great Expectations moment ten seconds ago? Dude, I was totally dead for like... a whole minute!” Interesting – speaking at a fast enough clip counteracted a lot of the freeze-inducted stuttering.

“You weren't dead, kid, but you might be if you keep screeching – that shooter is still out there.”

Dad could sound calm to the uninitiated, but Shawn detected a teeny shiver way down in the back of his throat. Okay, so maybe both of them were hedging into the scared shitless category but like hell either one of them would admit to it. Still, it wouldn't be a terrible idea to lower the verbal volume a few bars.

“I never screech!” Shawn volleyed back – forcibly quieter in deference to any lurking sharpshooters, “I'm much more of a Zack Morris.” He rubbed his nose though a clogged snerk. “And that makes you Mr. Belding.” His eyes trailed up to his father's scalp. “Maybe Mr. Balding would be more on the mark...”

“Shawn-” The last traces of his father's smothering concern flittered away in the resurgence of a far more comfortable aggravated frustration. Comfort level restored for both of them – as comfortable as anyone could be hunkered down in the forest with bacteria and leech infested water settling into the cozy places whilst murderers stalked them like they were feral guinea pigs.

Them... Wait, not just them... “Gus!”

“Shh!”

“Did you find Gus?” Shawn had a distant awareness that he'd dig his fingers into his old man's soggy sleeve but that held far less interest than acquiring an answer to his most urgent question. He'd sorta picked up on that they were alone. His dad and him. Possibly there were squirrels too or, God forbid, raccoons lurking in the trees or under logs. Birds, surely. Not that he heard them right that moment after his sudden scree- uh, shout. And it wasn't that loud of a shout...

“I only had time to find you and, all things being equal, kid, you were more of a priority.”

Henry was still scoping out for murderers and vermin but whatever his intent he'd slipped something in that admission that had ripped away the ability to comment. Shawn swallowed instead – regretful when he tasted fishy silt. Blah. He macked his lips and crinkled his nose – blinking away blackmail material through the sudden mush of blur. Was it getting dark already or...?

“Woah!” Henry lunged to straighten him from the slump he hadn't felt himself falling into – trees that had been warping like soft noodles in his blinky vision abruptly righting themselves as he was jarred to something more alert and aware of his owchies. Something rough and uncouth fell past his teeth and his father gave him a strong look.

“I'll let that slide because I assume you're still feeling waterlogged and delirious.”

“Delirious my ass.” Rebuttal took too much freaking energy. Besides, his main and building concern was for the chocolaty flavor of father and son still missing along the riverbank. Or, geez, in the river...

“We need to get you warm – you're freezing.” The pointing out of obvious didn't get the retort it deserved as dad followed comment with action. Standing no easy feat for the elderly and battered, it was even less so for the youthfully virile shot and mostly drowned mud rat.

“Guggnnn... arm, Arm, ARM!” Rising tide of protest dropped into whimpering registers as pops readjusted his hold and huffed out a breathless apology before forcing his mangled son to his wobbly feet. Water and silt squelged between the toes of Shawn's one bare foot. His waterlogged single sock felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as he hefted it towards the bank. Without dad wrapping an arm around his chest, he would have face planted in the moss rimming the small cut back. Sloshing and stumbling they finally managed to get their four legs (okay, three and a half) working together to haul them up and over.

Shawn could feel microshakes trembling just under the skin along with a heated flush of nausea cramping tight through his middle. His dad propped him against a tree before making a small circuit of their surroundings. Squinting at his father, Shawn breathed hard and cradled his damaged arm across his chest. The injury was waking up now that the immediate threat of drowning was done away with. His fingers nudged up under the edge of his shirt; over his shoulder to where the skin was puckered and rough. He couldn't reach far – and truthfully he didn't want to. He flinched down to his bones just knowing there was this mutilated wrongness carved into his skin. He couldn't feel blood so he let his hand return to holding his left arm stable.

He must have drifted somewhere because when a rough hand cupped under his chin, Shawn yelped and jerked back.

“Hey, hey. Just me.” Dad was there again – springing out of the blank green nothing like a freaking magic elf. Not an actual elf, though. That would have been just weird. It was nowhere near Christmas, for one. Plus the whole lack of curly toed shoes...

“Please tell me you found a nice Jeep while you were out scouting. Maybe one of those aquatic car boat thingies.”

