OBLIGATION 
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com  

CHAPTER 5

Could she possibly be more restless?

Mo had the keys to her father's old car in the pocket of 
her blue denim shorts.  When she'd asked her mother if she 
could borrow the car to go to Alachua to visit Doggett and 
Reyes later that evening, her mother hadn't asked why.  Her 
sister hadn't asked, either, but she'd gotten that look on 
her face that Mo had learned to dread:  the I-Know-What-
You're-Up-To look.  It wasn't a lot of fun to realize that 
she disliked that look now just as much as she had when 
they were growing up together.

Now it was just a matter of waiting until it was a little 
later, until everyone was ready for bed, so she wouldn't be 
skipping out on her family.  She sighed.  It wasn't a lot 
of fun to realize that she still didn't deal with guilt 
very well, either.

Mo looked at her face in the mirror over her mother's sink 
vanity. Her skin was pink from the sun and felt hot and 
tight, as if the flesh were pulled tauter than usual over 
the bones.  She ran her fingers back through her black 
hair, trying to coax it into some semblance of order. She 
dug around in her shoulder bag for a lipstick and finally 
found it, opened it and slid it across her mouth, slowly, 
watching it as it dragged its soft, creamy color across her 
lower lip. She ran her finger across her mouth sensuously, 
and a sudden shiver ran through her body.

If she'd been a cat, the toms would have been yowling under 
the window by now. How could a touch, a kiss, produce such 
intense yearning in her? Apparently she hadn't realized 
just how lonely she was, how much she missed being touched-
-yes, touched *that* way.

She put the lipstick away and ran the cold water in the 
sink.  She washed her hands and splashed her face lightly 
with the cool water, then dried her hands and face with her 
mother's soft-pink hand towel.  She replaced the towel on 
the ring and left the bathroom.

She walked through the living room and pushed the screen 
door open quietly and went out onto the porch. Maybe 
walking for a while would take care of some of the 
restlessness. She could walk uptown and back in 20 minutes. 
It'd do her good.

"Mo, hey," the deep Carolina voice came from the still form 
sitting in the semidarkness at the top of the steps.

"Max," she said softly, trying to keep the disappointment 
out of her voice. She really hadn't wanted to run into him 
this evening, though it was hard to avoid someone when they 
were sleeping in the next room of a small house.

"Sit down," Max said, patting the step next to him. "I 
haven't had two minutes with you since I got here."

She smiled to herself. And there was a good reason for 
that, she thought, and then pushed the thought away. Max 
had flown all the way from Japan to attend her father's 
funeral. She might not be married to him anymore, but he 
truly had loved her father and was crazy about her mother, 
and for that, she loved him. She sat down next to him and 
looked up at him. The sprinkle of silver in his hair was 
nice. As he got older, he was actually getting better 
looking--if that was even possible.  He was such a 
beautiful man. . .

**Stop it, Mo!**

"Max, I'm glad you came. It's made Mama really happy."

"It wouldn't have been right to miss it, Mo," he replied. 
He looked down at her soberly. "How're you handlin' all 
this?"

"Okay so far.  The funeral and the wake will be the test, I 
think."

"And how've you been these last months?  Are you feeling 
better?"

Of course, he had to ask. It had been quite a while since 
she'd spoken to him, but she remembered the concern in his 
voice when he'd called her back in the winter, some weeks 
after she'd left the hospital. "I'm doing okay now. I 
really am. But thanks for asking."

"Your-- The way you walk. . .it hardly shows."

He'd been about to say "limp." He seemed to realize how it 
sounded almost as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

Mo laughed gently. "Thanks. You should have seen me six or 
eight months ago."

"Mo, I didn't--" He sighed. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I always 
manage to fuck up when I'm just tryin' to talk to you, 
don't I?"

Mo looked at his face. He was genuinely embarrassed. "It's 
okay, Max. It really is." She touched his arm. "It was 
awful for a while. But I'm better now."

"That guy, that FBI agent--he really saved your life?" Max 
asked softly.

"Yeah, he and his partner and a lot of cops. So I'm told."

Max shook his head. "Then I owe him, big time." He slowly 
leaned closer to her, looking into her face. Fascinated by 
what was happening, Mo sat very still as his face came 
closer to hers.

Her lips were already parted by the time his mouth touched 
hers. The kiss was gentle, sweet. Sensing that what he was 
doing wasn't unwelcome, he took her face between his hands 
and kissed her in earnest.

Mo closed her eyes and just let herself feel it. His kiss 
was knowing and insistent, and as he explored her mouth his 
hands moved sensuously on her neck, in her hair. Max had 
always been able to generate tremendous heat in his languid 
way--and he still could.  Almost in spite of herself, she 
put her arms around his neck, and he pulled her close, 
trailing kisses down her neck and softly, lightly across 
her collar bones.  She was so tense, so incredibly aroused. 
Her body felt weightless and electrified. She heard a quiet 
moaning from somewhere and realized it was her own voice.

She felt his hand under her shirt, on her breast, a sure 
but delicate caress. At the sudden intense shock of 
pleasure, she gasped like a swimmer coming up for air and 
pulled away from him as if she'd been stung. "Max, I
can't. . ."

He was breathing hard. "Jesus, Mo!"

"I can't do this with you again," she whispered to him.

"Honey, why not?  It sure seemed like you--"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath and let it out, shaky. "You 
always did know how to make me feel good, darlin.' "

"Then let me." Max took her hand and rubbed it with his 
thumb. "Let me make you feel good." He moved his hand up 
her arm, soothing her skin. It did feel good. He could be 
so irresistible. Just ask all the women, over all the 
years. . .

She shook her head. "No. I can't. It'd just drive me crazy 
in the end." She forced him to meet her eyes. "You know as 
well as I do that you don't really want to be with me--I 
mean, *be* with me, not just make love to me here, tonight. 
You left me years ago, Max. And even when you were with me, 
you weren't really with me."

He knew perfectly well what she meant, and he couldn't 
answer it.

"So you see," she said, "I just can't do this."

He took her hand and held it in his lap. "Mo, I'm sorry."

"Max, it's okay," she said. "We were together for a long 
time. We've been apart for a long time."

"Mo, I still love you," Max said softly, "in my own way, I 
guess." He touched her cheek, smoothed her hair behind her 
ear.

"I know. But it's better this way," she said. "I'm not 
miserable all the time, wondering why I wasn't enough for 
you."

"God, Mo." He pulled her back into his arms and held her 
tightly. He smoothed her hair with heartbreaking 
gentleness. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I know I've said that 
before, but I want you to believe that it's true."

"I do," she said simply. She pulled away from him and 
looked at his face. "I do believe you. It's just better 
this way," she said again. "That's all." She stood up and 
extended her hand to him. "I need a walk. Do you wanna come 
with?"

He rubbed his cheek, studying her. Then he stood up and 
took her hand. They slowly walked down the steps, down the 
sandy lane toward the little town, quiet together.


                                                             
             *             *             *


Mo steered the old Escort down the rutted path to the back 
lane.  It was well past 11, and the sky was dark and 
overcast, with no moon.  It was still, only the thrumming 
of the crickets breaking the silence.   She turned onto the 
back lane and drove slowly down its rutted length to the 
macadam road that led to Highway 27.  She didn't notice the 
car that pulled out of the lane to follow her, its 
headlights off, leaving just enough distance between the 
two vehicles. 


~~~~


Mo pulled into the parking lot of the Alachua Ramada Inn, 
peering at the numbers on the doors.   Catching sight of 
the door she was looking for, she pulled into a space a few 
slots down and killed the engine.

She wiped the sweat off her forehead and neck.  It was 
sweltering, and leave it to her sweet, mechanically 
challenged daddy to never get around to fixing the Escort's 
broken air conditioning.  She opened the door and slid out 
of the car.

The air was redolent of diesel fuel and greasy fast food, 
and the semis on I-75 kept up their unrelenting hum and 
whine.  There wasn't even a promise of a breeze.  Mo caught 
sight of her reflection in the car window, and smiled at 
what used to be perfectly normal hair.  She took a deep 
breath and walked over to the motel room door bearing the 
brass numeral "18."

It was a new motel, and the metal door was still proudly 
pristine.  She knew that would change before too many more 
months went by. She raised her hand to knock, hesitating 
for a moment, wondering why she always hesitated when it 
came to this man.  She shook her head and knocked.  

She paused, then knocked again, and Doggett opened the 
door.  He smiled at her and stood aside so that she could 
come in.  


~~~


Hugh Goodall raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched 
her at the motel room door, watched the FBI man open the 
door for her and let her inside.  Goodall smiled and 
settled in to wait.


~~~


Inside the room, Mo looked around, noticing the clothes 
hanging in the little closet area, the service weapon in 
its holster on the desk, the shoes neatly aligned under it. 
The TV was on, Jay Leno's monologue a soft murmur in the 
background. The queen-sized bed was rumpled, sections of 
newspaper strewn across it. He'd been waiting for her.

He shut the door behind her and turned to her, dressed in a 
pair of soft old jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, his feet 
bare. He studied her--her translucent skin, her crystal-
green eyes, her glossy black hair that had frizzed around 
her face in the Florida humidity.  He studied her as if he 
were trying to commit her to memory--as if he hadn't 
already memorized her face, her soft curves.  

As a cop, he'd been trained to observe and analyze, but 
he'd never had much luck figuring out this woman. He 
wondered if it was because she'd learned at an early age to 
shield herself from other people's thoughts and feelings.  
It sometimes seemed to work pretty effectively in the 
reverse too, making her harder than hell to read. 

Tonight her expression and her very posture awoke every 
instinct he'd ever developed.  She was on edge, more 
emotional than he'd ever seen her--naturally enough; she'd 
just lost her father. Her face was flushed, her eyes were 
bright, and her breathing was quick and shallow, the way it 
got when she was aroused.  He wanted to think that it was 
all because of him, but it seemed as if there was something 
else going on too, and he wasn't sure what it was.  Monica 
would probably tell him to use his inner sight or 
something. . .whatever the hell that even meant.

But Mo was right there, in front of him, whether it made 
sense or not, whether he could figure her out or not, and 
he wanted to touch her.  For Chrissake, Doggett--be honest. 
You want to do a whole lot more than touch her.  You want 
to take her to bed.  You've been wanting nothing else since 
you saw her weeding that damn flower bed at her mother's 
house. 

Instead, he waited to see what she would do.

"Hi," she said softly. "I can't believe we're really here 
together."

"I was just thinking the same thing," he said. A smile 
played at the corner of his mouth. "You sure it's okay for 
you to be here?" he asked. 

"It's okay. My mother's asleep." She moved close to him. 
"Not that she hasn't figured out that something's up." She 
lifted her hands and ran her fingers across his smooth 
cheeks, the chiseled planes of his face.  He'd shaved for 
her, and she was inexplicably touched.  "Oh, sweet 
darlin'," she said, smiling into his eyes, "it's so good to 
see you."

"You too," he said quietly, putting his arms around her.

She draped her arms over his shoulders, and he pulled her 
tight against his body. "Where's Agent Reyes?" she asked 
softly.

"She was just here a while ago, but she went to bed--she's 
in the next room," he said, his eyes on her soft mouth, her 
white neck where a pulse beat in time with her heart.

"Then it's a good thing I'm quiet," she said wryly.

"We can always work on that," he said, smiling then.

She pressed herself against him, his hard muscles, his 
sturdy reliability.  She breathed him in.  He smelled 
clean, like soap, like freshly laundered clothing.  She 
rubbed her cheek against his, slowly, wanting to melt into 
him, to become a part of him.

A shudder ran through him.  He was a little afraid he might 
make a fool of himself, do something Neanderthal--grab her 
and throw her on the bed, with no preliminaries.

"Oh, I love it when I make you shiver," she whispered, her 
lips against his ear.  The tip of her tongue flicked out to 
lick his earlobe.  That was too much for him, and he put a 
hand to the back of her head and kissed her mouth with a 
fierce longing that surprised them both.

If he hadn't been holding her so tightly, Mo would have 
fallen.  His kiss was so direct, so straightforward, so 
totally different from Max's smoldering insinuation.  It 
was the kind of kiss that would have given her over to him 
on the spot, if she hadn't already been given that way.  

His hands moved, awkward, down the front of her thin cotton 
shirt, unbuttoning it, then opening it so he could look at 
her.  She was trembling, and he looked up again, into her 
eyes.  He could hear his own ragged breathing.  He put his 
hands on her bare breasts, his fingers spanning their soft 
roundness, and felt the nipples tighten at his touch.  He 
found her lips again, gently now.  She put her hands on the 
back of his neck, teasing the soft short hair there, and he 
moved his open mouth across her cheek to her ear.  His lips 
and breath and hands were so hot on her skin, and she was 
almost faint from wanting him.

He pulled her over to the disheveled bed, and they fell 
onto it together, kissing, pushing newspapers out of the 
way, fumbling at each other's clothes.


And then she was naked and soft and warm beneath him, and 
he was kissing her and being kissed, touching her and being 
touched. It was almost sensory overload--skin against skin, 
mouth against mouth.  It had been a long time for both of 
them, and they were hungry for each other.

He slowly moved his lips down her neck and her chest to her 
breast.  His tongue lingered just at the edge of the soft 
pink areola, teasing her, and she moaned and pulled his 
hair just hard enough to get his attention.

"Don't play with me, you horrible man," she breathed, and 
he laughed softly, slowly moving his tongue ever closer to 
her nipple. When he finally covered it with his mouth, she 
gasped and raked her nails slowly up the soft skin of his 
back.

She pulled him between her thighs and wrapped her arms 
tight around him.  "You can take your time later," she 
whispered into his hair and lifted his face to hers to kiss 
him.

~~~~

He held her close underneath his heart, watching her in 
wonder as she trembled and sighed and shattered in his arms 
and came back whole and beautiful and his.  As he soothed 
away her quiet tears, it dawned on him in a kind of 
epiphany that she was his if he wanted her, and the 
realization filled him with something like awe.  He lay his 
head against her breasts and sighed, content, wondering how 
he could be alone for so long and not know how alone he 
was.


They lay together under the crisp motel sheets, touching 
each other gently, not speaking.  As they became 
reacquainted with each other's bodies, they communicated 
less by words than by touch, by caress, the meeting of skin 
and skin.  She slowly moved her hand down his strong arm to 
his hand, and laced her fingers in his. He held her hand 
for a moment and then circled her wrist with his fingers, 
struck, as always, by its smallness in his hand.  He traced 
the sweet curve of rib, waist, and hip with his fingertips.  
Everything about her was a paradox of delicate and strong
. . .like silk, he thought.

At length he pulled her close, cradling her against his 
chest, and they lay that way for a time.   She was roused 
from half-sleep by the deep rumble of his voice in her ear.  
"Are you gonna be all right, Mo?" he asked her quietly. "Is 
there anything I can do?"

She reached up and touched his cheek. "Just let me rest 
here with you for a while. There's really not much else 
either of us can do." She was quiet for a moment. "I wish 
you could've met my father."

"I do too," Doggett said. "What was he like?"

"He was such a wonderful guy, John," she said. "He was 
tall, and he was dark-haired like me. He was funny and 
smart."  She smiled, remembering.  "He could make you laugh 
*and* make you think."   She put her hand to her mouth for 
a moment, telling herself not to cry.  Doggett took her 
hand and kissed the palm soothingly. "I can't believe he's 
gone," she added.

He smoothed her hair gently, and she sighed. His arms were 
heavy and warm around her, and she realized that, despite 
everything, she was happy to be there with him.

"You know, I had a hard time thinking about anything other 
than this all evening," she said at last, almost shyly.

"Yeah, I get that," he said. "I'd been thinking about it 
since I caught sight of you this afternoon."

She laughed softly.

"We didn't waste any time, did we?" He smiled into the 
darkness.

"We never *have* the time to waste," she murmured into his
shoulder.

"That's true enough," he said, feeling a stab of 
conscience. He ran his fingers down her jaw line, across 
her cheek. "We could go out, do something, get something to 
eat."

She smiled at that. "You don't know much about the night 
life in Alachua, do you?"

He smiled too.  "We'd probably end up drinkin' shots in some 
roadhouse."

"Oh, and *that's* one of my favorite things!" She laughed. 
"I didn't really come here dressed to go out, anyway, but 
it was a nice thought."

"Actually, I'd say you came dressed to be undressed," 
Doggett said with an ironic smile.

She sat up and looked at him.  "And how do you know that?"

"I just know you like pretty underwear, and I didn't see 
you wearin' any--pretty or otherwise," he said wryly.  He 
pulled her back down onto the bed.

She looked at him for a second, speechless, and then she 
laughed.   "You have me all figured out, don't you?"

He was quiet for a moment, studying her face.  What was it 
about her that touched him so?  She could hardly be more 
different from him.  "I only wish I did," he said softly.  
He leaned over her and wove his fingers through her hair. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he covered her 
face with kiss after slow kiss, finally lingering at her
mouth.  He left a soft trail of kisses from her lips to
her cheek to that spot he knew, the one between her jaw
and her ear.  Feeling the tension coiling again in her
belly, she held him tight, arching her pelvis up against
him.  He drew his breath in with a hiss and slipped his
hand between their bodies, brushing the edge of his thumb
gently across her sensitive nipple.  He parted her legs
with his thigh and slid his hand lower, to the tight black
curls between her legs, and stroked her slowly.

"Ah, God," she whispered.  She raised her face to him, her 
hands moving across the small of his back, down his smooth 
backside, around his lean hips.  She lingered at the 
sensitive skin of his inner thighs, softly tracing her 
fingers across the warm flesh there.  She took him in her 
hand and returned the stroking, and he closed his eyes and 
sighed with pleasure, his body responding to her touch.  