Dad rested a hand on the back of his neck for a second, giving him a gentle rub. “Sorry, pal, no dice. We're hoofing it.”

Shawn eyed the river with half a lip in his teeth. “More like swimming it. I realize I was dead for a minute there but I'm pretty sure we're on the wrong bank.”

Henry pushed a hastily stripped branch into Shawn's questionable grip. “There's a bridge about two miles upriver. We'll be able to cross there.”

“Sure – nice little afternoon hike with snipers and gunshot wounds. It will be delightful. Me and you; unarmed, hungry, cold, wet... Just for fun, let me also add, what could possibly go wrong?”

His father managed to avoid pushing him back into the river by only the smallest of margins.

“Shut up, Shawn.”

<*><*><*><*><*>

Winnie was still holding the knife she'd been using to slice though the hard salami for a late lunch. She held it in front of herself as she crouched next to Madeline. The deadfall was at least thirty feet into the woods. Close enough to see the figures moving through their camp but far enough into the sound deadening underbrush to cover any conversation taking place. Terror that they'd been seen had eased only a little given they hadn't been followed. It did nothing for the ongoing fear that demanded to know why armed men were picking through their belongings.

“Have you seen them before?” Madeline kept her voice low, but Winnie felt the urge to shush her just the same. Her answer was a head shake – too frightened to offer any more chances to them being heard. She glanced at Madeline – taking in the calm evaluation of the campsite and the thugs helping themselves to the food that had recently been abandoned.

“We have to go.”

“Go?” One word slipping out – more from surprise than because she'd intended to speak. Go where – deeper into the woods? Maybe take a trek to the river and have a nice swim? Their men could be returning any time. They had to stay so they could somehow warn them!

“Winnie, we can't stay here. They'll know someone else was here and they'll find us. We have to go, right now.”

<*><*><*><*><*>

Gus plodded, step for step, with the man plodding right beside him. Another cloud of gnats had found them and were hovering around their eyes and occasionally exploring their nostrils and the corners of their lips. Gus spat and swiped at his face for the hundredth time.

“Hold up, son. Here...” His father propped Gus against a tree before peeling off his outer shirt. Pulling it over Gus's head, he loosely tied the sleeves under his chin – leaving just a small opening so Gus could see.

“There. Not much but it should help a little.”

Gus pulled some of the cloth down from his mouth. “What about you? And won't you get cold?”

His dad smiled, only to spit bugs and hack as several tiny insects tried to zoom down his throat. “It'll be alright. We better get moving, though.”

No energy or willpower to really fight his father on this one.

“You think Shawn and Henry are okay?”

His dad nodded immediately. “Of course they are. Henry is one of the best woodsmen I know for a city fellow. I remember when he used to take you boys out to earn your scout badges.” He shook his head. “I should have been there for that. Should have been there for a lot of things.”

Gus frowned and pushed back the shirt a little from his forehead. “What are you talking about, dad? You were always there for us!”

Bill stumbled – catching himself on the rough bark of large oak tree as he got his feet back beneath him again. He patted Gus on the arm when his son reached for him. “I'm okay.” A second of breathing – energy sapping out of them but no time to rest long. “We should keep going. Your arm okay?”

Fingers rubbed over the spot where he'd bashed his bicep on a rock or stump after falling out of the raft. “It's fine. Head's fine too.” He wanted to rub the goose egg on his scalp but previous attempts had led to a lot more pain and a disturbing blackening at the edges of his vision. He was just grateful his father seemed uninjured; other than a couple scratches on his cheek. A raindrop hit his face, just below his eye.

Rubbing away the drop, Bill looked upwards. Gus tipped back his chin as well, taking in the build up of charcoal dark clouds thickening above.

“Come on.” Patting Gus on the shoulder, Bill started them walking again.

<*><*><*><*><*>

The rain had started ten minutes ago. Little spatters so far, but given the heavy clouds, a downpour was on the way. Lassiter squeezed the brake and eased around another stump partially blocking the path. The trail was bad enough in daylight, when the sun went down it would be almost impassable. Sturges had warned them about the conditions they'd be facing but not like they had a lot of options.

O'Hara's ATV followed just behind with a couple of Sturges's deputies, a red-headed Ranger named Bernadette, “call me Bernee”, Jordan and her partner, Eric Xiong, taking up the rear of their little train. Ahead, Sturges led them through a patch of evergreens crowded so close to the trail that their needles scraped against Lassiter's sleeves.