He kissed her again, running his tongue along her lower 
lip, softly, slowly. She put her head back and moaned 
quietly as he continued stroking her, his mouth moving down 
her neck.  

"Should I take my time?" he whispered, smiling at the chant 
he'd invoked.  He trailed kisses down between her breasts, 
down past her belly to where all her heat was coalescing, 
his tongue drawing a line of fire on her skin.

"Mmmm. . ." It was all she had voice for. He was pretty 
sure it meant yes.


~~~~


"Can you spend the night?" he murmured into her ear.  He 
kissed her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin and hair.

"Oh,  I'd love that," she said. "I'd love to wake up with 
you in the morning.  But I don't think I--   I really 
shouldn't."  She looked up at him.  "You're working--you 
need to sleep.  There's Agent Reyes to think about. . .and 
I should be there with my mom."  She got very still.

"I'm sorry about your dad, Mo," he said quietly.  "It's 
tough. I remember--when my dad died."

She propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him, her 
face soft.  He put his hand on her neck, rubbing her cheek 
with his thumb.  She wondered as she always did about this 
difficult, complicated man, who she knew could be so hard 
with other people.  He was always careful with her, almost 
always gentle, even in his most passionate moments.  She 
bent her head down to kiss him, once, then again, with a 
tender yearning.  He put his hand on the back of her neck 
and held the second kiss a little longer.   Then she rested 
her head on his chest with a sigh, and he smoothed his hand 
down her curly hair, twisting a lock of it around a finger. 

"It's so good to be with you," she said. "How odd to run 
into each other this way."

"Yeah," he said softly.   "Weird coincidence.  A nice one."  
He ran his hand down her ribs to her hip.  "You're 
thinner," he added.  His big hand spanned her back at the 
waist. 

She nodded her head against his chest. 

"You need to eat," he said.  "You need to take care of 
yourself."  He realized that he sounded an awful lot like 
an uncle--or a husband--and he felt his face grow warm.   
"This sort of thing--the stress has a way of creepin' up on 
you," he explained.

"I know."  She yawned.  

"Look," he said, "you should sleep here for a while. You're 
tired--and you've got a lot to handle right now.  I can set 
an alarm for a couple hours."

"All right," she whispered.  "Thanks, darlin'."  She 
touched his cheek and then rolled over onto her side with a 
tired sigh, reaching for him.

He hadn't seen her in almost four months, but it was as if 
no time had elapsed since their last morning together, at 
his house, when he'd made love to her in his own bed.  He 
set the alarm on his watch to go off in two hours and slid 
back up against her warm back.  He wrapped an arm over her, 
resting his hand on her drawn-up thigh, and felt her arm 
curve around to rest over his.  He closed his eyes, feeling 
oddly at home in this strange motel room, in this strange 
town.

~~~~

It seemed just minutes later that the incessant beeping of 
the watch on the nightstand woke him again.   He reached 
over and fumbled around in the darkness, finally finding it 
and silencing the alarm.  

Mo rolled over and touched his arm.  "What time is it?" she 
asked softly through a yawn.

"It's a little past 3."  He put the watch back on the 
nightstand, yawning himself.

She sighed and slowly sat up and stretched.  She pulled her 
legs up in front of her and wrapped her arms around her 
knees.  "I need to shower. I smell like--" She hesitated, 
suddenly embarrassed.

"You smell good."  She heard the smile in his voice. He sat 
up behind her and buried his face in her hair. 

She leaned back against him and closed her eyes.  Depending 
on your point of view, he was right.  She smelled like skin 
lotion and sweat and sex.  God, she was a wanton, and she 
didn't care.

He couldn't stop touching her, pressing his lips to her 
neck, tracing patterns over her collar bones and down 
across her breasts with his fingertips.  She sighed.

"I've missed you so," she whispered.

"You have," he said.  It wasn't quite a question, wasn't 
quite a statement.

"Every day." She turned to look at him.  "Does that bother 
you?"

He studied her face for a moment.  "No," he said softly. 
"It doesn't bother me. I missed you too."

"I thought of you so often." She was silent for a moment. 
"Even though I didn't call you much."

He looked at her soberly.  "We don't stay in touch too 
well, do we?"

"No," she said quietly.  "I wonder why, John.  It's 
interesting that we turned up together here," she said 
thoughtfully.  "I'm not sure I believe in coincidences.  I 
guess I tend to believe that people always pretty much end 
up where they're supposed to be."

"You sound like Monica," he muttered, pulling her against 
his chest and wrapping his arms around her.  

"In that case, maybe you should listen to her," she said to 
him with a smile. 

"Maybe so," he said.   She kissed his cheek and slipped out 
of his arms and went into the bathroom to shower.



She came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.   Lying on 
the bed in his boxers, he watched her as she rubbed her 
hair to just-dampness and dried off her body, ran her fingers
back through her hair.

There was a simple, aching beauty to her comfortable 
nudity.   Looking at her, he was a little surprised to 
realize that she'd become familiar to him.  He knew her:  
the softness of her skin, the warmth of her kiss, the 
kindness of her heart, her odd way of looking at the world.
He caught himself wondering what it would be like to wake up
next to her every morning, to be the one who kept her safe, who
made her smile.  He looked away, shaking the thought off as if
it were something forbidden.

She slid her shorts and shirt on and sat down on the bed 
next to him, buttoning the shirt.  He pulled her close against
his chest and kissed her, and she held him tight.  

At length she sat up again.  "I need to go," she said 
quietly.  "And you need to go back to sleep."  She smiled 
at him.  "Maybe I'll see you again before you have to go 
back?"

He nodded.  "Let's see how everything works out.  I'd like 
to take you out, maybe have dinner."

"That'd be nice. If we can sneak away without Agent Reyes 
knowing," she said, teasing him, and was grateful to see 
him smile.  She leaned over and kissed him gently, then 
stood up. 

"Be careful going back," he said, getting up from the bed.  
He walked her to the door.

"I will," she said.  "Sleep well, darlin'."  She looked at 
him one more time, and then went out the door, closing it 
behind her silently.  


                *          *           *


Mo parked the Escort in the back field and walked through 
the dry grass toward the back of the house.  The only light 
was from the streetlamp off across the field, in front of 
the old Methodist Church.  She glanced that way and 
shivered a little at the thought of what had been done 
there so recently. She had almost asked John about the case 
he was working on, though she suspected he wouldn't have 
told her much anyway.   But she really wasn't sure she 
wanted to know much about it, if what had been in the 
newspaper about the murder was any indication.  She knew 
that what the newspapers reported was usually only a small 
percentage of the true horror of a crime. 

Not for the first time, she wondered how John could do his 
job, how he could hold up under the endless horrors, how 
he'd been able to make it through the very personal horror 
of his own son's violent death at the hand of a criminal. 
She wondered how his heart had survived even in its wounded 
state, and what a younger John Doggett must have been like, 
before his work and his own tragedy had made him the man he 
was now, whose heart was weathered beyond his years. She 
could picture him as a happy man, with a wife and son he'd 
loved, and the vision, all that had been lost, broke her 
heart, made her taste salt tears.

As Mo approached the wooden steps to the back porch, a 
small sound made her stop walking and listen.  A quiet tik-
tik, like fingernails against metal.  She looked up and saw 
a large black bird walking back and forth on the gutter of 
the porch roof.  It stopped, cocked its head, and looked at 
her out of its inky eye. She realized that she'd stopped 
breathing. The bird cocked its head the other way and 
continued to stare at her.  She moved one pace closer to 
the steps and nodded to the bird, showing respect. It 
skittered away from her down the gutter and flew off.

Mo started breathing again and realized that her heart was 
beating fast.  She climbed the porch steps slowly, 
painstakingly, trying her hardest to be quiet.  It was a 
quarter to four in the morning, and no one sleeping in the 
house needed to be awakened just because *she* was stupid 
enough to have stayed out all night.  She knew that her 
mother would have locked up, and she gingerly felt above 
the back door for the skeleton key.   She found the key and 
quickly got the door open.  Something about the still night 
air and the odd encounter with the crow was giving her a 
uneasy feeling, and she just wanted to get inside.  

She walked into the old kitchen silently, and stopped in 
the middle of the room.  It still smelled the same after so 
many years, like cooking and mineral-rich water and old wood
and linoleum.  She sighed, relaxing a little. 

"Morgan, honey, is that you?" The voice came from the back 
bedroom.

Mo shut her eyes.   Busted.  "Yeah, mama, it's me."

"Are you just now gettin' home, darlin'? It's almost 4 in 
the mornin'."

"I slept for a while, mama.  I was so tired."  She walked 
into her mother's bedroom. The familiar furniture and 
curtains, the old smells of fabric and sachet, the 
paintings and knickknacks were all the more poignant in the 
painful absence of her tall, funny father, and she felt the 
tears start to come.  The last thing she wanted to do right 
now was cry.  Her mother didn't need to take care of her at 
a time like this.