“How -uch fu...er!” O'Hara's voice broke up with static and it would probably get increasingly harder to hear one another as the weather worsened.

Sturges's voice, just as broken up, crackled back, “Ano-er th-ty minutes, m-be long-r!”

Damn. And, even after getting to the campgrounds, they still had to track down where the Spencers and Gusters had chosen to set up camp. The campground management services had only been able to provide an approximate location for the campsite based on a short conversation one of the staff had had with Henry. The elder Spencer had been asking about a good spot for fishing and the guy at the check-in desk had suggested several spots. Grinding as it was, they would have to visit every likely location to track down the campers.

It started raining harder.

<*><*><*><*><*>

The sluggish warmth of the early afternoon had already been lost when Shawn had been forced back to living by his demanding father and his overbearing sausage breath. As the day grew later and their walking got slower, the air started to chill with the coming rain. An hour after Henry had pulled a gun on Death and threatened to shove his scythe up his skeletal ass, the rain went from drizzle to drenching.

“Uuuuughhh... We almost there?” Shawn hugged another tree – clinging to the bark like it was the last Twinkie in the box – GOD he could go for a Twinkie right about then. His leg hurt, his back hurt, his head hurt, his everything hurt and dad was treating this thing like some Iron Man competition. Well, Shawn was more than happy to let Downey have the title – though he'd pass up a delicious snack cake for a suit that could fly him the hell out of there. Bonus points for looking like a badass.

“Nope!” Stopping again, too, his dad bent to rub his left leg. Shawn hadn't missed the growing degree of gimp that also afflicted his father's stride. “At least the shooter will have a tough time spotting us in all this rain!”

“Count on you to see the bright side of a murder attempt!” Shouting through the pounding maelstrom was already losing its shine. Literally the only upside was that dad was looking none too eager to start prancing through the underbrush again. Still leaning against that tree and rubbing his leg. Actually, his dad wasn't looking too hot in the complexion arena.

Pushing off of his beloved support, taking an internal moment to wish the ancient monarch of the forest a long life filled with lots of sapling grandchildren, Shawn dragged his leg to thump next to his father.

“You okay?” “You alright?”

“Jinx, you owe me a Jolt.” Scratches and purple-red bruises mottled his father's head and arms – probably the hidden places under his clothes, too, though Shawn wasn't ever going to volunteer to carry out that exam. He doubted he looked any better. Similar injuries covered his arms and he could feel more of the like across his ribs, back, legs... By morning his whole body would probably be purple. Just in time for the Oompa Loompas to roll him to the juicing room. God, he could go for some juice.

He shivered when a downburst of wind chilled him from scalp to toes and scattered more drops from their sketchy shelter. What was even the point of trees if they couldn't keep the rain off of hapless travelers? Shawn spit water and took a second or ten to close his eyes – immediately feeling the floaty tippy sensation creep down through his body. A rough set of hands snatched his arms as he slid left.

“Ow – OW!”

“Hey, no passing out!”

“Wasn't...”

Though was that really such a bad thing? It was hours past his usual nap time and since dad had interrupted his cozy slumber in the river the least the old man could do would be to give him a little shut eye in that nice looking patch of moss he'd spotted while stumbling over. Or maybe it was mold? Shawn had never claimed to be an expert on flora and/ or fauna. Which explained his multiple encounters with poison everything: oak, ivy, tree frogs...

“Come on, kid, I'm sure the bridge is just ahead.” Damn, he must look like crap if dad was sinking to comfort tactics!

“Shawn!” Heavy sigh and finally groaning his eyes open once more. What did dad want n...? But Henry wasn't looked at him. Shawn looked up. Looked left... and felt as though his fatigue were washed off of him with the rain.

“Gus...”

The bear hug had been a clingy, drippy affair that had nudged towards awkward before Shawn had finally eeled out of his buddy's weepy hold – only to be instantly accosted by Guster Sr; just as weepy and clingy as his son. And while he didn't mind all that love directed his way, the double crushing was making no friends with his pulverized left shoulder; never mind all of the new breakage to his fragile person. “Mmpph... Mr. G... Big Bill... Suffocating..!”

Henry, on the fast track to earning his Father of the Year mug, once more stepped in to salvage his offspring from near death by tugging Shawn from the other man and shoving Gus towards his pops instead. Bill didn't seem to mind and immediately clung to his own child while Henry propped his against a wide tree and double checked pupil response.

Shawn smacked the two fingers out of his face. Or was it four?

“Okay, guys, schmoopy time is over; we need to keep moving.” That was more the dad that Shawn was used to; thank God.

Gus nudged up under Shawn's right arm while Henry and Bill took lead in breaking trail.

Lifting away from the tree exposed pain and exhaustion previously tucked away while Shawn had been nursing other pain as well as drifting into a strange state of almost passing out. He'd actually been starting to feel weirdly warm in spite of the unrelenting shower pounding down from above.

“You okay, Shawn? I thought...” Red edged eyes blinked more than rainwater.

“Yeah, I'm good, man. But what about you?” Shawn tilted his chin as he took in his battered buddy. “Dude, you've got an evil twin growing from your scalp!”

Gus shadowed a hand over the discolored welt distorting the perfection of his smooth dome. “Don't remind me! My poor head is never gonna be the same!”

Shawn squeezed the shoulder beneath his right arm. “Don't worry, buddy. We'll find you the best plastic surgeon. You know they can hide the scars so you can't even see them?”

“Under what hair?” Gus snapped back just before the both of them nearly stumbled over a root bound boulder.

Shawn held his breath as the jerking side step yanked at everything hurting. “Mmmm... dunno,” he wheezed, “you might want to... nnugh... invest in some hats. Pretty sure my dad has some you can borrow.”

“Please. This head was not created for old white guy fishing caps. Let Lassiter wear them. I hear he has an affinity.”

His stumble and grunt held a tone of confusion along with his pain; Shawn rucked his eyebrows together. “What? I could swear he drove a Fusion...”

“Affinity as in preference.” Gus managed to keep them both upright as they shoved through a patch of drenched ferns – water wicking from the leaves to collect on their already soaked jeans. Shawn hissed as the toe of his right foot hooked on the tangled vegetation – jarring his leg injury.

“Well obviously he prefers it; though I never would have labeled Lassie as green conscientious.” Said as he slapped aside a cluster of some of that abundant and excessively wet greenery; only to have it immediately slap back and catch both of them flat in the face. Sputtering and glaring were shared between both of them with equal levels of blame attached.

Further corrections were a trip down the rabbit hole; though Gus was well and prepared to go all the way to Wonderland if it meant making his point. As it was, and always was, however, a Spencer undermined his best intentions.

“Hold up!” Henry stopped their already pathetic progress – going so far as to hold one fist upraised while crouching near a tree.

With the momentum halted, Shawn sagged against his equally weary buddy.

Gus wobbled under the drooping weight and wrapped both arms around the shivering body – legs spreading wide for stability. “Dude, do not go boneless!”

Shawn's reply was a grumbled “Murmph...” but at least he shifted some of his weight back to his own side.

Henry, meanwhile, was stepping away from his tree; shoulders rolling back as he loosened from his tense pose. “Thought I heard something.”

Shawn snorted. “What, you mean other than this quaint little shower and the trickling brook right next to us?”

Yeah, Shawn got tetchy when he was hurt.

Other than an eye roll towards his son, Henry chose not to engage. Instead, he made the baffling choice to start pulling on branches.

“Dad?”

Breaking off a rotted branch from a donor pine, Henry tossed it at his feet before moving on to the next prickly victim. “We need some sort of shelter to ride out this storm. Shawn can't keep going, Gus is hurt, and my leg is starting to swell. I'm all for pushing forward but, guys, we need to catch a breather for a few hours.”

“Hey, I can keep going just fine!” Shawn snapped with all the affronted indignation he could possibility muster whilst clinging to his best friend like he was a floating mahogany chest in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.

“Son, your lips are blue and you're holding on to Guster like he's Leonardo DiCaprio.”

A perfectly observational point, that. “So...” he kicked at some of the collected brush – nearly losing his balance but for Gus wrapping a grip around his middle, “uh... what are we supposed to do?”

One hand pointed over his shoulder while Henry began tugging at another branch. “You and Gus get to hold up that tree over there.” He grunted as the branch snapped free – his feet, stumble stepping backward, until he got them planted. “Meanwhile, Bill is gonna help me gather some brush.”

“I...?” Bill glanced towards his son – a stronger cry for help could not have been better expressed – before pulling on his woodsman's pants, metaphorically, and reaching for a dead branch. “Yea- yeah. You bet! No problem!”