But her emotions were raw, on the surface, and every nerve 
in her body was excited.  If she closed her eyes, she could 
still feel his hands on her thighs, his breath on her 
cheek, his lips on her throat, and warmth suffused her body 
until her skin felt like fire.  

Maybe Ruth could feel it.  But she recognized that her 
daughter needed something.  "Morgan," she said, patting the 
bed, "come on over here."

She walked over to her mother and father's old bed and sat 
down on the edge.  Her mother took her hands and held them. 

"What's the matter, honey?"

"It's nothing," she said.  She shook her head. "It's 
everything."  

"I know, sweetie.  I know what you mean," her mother said, 
squeezing Mo's hands gently.

"Mama, sometimes when I think about how you and daddy--you 
were married for so long, and you were happy.  I just 
wonder if I'll ever--"  She took a deep breath.  "I was 
married, and it didn't work out."

"And you're wonderin' if you'll ever be happy that way 
again?" Ruth reached up and stroked her daughter's hair 
gently, concern in her face.  

Mo swallowed the tears that kept threatening.  "Mmm."  She 
nodded, not sure she could speak.  

"Darlin', you will.  I know you will.  It'll happen for 
you."  Ruth pulled Mo into her arms and hugged her tightly.  
"Oh, honey, I  just can't believe I'm gonna wake up 
tomorrow and your daddy's not gonna be here with me."

Mo looked at her mother and watched as her face, and the 
rest of the room, blurred behind her tears.  And she put 
her head on her mother's shoulder and cried, for her 
mother's lonely heart, for her own desperate feeling of 
loss, for her own confused yearning.


                *          *          *


Mo stripped off the shirt and the denim shorts and left 
them in a pile on the floor.  She pulled her nightgown out 
of her suitcase and slid into it, exhausted in every bone.  
She crawled into the big brass bed with her sister, 
gratefully pulled the sheet up, and rolled over and closed 
her eyes.

She felt her sister's hand touch her rapidly drying hair. 
"You slept with him, didn't you?" Maeve asked.

"Maeve!" Mo turned around and peered at her younger sister 
through the darkness.

"And then you took a shower." Maeve was impressed with her 
own deductive abilities. "So how long have you been 
involved with this guy, anyway?"   She propped herself up 
on an elbow and looked over at Mo.

Mo laid her head back on her pillow and covered her face 
with her hands.  "Mother of God," she muttered, her Irish 
Catholic childhood coming through. 

"So?" Maeve prompted.  "It's obvious you have a history 
with him that's a lot more than professional," she said, 
sounding like the attorney she was.

"Maeve, don't cross-examine me, okay?"

"How long?" Maeve insisted.

"Since the day I met him," Mo finally admitted.

Maeve sat up and looked down at her sister, incredulous.  
"*You*?  The ultimate Good Girl? You're actually admitting 
that you slept with this guy the day you met him?"

"Maeve, don't--"

"I had a feeling there was something going on when I first 
heard him call you 'Mo.'  Damn!  He's the policeman you 
were telling me about yesterday!"  Maeve slapped Mo 
playfully on the behind.  "Ha!  I knew you weren't telling 
me everything when you were talking about him before." She 
grinned, inordinately pleased with herself.

"You're amazing, Mevvie.  You've got me all figured out."  
She laughed gently.  "Everyone thinks they have me figured 
out." She sighed.  "I don't even have myself figured out."

"My God, Mo," Maeve said suddenly, "do you know how happy 
Mama would be if she knew about this?  She has that man on 
a pedestal as it is."

"Don't you dare tell her!" Mo hissed.

"Oh, don't be dumb," Maeve said.  "I wouldn't tell her 
anything."  She was quiet for a moment.  "Do you love him?" 
Maeve asked then, her voice soft.  

Mo didn't know what to say to the sudden blunt question.  
"I--I'm not sure," she finally said.  "We live so far 
apart, I almost never see him.  We're so different." She 
heard herself repeating all the excuses she'd made to 
herself over the months, and she took a deep breath and let 
it out, slowly.  "I think maybe I started to love him a 
little when he came back out to Boulder, a couple months 
after I met him."

"He did that?" Maeve asked.  "Hmm."

"Yeah," Mo said.  "He could have just forgotten about me, 
gone on with his life."  She smiled into the dark, 
embarrassed.

"Well, he's not bad-looking.  It's not like he had to fly 
halfway across the country to get laid," Maeve put in 
thoughtfully.  

"Maeve," Mo said with a resigned sigh.  

"I'm kidding," Maeve replied.  "But you see my point.  Have 
you told him?"

Mo didn't say anything.

"You haven't told him anything?" Maeve touched Mo's 
shoulder.  "You are *such* a nimrod." She sounded 
exasperated.  "Does he love you?"

"I don't know."  She looked over at Maeve.  "He's never 
said anything."

"I saw the way he looks at you," Maeve said, "for what 
that's worth.  Mo, I know how reserved you can be.  But you 
should tell him how you feel.  If he doesn't feel the same 
way, at least you've told him, and you can get on with 
things.  Like the rest of your life."

"You're probably right," Mo said.

"Well, it's better than being afraid, and ending up pushing 
him away because he *doesn't* know how you feel," her 
sister replied.

Mo took Maeve's hand and squeezed it.  "You know me pretty 
well," she said softly.  

"You're such a nimrod," Maeve said again, but she smiled.  
"You need to get some sleep," she added.  "We have to get 
up early."

"I know," Mo said.  "G'night, sweetie."  She rolled over 
and buried her face in the soft pillow.   As when they were 
little girls together, she felt Maeve's small hand on her 
back, soothing her into sleep.


CHAPTER 6

Saturday Morning

Sipping her coffee, Monica watched Doggett eat his eggs, 
grits, and sausage. He was paying the same single-minded 
attention to the food that he did to most everything else.  
And if the muffled moans and murmurs she'd heard coming 
through their adjoining wall the night before were any 
indication, he'd been paying that single-minded attention 
to someone last night in a particularly enjoyable way.

She'd never before picked up so much as a hint that John 
had a woman in his life, and she knew how embarrassed he'd 
be if he found out she knew anything different now. So she 
feigned ignorance of the elephant in the room and continued 
eating her wheat toast with butter and honey, trying not to 
smile too much. 

She continued to watch him.  He wasn't the same man she'd 
met those years before, which shouldn't be any big 
surprise; after all, she wasn't the same woman he'd met.  
But the last year had changed him in subtle ways she didn't 
think even he quite recognized.  She was seeing glimpses of 
something different, of an unconscious willingness to trust 
other depths of instinct that he'd never been able to trust 
before.  That thing at Goodall's house, for example:  He 
might call that playing a hunch, but she would describe it 
as listening to insight, working with senses he'd never 
really used. 

Maybe his year on the X-Files had simply attuned him a bit 
more to the weird side of things.  She knew he'd hate even 
the thought of that, that it would disturb him.  But she'd 
always had a feeling that sooner or later it would 
manifest, and that he'd always somehow known it would.  She 
suspected it was part of the reason why he had maintained 
contact with her over the years since his son's case, 
contact that had developed into an odd sort of friendship.

She sighed quietly.  It was something else she didn't think 
she needed to discuss with him, at least not right now. 

Then, as she focused on his spiky brown hair, her eyes 
opened wide as a thought occurred to her. He chose just 
that moment to look up, and when he saw her expression he 
put his fork down and leaned across the table, his face 
concerned.

"Monica, what is it?" he asked her with a quiet urgency.

She met his eyes. "John, let's assume for a minute that 
Goodall *is* the one who desecrated the churches and killed 
Enrique Boadu.  What if he's not only out to get the people 
who lived through that epidemic that killed his wife--what 
if he's out to punish their families as well?" She watched 
his face tighten. "What if, in Goodall's mind, Dr. Dannah 
let his wife die? And then Dr. Dannah dies, so he doesn't 
get the revenge he wants. What--"

"Yeah, I get it," Doggett replied. "I thought of that too, 
yesterday.  I didn't want to say anything to Mrs. Dannah--
she has enough to be grievin' over." He grabbed his napkin 
and wiped his mouth, then pulled out his wallet and left 
some bills on the table, more than enough, Monica noted, to 
cover their breakfasts and a nice tip. He stood up and  
returned the wallet to his back pocket. Monica took one 
last sip of coffee and stood up and followed him out of the 
Perkin's. 

"John!" she called out. "Where are we going?"

"Alachua P.D.," he said over his shoulder. "We need to 
light a fire under their asses.  And if they find what I 
think they're gonna find, it'd be a good idea to call your 
Sheriff Ritch, too."

She caught up to him.  "What else?"

He stopped.  "I think we need to get over to Deborah 
Boadu's.  And to the Dannahs'." He glanced at his watch.  
"It's getting late.  They're probably at the funeral right 
now, or on their way."

Monica plucked at his coat sleeve, lightly, just enough to 
let him know she was there for whatever needed to be done.   
He met her eyes for a moment, and then they walked together 
to the car.