<*><*><*><*><*>

Rain had been pouring through the trees for the better part of an hour before Madeleine called a stop to their flight. Both women were gasping and shivering and bleeding where branches had dragged across exposed skin. While dressed for the outdoors, neither of them had rain gear – believing there would have been more than enough time to dart into the RV for slickers and umbrellas. At the very least, Winnie was grateful she'd made that shopping trip for all new camping gear – including weatherproof boots. Though most of her was drenched, at least her feet were protected.

“I haven't seen anyone following us, have you?” Madeleine was gasping and pressing a hand against her side. Winnie knew well that stitch of pain as her own arm was wrapped around her midsection.

“Honey, I can't see more than five feet! Even if they were following us, there's no way they could see us, now!” Or hear, for that matter. Even shouting, their words were struck down by the raindrops – dead and muted.

Leaning hard against a tree, Madeleine blinked, suddenly. “Oh!” Pushing her hand, first into one pocket and then the other, she came up with something round and dull silver. Hunching close to the other woman, Winnie pushed rain crinkling curls from her eyes and nodded towards the small object.

“What is it?”

Madeleine pushed a button on the side of the disk – popping a lid to reveal a compass. “Henry gave it to me. Insisted I keep it on me.”

Blowing more rain from her lips, Winnie crossed both arms over her middle – shivering. “Well that is fantastic! Maybe it can point us towards some help!”

It was interesting; how life could sometimes unfold with such spectacular irony. Because, not fifteen seconds after Winnie's, admittedly, sarcasm filled comment, a group of five ATVs buzzed around a cluster of trees just twenty feet away – obviously using a road the two women hadn't even known was there.

Aching sides forgotten, Maddie and Winnie shoved and stumbled through the foliage in their path – half falling out onto the soupy gravel road. The lead vehicle was already beyond them but the second, hitting a small washout, threw up a spray of mud and stones as the driver cranked the tires hard to the left to avoid a collision. Even through his helmet they could hear the creative landslide of cursing.

It was Madeleine who stepped closer to the driver – her eyes squinting to see his face through his visor.

“Detective Lassiter?”

<*><*><*><*><*>

Okay, of all the creatures he'd have expected to charge through the downfall and into his path, Madeleine Spencer and Winnie Guster were just behind Emperor penguin. “Son of a shit-brained motherfucker!” Crushing the brakes with both hands, Lassiter still nearly careened into a stand of trees; dodging the two figures that leapt from the forest.

“Detective Lassiter?” Neither Dr. Spencer nor Mrs. Guster had likely looked so unkempt a day in their lives. All that aside, even in these seat-of-the-pants circumstances, he still felt a bright heat across the back of his neck for his language. His mother had firmly instilled some hardcore life rules that included no swearing in front of ladies.

Behind him, the short line of ATVs had also stopped. Just ahead, Sturges must have seen the hold-up because his brakes flashed red before he slowly reversed back towards the rest of the group.

“Where's the campsite?”

“Oh my God, are you okay!?” Trampling over Lassiter's interrogation, O'Hara had slid from her four-wheeler and snatched a couple of spare rain slickers from the cargo case. By now, everyone had gathered around the two breathless women – Bernadette passing them an insulated canteen of hot coffee.

It was a few moments of stuttering and shaking words to get out the important details – at which point, Lassiter insisted the group split up so that the two civilians could be taken to safety.

“Oh no you don't! I am not going anyplace until I see that my son and husband are safe. The same goes for Madeleine!” Planting her feet in the muck, Winnie must have gotten a charge out of the caffeine laced thermos as the heat seemed to flood her face with enough indignation to scorch a line of fire between herself and the drivers.

A look towards Dr. Spencer for support dropped Lassiter's hopes, for civil obedience, down to his mud caked boots. Seemed all variety of Spencers were a pain in his ass that day.

O'Hara rubbed her arms and pushed into the inner circle just as Lassiter felt capitulation bubbling to the surface – as if he'd ever won as single fight with an angry mother.

“Mrs. Spencer, Mrs. Guster, I'm sorry but we cannot risk taking you with us. This is far too dangerous. Deputy Xiong and I will take you back to the Ranger's Station and call in for more back-up. Please, we don't have much time before nightfall.”

Madeleine pulled her slicker around her body and nodded. “You're right. Which is why Winnie and I will take you to our camp site, ourselves. Now; which of these four wheelers would you like us to share?”