                                                  
             *            *            * 


It felt good to sleep late once in a while, Hugh Goodall 
realized, pouring himself a cup of coffee.  He added a 
tablespoon of cream.  It was fresh and unpasteurized, from 
a dairy just outside of town, and drinking it with your 
coffee was almost like having dessert.  He took the coffee 
and the morning paper out to the Florida room and sat down 
with a sigh, crossing his legs.

He glanced at the clock.  It was 10:15.  The wake for Jack 
Dannah would be starting in less than an hour, and he 
really should go pay his respects.  He smiled bitterly.  
Respects.  Respect.  He'd had nothing but respect for Dr. 
Dannah ever since he and Nora had moved here to this little 
town.  Not anymore.  

He opened the paper and read for a while, restlessly 
turning page after page to find something to engage his 
attention.  He couldn't concentrate.  His mind was too 
taken up with things, with people:  The Dannahs, the black 
heathens, that smug FBI man.  

He finally laid the paper down on the table and stood up.  
He walked over to the louvered windows and looked out.

What was *he* doing out there?

The small black man was kneeling in Goodall's side yard, 
underneath the largest cypress.  Goodall squinted through 
the window.  What was he doing?  The little man's hands 
were relaxed on his thighs, his eyes closed, his mouth 
moving.  Goodall cranked the window open and listened.  
Chanting.  The man was sitting in his yard chanting.  And 
what was that on the ground in front of him?

Goodall felt the blood rush to his face, and he told 
himself to relax.  He walked to the front door and went 
outside, making his way quietly to the side yard where Old 
Owdeye sat.  He walked up behind the old man, and stopped 
and looked down at him.  There were bowls on the ground in 
front of Owdeye, one full of sand and smoking incense, the 
other full of what looked to Goodall like milk.   There 
were several beaded necklaces on the ground next to the 
bowl of milk.  The old man continued his chant, eyes 
closed..  It was as if Goodall was simply not real to the 
little man.

Goodall stalked around to stand in front of Owdeye.  "What 
are you doing here, old man?" he breathed, fury reddening 
his face.  "Do you want to end up like your friend Boadu?  
Do you know how stupid you are to come here?"

Then Old Owdeye opened his eyes and looked up at Goodall.  
"The pattern has been set.  Do what you must.  Your fate is 
ordained, as is mine."

Goodall stared down at Owdeye.  The little man was 
maddeningly calm.  "What are you talking about, old man?"

"Mr. Goodall," Owdeye said softly, "you have fallen into 
darkness beyond all redemption.  I have come to stop you.  
And now all will unfold the way it will." 


              *           *            *


Doggett walked quietly into the Dannahs' living room, 
holding on to the screen door so it wouldn't slam behind 
him. He hated wakes, always had. He supposed they had their 
place, but that didn't mean he had to like them.

He'd left Monica at Deborah Boadu's house and had come here 
to talk to Mo. . .and, if he were to be totally honest, to 
go back to see Hugh Goodall.  He did a quick scan of the 
crowd. The old house was full of friends and family.  The 
scene reminded him of his childhood, of similar gatherings 
after church at the houses of relatives. Even the smells 
were familiar:  too-strong perfume, the heady scent of 
food, the pungent odor of too many bodies in one warm place 
together.  He saw the tall, dark-haired Max over in the 
corner of the dining room, talking to a heavyset gray-
haired man.  He saw the top of Ruth Dannah's head lost in a 
clutch of taller people.

Then he saw Mo. Dressed in a short, black sleeveless dress, 
sandals, and a white picture hat, she walked from the 
kitchen into the dining room carrying a casserole dish in 
one hand and a glass of water in the other.  She set the 
dish down on the table and handed the glass to an elderly 
woman who was sitting there. The woman reached up and 
patted Mo's cheek, and Mo leaned over and hugged her.

God, she was a pretty woman. Doggett felt an ache in his 
middle just looking at her, something not conducive to 
working. He shook his head, feeling a little foolish, and 
then noticed that Max's eyes were on him. He was smiling 
slightly. It was unsettling, as if the younger man knew 
exactly what Doggett had been thinking and feeling. Well, 
maybe he did. He'd been married to Mo, after all.  Doggett 
felt his face flush.  

He threaded his way through the crowd until he was standing 
in front of Ruth Dannah. She smiled at him, and her 
expression reminded him of Mo. It was something about her 
lively eyes, though hers were as dark as Mo's were light. 
Ruth reached out and took his hand. 

"Agent Doggett, it's good to see you again," she said in 
her gentle drawl, looking up at him.

"I just wanted to stop in and pay my respects, ma'am," he 
said, hearing the South come through in his own words, even 
the intonation of his voice.

"Thank you for that." She patted his hand. "I appreciate 
it." Her eyes studied him for a moment. "Morgan didn't tell 
me you were comin'," she said.

So Mo had been right:  Her mother did know something was 
up.  Figured.  "She didn't know.  I'm working," he told 
Ruth.

Ruth nodded. "Have you spoken to Morgan?" 

"Not yet." 

"Then you'd better go say hello," Ruth gave him a little 
push in the direction of the dining room.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, with a shadow of a smile, heading 
through the crowd toward the dining room.  Mo wasn't there. 

"She's in the kitchen." He heard the voice at his shoulder 
and turned. It was Mo's sister, her dark eyes laughing. He 
nodded his thanks and walked into the old kitchen.  It had 
been painted a cheerful yellow, the curtains on the window 
white and filmy.  A large gray tabby-cat blinked at him 
from the windowsill.  The kitchen was charming, but there 
was no disguising the fact that the room hadn't been 
remodeled yet.  

Mo was at the sink, her hands in soapy water, her back to 
him. "Max, could you hand me that casserole dish?" she 
asked over her shoulder. 

Doggett looked around and found the empty dish on the 
kitchen table.  He picked it up and carried it over to her. 
"This the one you mean?" he asked quietly.

She turned, startled at the sound of his voice. "Yes, 
that's the one. Thanks." She took the dish from him and put 
it in the dishwater, then dried her hands on the hand towel 
on the towel bar. She smiled at him. "So what are you doing 
here?"

"I have some business," Doggett said.  "And I thought I'd 
stop by and pay my respects to your mother."

"Really?" She touched his hand, and he took her hand and 
held it.

"Really." He reached out and tucked a stray curl under her 
hat. Her hair was longer now than he'd ever seen it, and it 
didn't have any less a mind of its own.  It curled with 
abandon around her nape, tendrils of it escaping to shadow 
her neck, her throat.

"You sweet man. Thank you, John. That means a lot." She 
smiled at him.

"Your mother's a lady," he said simply. He squeezed her 
hand. "I need to ask you to do something."

Seeing his expression, her smile slipped a little.  "Of 
course," she said.

"For a while, I want you to make sure no one in your family 
goes anywhere alone."  His face was as serious as she'd 
ever seen it. 

She felt a sudden tension in her stomach.  "You really 
think there's a need for that?"

"I don't mean to scare you, but there's a possibility that 
someone could try to harm your family." Doggett said 
softly.  "And maybe I'm overreacting a little, but I just 
want to keep you safe--you and your family."

"Safe from what?" Mo looked him in the eye with an 
expression he knew well. "What's going on, John?"

He hesitated.  Fuck, maybe he shouldn't have said anything.  
But he couldn't take any chances.

"John," she said, "you can't just walk in here and tell me 
my family might be in danger and then walk out.   And I 
know you didn't mean to scare me, but you've scared me 
anyway."

He should just go.  Instead, he took hold of her arms and 
held her.  Didn't he owe Mo some sort of explanation?  
Didn't he want her to be a part of that life he was trying 
to get back?  

Well, didn't he?

"I gotta go," he said.  "Please, just do as I asked."

She turned her face away from him, and he watched her.  He 
could almost see her thinking.  Then she impulsively 
reached up and took his face between her hands and kissed 
him. 

His grave face grew soft with a certain wonder.

"Please be careful," she said.

"I will," he said, holding onto her arms for another 
second.  Then he turned to go out the back screen door.

"John--" she said.

He turned back to her.

"Nothing. I'll talk to you later," she said.

He nodded and went out the door and down the steps.  She 
went to the screen door and watched him walk across the 
grass, the knot of worry tightening in her belly. 


             *           *            *


As Doggett walked through the back field to the lane where 
the Methodist Church was, the dry grass rustled under his 
feet, and grasshoppers buzzed and jumped to each side of 
him.

**Please be careful.**

She'd said the very words his wife had repeated to him like 
a mantra every morning for years, as he went out the door 
for work.  Be careful, John.  Take care of yourself.  
Please come home not dead.  Or not stabbed or shot or 
beaten or maimed in the countless other ways he knew she 
imagined but was afraid to give voice to.  

God, he'd loved her, through all the good times and, at the 
end, through the anguish.  What the hell had happened to 
that?  It had just all blown away, leaving them stranded, 
isolated, incomplete.

**Please be careful.**

It felt good to hear a woman say it to him again, no matter 
what the implication.  It gave him an unfamiliar feeling, 
something like hope.

He saw the sandy earth under his shoes.  He was at the lane 
already.  He wasn't even  paying attention to where he was 
going.  Jesus Christ, he had to get his head back into this 
case and out of this personal shit.  No matter how good it 
felt, it was one quick way to get hurt, or dead.

Goodall's little house was there, just south of the church, 
under the stand of moss-hung cypress.  He walked up the 
gravel path to the house.  The louvered windows were all 
closed tight, and he couldn't hear any sounds at all coming 
from inside.  He knocked once, then again, louder.  

"Mr. Goodall!  Hugh Goodall!" he called out, loudly.  
"FBI!"  He knocked again.  Waited.  Then he walked around 
the house to the back.  Nothing.  Something was making the 
hair stand up on the back of his neck.  He unfastened his 
holster and finished the circuit around the house.

Not a damn soul.

He squinted through the mossy tree branches, trying to get 
a good look at the church next door.  There was a good-
sized flock of crows darkening the tree--no, Doggett 
remembered, it wasn't "flock"; it was a "murder" of crows.  
He smiled grimly.  Good choice of words for a bunch of 
black birds.  They looked like death.

Christ almighty, it was hot, and it wasn't even noon.  The 
heat radiated up off the ground even there in the shade.  
He navigated past a big fire ant nest and made it to the 
cement walkway up to the modest church.  He unholstered the 
Sig and opened the church door.

As he stepped inside, the side of his head exploded in 
pain, and he fell, hard, unconscious before he hit the 
floor.

Hugh Goodall looked down at the man at his feet.  "I 
wouldn't have taken you for an impatient man, Mr. Doggett," 
he said.  "It's a dangerous character trait."


CHAPTER 7

Saturday Afternoon

Monica glanced at her watch.  It was already 1:15 p.m., and 
John had told her he'd be back by 12:30.  She was beginning 
to feel a dull worry-ache in her solar plexus.

"Agent Reyes," Deborah Boadu said, "may I get you 
anything?"  Deborah studied Monica, her face concerned.

"Mmm, maybe just a cold drink of something," Monica 
replied.  "No, don't get up," she said as Deborah Boadu 
started to stand.  "I can get my own water, or tea--if you 
tell me where it is," she added with a smile.  

"All, right," Deborah replied.  "The tea is in the 
refrigerator, in a jar.  It will be easy to see."

Monica got up and went into the kitchen.  As promised, she 
found the tea easily.  She pulled a cupboard door open, then
another, until she found the glasses.  She pulled a glass down
and poured the tea into it.  She stood for a moment, sipping
the sweet, cold tea, thinking.  She glanced at her watch again
and pulled out her cell phone and punched in Doggett's number.    

"The party you are requesting is unavailable," the 
disembodied voice said to Monica, and she bit her lip and 
put the phone back in her jacket pocket.   It wasn't like 
John to go off without backup or without letting someone 
else know what he was planning.   He was a good, methodical 
investigator who seldom let things fall through the cracks, 
and she knew he wouldn't turn his phone off when he was 
working a case unless he had a damn good reason.   Shit.

Shit. 

She took the glass of tea with her back into Deborah's 
living room.

Deborah stood up as Monica walked into the room.  
"Something is wrong," she said.  

Monica nodded, studying the other woman.  Deborah had a way 
about her--knew things for inexplicable reasons.  Monica--
and John, too--had suspected from the first that Deborah 
knew something she didn't want to share with them.  Maybe 
now that something would come out.  

"Is it your partner?"  Deborah asked softly, something like 
understanding in her expression.

"Partner"--now, that might take some getting used to.   
Monica tried a smile.  "It's just that I don't know exactly 
where he is, and I am starting to wonder a little, yeah."  
She sat down on the sofa, and Deborah came and sat next to 
her.

"If I may ask--could he be with the healer woman?" 
Deborah's voice was hesitant.  

"The healer woman?"  Monica's face must have looked blank. 

Deborah smiled, a little embarrassed.  "Dr. Dannah's 
daughter," she explained.  "He is her oko, yes?"

Blank again.  "Her oko?" Monica asked. 

"I'm sorry," Deborah said.  "He is her man--they have a 
history together?"

"Well, he did go over to the Dannahs' in connection with 
the case, but--"  Monica stopped and stared at her.  "How 
would you know that?"

"Please, forget I said anything," Deborah hastened to say.  
"It was just a thought.  It came from nowhere." 

No, I'm absolutely certain it didn't, Monica thought.  And 
it was pretty astute, judging by those moans and murmurs 
she'd overheard the night before.   Just then her cell 
trilled in her jacket pocket, and she fished it out. 
"Monica Reyes," she said.

"Agent Reyes?" a north Florida drawl crackled through the 
phone. "This is Floyd Westenra. Y'all called about some lab 
results this mornin'?"

"Yes," Monica said.  "Do you have anything for us?"

"Yes, ma'am.  I tried callin' Agent Doggett but couldn't 
get 'im.  Anyway, the results came back on the sample y'all 
brought in.  It's blood all right, Agent Reyes, but I dunno 
if it's what you were thinkin'."

"What do you mean?" Monica asked.  "What is it?"

"It's goat blood.  It's sure not fresh, been on those boots 
for at least three 'r four weeks.  The lab says it's 
impossible to pinpoint exactly."

"Goat blood," Monica repeated.  Well, it wasn't evidence 
that Goodall had killed Enrique Boadu, but it was good 
enough to bring him in for questioning.  It was certainly 
good enough for her--and now she was thoroughly worried. 
"Okay.  That helps me.  Thanks--Officer Westin, was it?"

"Westenra, ma'am.  And you're welcome, now."  The phone 
went quiet, and Monica slid it back into her pocket.

"Goat blood," Deborah echoed in a small voice.

Monica frowned.  "Yes.  Goat blood."  She moved closer to 
Deborah, and the other woman saw Monica's hazel eyes 
darken.  "Deborah, you need to tell me what you know.  I 
know you haven't been telling us everything.  You know who 
we're looking for, don't you?  The man who vandalized the 
churches."  Monica's eyes got wider.  "You know who killed 
your brother-in-law, don't you?"

Monica watched as Deborah's pupils dilated and her lips 
parted.  Damn, Monica thought, it's not too often you 
actually get to see that happen.  She'd seen Doggett with 
witnesses and suspects before, and he was a past master at 
reading body language, expressions.  He knew when to press 
and when to back off.  She really wished he were here right 
now.

"Agent Reyes," Deborah said, "I can't--"

"You can't what?" Monica asked, her voice brittle.  "You 
can't help me stop this man from killing someone else?  
Come on, Deborah, you know who he is!"  Her worry about 
Doggett was getting to her, and she told herself to back 
off a little.  You don't know where he is, she thought.  He 
could be anywhere.  He's probably fine.  He's probably with 
Morgan Dannah; it's obvious there's more there than meets 
the eye.

But she knew he wasn't.  She could feel it, just like she 
felt something when she first met Morgan Dannah.  And she 
knew John wouldn't be off with a woman when he was working 
a case.

"I am afraid he will come after my son," Deborah said 
softly. "I'm afraid he will hurt Dr. Dannah's family.  I 
think he saw your partner with Dr. Dannah's older daughter, 
and I'm afraid he'll go after your partner too."

"Then you need to help us," Monica said.

"I promised that I would not," Deborah said quietly.  She 
shut her eyes, and Monica saw the tears slide down her 
cheeks.  "But I know I have to.  And believe me, Agent 
Reyes, there are things involved that you won't be able to 
accept, things I'm afraid to tell anyone."

Monica smiled and touched Deborah's arm.  "You'd be surprised
what I can accept.  And I'm especially curious about how you
know some of these things."  Monica pulled out her cell phone
again.  "I think it's time to call Sheriff Ritch, too."



                   *         *         *


Mo Dannah bent over the bottom rack of the dishwasher, 
loading the plates and silverware.  She pulled the glasses
and cups off the kitchen counter and loaded them into the
top rack.  She put the soap into its little container and
closed the door and started the dishwasher.  Sighing, she
stood up, rubbing the small of her back.  It was only 2 in
the afternoon, but she was tired.  Too many people, too much
emotion, too little sleep. 

She walked from the kitchen into her mother's bathroom and 
stood in front of the vanity, looking at herself in the 
mirror.  Fortunately, she didn't look as tired as she felt.  
Nice how a little sunburn can make you glow, she thought.  
She smiled.  A night of loving didn't hurt in that 
department either.  She combed her fingers back through her 
hair and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead.  

"Mo!"  It was Maeve's voice, from the kitchen.  

"I'm in here, in mama and daddy's bathroom," Mo called out 
to her sister.  "Tryin' to assess the damage," she added 
dryly.  