<*><*><*><*><*>

Very little light remained in the clearing. The charm, it had once held, now lost under the carpet of soggy leaves, muddy boot prints, and mashed food. The Winnebago, parked between two large pines, rocked on its hinges – the muffled thud of something heavy, striking the inner walls, quickly followed by the narrow door busting open under the flying weight of a body forcefully shoved outside.

Missing the metal steps completely, Dillon landed, hard, on his left shoulder. Damned if he didn't feel the jolt all the way to his tailbone. The door had begun to swing back – only to be slammed open a second time; heavy steps clumping down onto the rain drenched earth.

Dillon scrambled himself in a crab crawl – pushing backward until his aching shoulder bashed into the picnic table behind him. In that amount of time, the boots had crossed the same patch of ground – the right steel toe pressing down less than an inch from Dillon's curled fingers.

Knees bending, Brandon Walker crouched over his companion; elbows on his knees – the knuckles of his right hand smeared red.

In the doorway of the trailer, Danny hung half out of sight – his hands crammed in his pockets.

Rain skittered across Walker's leather jacket – matting down his dark silver hair. Tiny tributaries followed the lines of his cheeks and dripped from his chin. He licked his lips – tilting his head back to catch more of the wet across his face. At his feet, Dillon clutched the muddied grass – throat muscles jumping. His jeans were soaked through and clinging by the time the other man finally stopped staring and began to speak.

“Devon was an idiot. Wasn't one job he didn't show up higher than Ozzy Osbourne, you know?”

Dillon pinched his lips tight – fuming. Walker grinned in return – even chuckling.

“Of course, the only one stupider than him was his own Pops for letting him go along in the first place. Still... even that doesn't compare to the absolute fuckery of leaving that drugged up moron, alone, to get his head nearly blown off... does it.”

Danny had started to take a step forward – only to chew his cheek and back into the Winnebago once more.

Walker clasped his fingers. “So, knowing you got that strike against you, already, why in the HELL, when a wide open opportunity presents itself; guy right there in your fucking sights... would you miss?”

Dillon wasn't wearing a watch but he felt the quiet thump of each second clicking past while Walker's eyes, unblinking, stared into his. Far longer than any reasonable pause – the complete lack of movement from the other man made him a wax sculpture with the slick of water across his skin.

Dillon felt his left hand skid sideways and he scrambled some more to keep his balance. Walker didn't move – hell if he even breathed. Letting himself fall back on his elbows, Dillon swallowed hard.

“I-I'm sorry, man – okay? I had him, alright? There was this stupid branch – it threw off my shot-KUH!”

The slap cracked across his teeth and knocked him flat to the ground. Coppery salt drizzled over his gums and his hand cupped around his jaw.

Other than to smack him, Walker hadn't moved – save to tip his expression downward.

“You weren't supposed to shoot at him at ALL until he was alone. You took it upon yourself to try for some kinda Annie Oakley bullshit and it didn't pay off. How many times do you have to be told; if you plan to take a shot, no matter how fucking ill advised, you better goddam hit the target?”

“But they're dead! They gotta be after their raft flipped! No WAY they made it out of that river!”

“That good enough for you!?” Walker hunched forward and Dillon flinched – though the hand hadn't raised towards him again. “You think that's good enough for your pop?”

Head tilting left; forcing Dillon to keep eye contact, Walker's tongue ran along the inside of his lower lip. “Dawes and Trek; you remember them? Funny guys. Always clownin' with each other but, for the most part, got the job done. Buuuuuuut they fucked up. Where are they now?” His eyebrows lifted and he leaned in just a little more and formed his right hand into the rough shape of a gun – pressing the tip against Dillion's temple. “BOOM!” He jerked his hand, “DEAD!”

Dillon glared back – feeling a ripe heat through his gut – like he was no more than eight and being lectured for busting a window with a baseball. “My dad isn't gonna kill me you idiot!”

Grinning once more, Walker leaned back on his heels. “Nope – probably not. But he'll sure as hell kill somebody and, you know what, I kinda don't want that to be me. Thing is... I ain't got an emotional investment in ya like he does. So, either you try, REAL hard, not to fuck up like those two dill holes,” he leaned in tight, voice hushing to a whisper that tickled the fine hairs on Dillon's cheek, “or I take you out myself and blame it on that asshole that pegged your bro; capiche?”