Maeve walked in behind her and studied Mo's reflection in 
the mirror.  "Hey, nothin' a little lipstick and a good 
night's sleep can't cure," she teased.  "Do you know why 
your Agent Doggett's car is still parked outside in the 
lane?"

Mo blinked.  "It is?"  She frowned.  "He left here a long 
time ago."  She thought about what he'd said to her before 
he walked out the kitchen door, and the worry-knot in her 
belly that had been there for hours tightened even more.  

"Mo, what's wrong?" Maeve stepped to Mo's side and looked 
up into her face.

"Nothing, really," she said.  "John mentioned something to 
me before.  I think the case he's working on might be 
putting him in danger."

"What did he tell you?  You've been walking around here 
ever since he left, waiting on people and worrying?  Mo, 
what's going on?"  Maeve understood her sister's reticence
--it was how Mo dealt with the overload of feelings that 
sometimes burdened her--but it was irritating Maeve right 
now.

Mo couldn't get a deep breath.  "He asked me to make sure 
that none of us went anywhere alone.  And he went over to 
the church--" She glanced at her watch.  "--over two hours
ago. And he hasn't come back yet to get his car?"

"The church," Maeve echoed.  "So he thinks the vandalism 
over there is directly connected to the murder?"

"Mevvie, I'm not a mind-reader.  I don't know what he 
thinks, and he wouldn't tell me.  I just know he was 
worried about our family maybe being in danger.  I think 
he was worried in general."  Mo smiled, a nervous quirk of 
her lips.  "And, you know, I don't think he scares too 
easily."

Maeve regarded her sister knowingly.  "But he traveled a 
couple thousand miles to see a woman he barely knew, 
because he cared enough about her to worry about her.  I'm 
guessing he still worries about you."

Maeve watched as Mo's face went white beneath the sunburn.  
She reached up and pulled Mo into her arms and held her 
while her sister drew in shaky breaths, trying to ward 
off the tears.  "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to 
make you cry," Maeve whispered.

Mo squeezed her tightly and then pulled away from her.  She 
took a deep breath.  "Do you know where mama put Agent 
Reyes' card?  If she knows where he is, then I'm worrying 
about nothing.  To hell with standing around and worrying," 
she said, walking out of the bathroom. 



             *            *            * 


****John Doggett was lying in the back of Stuie Wilcox's  '69 
Chevy pickup bumping along the ruts of Route 82.  They were 
outside of Powder Springs, Georgia, way the hell out in the 
sticks, and if he'd ever been more drunk, he couldn't 
remember when.****


His head felt like it had been kicked by a good-sized 
horse, and he was afraid to open his eyes.  The air was 
thick and smelled of heat and pine forest, but the truck 
bed was cool, and he pressed his aching head against it, 
trying to quench the fire on the side of his face.  His 
cheek scraped against the grit and dirt in the bottom of 
the truck bed, and it scratched his skin and made the fire 
burn hotter.  The truck swerved, and a small, warm body 
next to him shifted into him, and he groaned. 


****Jennilee had been in trouble, and he'd gone and kicked the 
ass of the stupid bastard who'd been grabbing her and 
making threats.  And now she was there with him in the bed 
of the truck, pressing her pretty little self up against 
him, pulling up his T-shirt and kissing him in places he 
wasn't used to being kissed.

He was almost 18.

"John-eee, John-eeeeee!"  The voice was a chant, a moan, 
and she was straddling him now, her tongue leaving a wet 
trail up his belly to his chest.  He grasped her arms and 
pulled her down on top of him.****



As Doggett slowly moved his head back and forth 
experimentally,  sickening dizziness hit him. His head hurt 
more than he thought a head could possibly hurt.  He opened 
his eyes and immediately closed them again against the 
bright assault and tried to move his arms and legs.  
Nothing.  He tried moving his head again, gently.  There 
was someone next to him.  And where the Christ was he? 

Not in Stuie Wilcox's pickup, that was for sure.  But it 
was a truck bed--and who the hell was that next to him?  
The pickup swerved again, wildly, and Doggett rolled 
against the side of the truck bed, hard, and stabbing pain 
shot through his head.  The driver righted his course, then 
swerved again, righted again.  --the fuck? Doggett thought 
weakly.  

As the truck continued on its journey to wherever it was 
going, another wave of pain and nausea hit hard, and he 
gave in to it and shut his eyes again.  



             *            *            *


"I was wonderin' if this sorta thing might happen on this 
case."  Al Ritch glanced over at Monica.  He could see that 
she was distracted, clasping and unclasping her hands in 
her lap, staring out the window as if she were trying to 
memorize the scenery that was going by as they drove down 
Highway 27.

Monica looked over at the big man behind the wheel of the 
Blazer.

"I mean, sometimes y' just don't get t' the bottom of a 
case unless someone talks," he added.

As if she didn't know that.  Monica rolled her eyes and 
looked out the window again. Damn condescending men.

"Look," Sheriff Ritch said, softer now, "we'll figure out 
what happened to him--your partner."  

A flood of hot embarrassment passed through her for her 
thought just now, and she turned back to him and smiled 
weakly.  He nodded, the crinkles around the corners of his 
brown eyes as close as he came to smiling. 

"So, Miz Reyes," Ritch said, turning the Blazer down the 
lane to the Dannahs' house, "Deborah Boadu told you that 
she witnessed the vandalism at the Methodist Church?"

"Yes," Monica said.  "She said she watched him eviscerate 
the goat, pull out the intestines and basically, well, 
decorate the church."

Ritch laughed softly.  

"The one thing she didn't explain was how the goat parts 
got burned--especially how it got burned without burning 
anything else in the sanctuary."  That was true enough; 
Deborah hadn't explained it, although Monica thought she 
had it pretty well figured out.  But she didn't think the 
good sheriff needed those details.  He wouldn't believe 
them, anyway.

Ritch stopped the Blazer next to the rented Taurus sedan.  
There were a number of other cars parked in front of the 
house, and Monica realized that there must still be some 
visitors here who'd come for the wake.  She opened the door 
and slid out of the car, and followed the sheriff up to the 
porch.

~~~~

Sitting across the dining room table from the two Dannah 
sisters, Al Ritch found himself thinking that neither woman 
was hiding her concern very well.  But Morgan Dannah's eyes 
were shadowed and haunted, despite her attempt to maintain 
a happy front.  As he listened to the other people at the 
table speak, he watched her quietly.
 
"Agent Doggett was here--I think it must have been around 
11:30," Maeve Dannah told Monica.  "He just stopped in for 
a minute or two to pay his respects, and he left.  I'm not 
sure where he was going."

"I'm pretty sure he was going over to see Mr. Goodall," Mo 
put in.  "He walked across our back field to the church."

"Did he say anything to anyone?" Monica asked.

"He told me to make sure no one in our family went anywhere 
alone," Mo said.  "Of course I asked him why.  He wouldn't 
tell me."

Monica nodded.  

"Agent Reyes," Mo said, "is he in trouble?  Is he in 
danger?"  There.  She'd finally just asked it.

"To be honest, we don't know," Monica said simply.  "We're 
going to try to find out."  She stood up and looked at Mo.  
"I'll keep in touch with you, okay?" she said gently.   
"Let you know what's going on." 

Mo nodded.  "I'd appreciate that," she said softly. "I need 
to know." 



                *          *          *


"Looks pretty deserted, Miz Reyes," Sheriff Ritch said as 
they approached Hugh Goodall's little house. 

Monica had to agree.  It was completely quiet except for 
the hum and buzz of insects.  There weren't even many birds 
around.  Monica followed the sheriff up the gravel path to 
the house, looking around the yard, for what, she wasn't 
sure. 

Something gleaming in the grass caught her eye.  "Sheriff 
Ritch," she called to him, and he stopped and turned back 
to her. 

She walked a few paces off the path and looked down at the 
grass.  

"What is it?" Ritch said, walking over to her.

Monica knelt down.  There were two earthen bowls in the 
grass, both of them partially overturned.  One looked like 
it had been full of sand.  Monica touched the sand and 
raised her fingers to her nose.  Incense.  The other bowl 
was still partly full of milk, smelling overripe now.  But 
the gleam that had caught her eye was from the beaded 
necklaces scattered there.  She picked them up and held 
them between her fingers.  They were ilekes.

"Someone worked a Lucumi ritual here, fairly recently," she 
said, looking up at Sheriff Ritch.  "See--the incense was 
in this bowl.  Maybe there were other things too that I 
haven't found, scattered in the grass.  Whoever did the 
ritual brought a bowl of milk as an offering.  And he or 
she left their ilekes here on the ground, which is very 
odd."

Ilekes?  Well, the whole thing seemed pretty damn odd to Al 
Ritch, but he didn't say it out loud.  "Why's that so odd?" 
he asked instead.  

"The ilekes are sanctified to the orishas--the 
representatives of the gods.  Only a sanctified Lucumi 
wears them, and they're precious things.  You don't just 
take them off and leave them on the ground.  Unless--"  She 
stopped and thought for a moment, pinching her lower lip.  
"Unless you were expecting that something 'hot' was going 
to happen--maybe violence, blood-letting of some sort." 

She stood up.  This wasn't the time for Santeria 101.  "We 
need to go inside and look around."

Ritch nodded.  "I think it's time we put out a bulletin on 
Hugh Goodall's vehicle too.  In case he's gone 'n run off.  
I for one would like to talk to him again."

Still holding the necklaces, Monica was already at the door 
of the house, afraid of what she might find inside.



               *           *            *


Deborah Boadu unlocked her front door and pushed it open, 
walked inside and closed  it quietly behind her.  She 
stripped off her headcloth and wiped her forehead.  She was 
tired.  There had been a lot of cleaning to do at Mrs. 
Teague's house, and she was glad to be home.  It was just 
after 6--three hours of hard, intense work.  Stephen and 
Old Owdeye would be coming over for supper soon.

She walked through the kitchen and stood at the back door, 
looking out at the dry lawn, across at Owdeye's 
rhododendron bushes and flower beds.  They were glorious.  
She sighed, wondering if she'd done the right thing by 
telling Agent Reyes what she knew--well, most of what she 
knew.  Although this Agent Reyes had been more open-minded 
than she would have thought possible, how could you ever 
explain to someone that you could change into a bird?  That 
you could communicate with birds?  They would surely pack 
you up and take you to the nearest psychiatric hospital.

Deborah sighed and pushed her heavy braids behind her 
shoulders.

Where *was* Old Owdeye?  Now that she thought about it, she 
hadn't seen him all day, which was unusual.  He almost 
always could be seen out in his yard doing *something* with 
his trees and flower beds.

Deborah felt a sudden adrenaline jolt that left her warm 
and shaky.  What had he said yesterday?  That he would make 
sure the crazy man wouldn't hurt anyone else? 

What had he done?

Deborah banged out the back door and down the steps.  She 
ran across the grass into Old Owdeye's small yard and up to 
his back porch.  She walked up the steps carefully, 
quietly, dreading what she might find there.  The screen 
door was unlatched, and she walked inside.  The house was 
still and stifling, with no motion of air, no sound, no 
signs of life at all.  Decorated with colorful drawings 
done by Owdeye's great-grandchildren, the refrigerator 
hummed, the only sound in the silent house.  

Deborah felt a clutch of panic in her middle.  Then she saw 
a cloth bundle on the kitchen table and walked over to it.  
She opened it to find a pen carved from a small tree 
branch, a silver amulet, and a beaded necklace.  Deborah 
pulled the necklace gently from the bundle.  It was 
Owdeye's ileke sanctified to the orisha Oya, she of the 
winds and the birds.  There was a piece of paper at the 
bottom of the bundle, and Deborah pulled it out with shaky 
hands.


Temi abure Deborah, 

If I do not return, please give this pen and amulet to 
Stephen.  I would like you to have the ileke, because you 
above all others know what to do with it.    Do not worry 
about me.  I have faith that whatever happens was meant to 
be.

My love and blessings to you,

Jacob


Deborah read it again:  ". . .because you above all others 
know what to do with it."  She suddenly felt chilled at 
the realization that she hadn't been fooling the old man 
all this time.  He knew about her.  She wondered how long 
he had known, and why he'd never said a thing.  She kissed 
the ileke and gently placed it around her neck.  Then she 
folded up the paper and replaced it in the bundle, gathered 
the cloth together and took it with her as she left the 
empty house, barely able to see through the sudden tears.

She ran blindly to her house, stumbled up the steps and 
into the kitchen.  She almost ran into her son.  

"Stephen!  Have you seen Old Owdeye?  I think something has 
happened to him."

The tall young man was confused.  "Grandfather?  He's not 
at his house?"  He took Deborah by her arms.  "Mama, don't 
cry!  What's wrong?  What's going on?"

Deborah looked up at her son.  "I think he went to Mr. 
Goodall.  He said he was going to take care of him."  
Deborah pulled away from Stephen and handed him the 
colorful cloth bundle.  "He left these for you.  He would 
not have left these things out for me to find unless he 
thought he might not come back."  

She sank down into a kitchen chair.  "Stephen, this is my 
fault.  I didn't do what I should have, because I didn't 
want to dishonor my babalosha, my priest.   I thought it 
would be all right if I simply kept watch over things.  But 
I should have known.  Now this man has taken a policeman, 
who has some connection with the healer woman, Dr. Dannah's 
girl.  I cannot let him be hurt, if hurting him will hurt 
her.   Stephen, I owe her father your very life."  She drew 
in a deep breath and stood up.   "And now I'm afraid he has 
Old Owdeye--and I owe him more than anyone.  So now I need 
to do what I should have done in the first place."

"Mama, let the police handle this," Stephen said.

"I can't, Stephen," she said quietly.  "My omo, you must 
understand.  I will let them know about Owdeye, but I can't 
just let them handle it.  There's too much at stake."  She 
rubbed her eyes tiredly.  "Now I have to find out where the 
crazy man has taken them."



            *            *            *


John Doggett opened his eyes slowly, not wanting a repeat 
of his last attempt.  This time, it was dark, and his eyes 
were spared that piercing pain. 

He was no longer in whatever truck he'd been in.  Wherever 
he was, it was cool and damp and smelled like water.  Where 
the hell *was* he?  He tried to sit up, and realized that 
he was bound hand and foot and couldn't move effectively at 
all.

How the fuck had he gotten himself into this?  Unbidden, 
the image of Tommy Egan came to him--one of the toughest, 
shrewdest guys he'd even known, in the NYPD or anywhere 
else.  Tommy would kick his ass from here back to Sunnyside 
if he could see him now, trussed up like a turkey, caught 
by his own impulsiveness.   God knows he could use Tommy 
right about now, even if it *did* result in a royal ass-
kicking.

His head still ached, a lot worse than it used to after one 
of those lost weekends he'd pulled so many years ago, with 
his buddies from the Lebanon hitch.  He'd had concussions 
before, and he knew he must have one now--by far the worst 
one he'd ever had.  He'd lost consciousness twice, and that 
was something he'd never experienced before.  He was going 
to try like hell to stay conscious from here on out.  Maybe 
he'd figure out a way to get out of here alive.

He raised his head up a bit, and squinted through the 
gloom.   Where was the person who'd rolled into him in the 
truck?  And who *was* that, anyway?  He lay his head back 
on the cool earth.

Someone stirred and groaned just to his right, and Doggett 
strained to move, to see who it was, where the sound was 
coming from.   He peered through the gloom.  "Hey, you 
there!"  he hissed.  

"Hello," a thin, weak voice said.  "Who is that?"

"My name's John Doggett," Doggett said quietly.  "I'm with 
the FBI."

"I am Jacob Owdeye, Mr. Doggett," the voice replied.  "I 
would say I am happy to meet you, but this does not seem 
the right occasion."

Doggett's laugh was thin and humorless.  Owdeye.   The man 
was one of the West Africans, a Lucumi priest.  Monica had 
interviewed him two days earlier.

"Well, Mr. Owdeye, where do you suppose we are?  I have a 
pretty good idea *why*, at least in my case," Doggett said.

"I think we are in a cave of some sort,"  Owdeye replied.  
"There are caves not far from town, at Ichetucknee 
Springs."

A cave.  Swell.  Doggett closed his eyes again, his head 
throbbing.  

Shoes scraped along the hard earth, and his eyes opened 
again.  Someone was walking toward them, and Doggett felt 
the adrenaline spike through his body in an almost painful 
rush.

The footsteps came closer and then stopped.  A man stood 
between Doggett and Owdeye.  "It's nice to see that you 
gentlemen have become acquainted," he said, his voice a 
soft drawl.

Hugh Goodall. 

"What do you want, Goodall?" Doggett asked tiredly.  "What 
the hell are you doin'?"

"I'm just paying a debt, Mr. Doggett.  And you and Mr. 
Owdeye here just happened to show up at my door."

"Payin' a debt?"  Doggett echoed.  "You're not makin' a 
damn bit of sense." 

Goodall walked closer.  "You're just a happy accident, Mr. 
Doggett.  Owdeye is the one I have serious business with.  
You're just a whoremonger who consorts with witches."

What?  Doggett had been called a lot of things over the 
years, but he didn't think he'd ever been called a 
whoremonger before.  Witches?  Did he mean Monica?  Mo?

It was beginning to dawn on Doggett that Hugh Goodall had 
sat in his empty, chintz-filled house and quietly gone mad.  
On the surface he might seem to be an unassuming bible-
thumper, but scratch the surface and there was a real bull 
goose loony. Doggett had pushed him before to see which way 
he would jump, but now he realized that there probably was 
no way to judge which way the man was going to jump.

"Dr. Dannah's daughter, Mr. Doggett," Goodall said 
insinuatingly.  "You seem to know her rather well.   I've 
heard talk about her New Age lifestyle.  And you do know 
what God says about witches, don't you?  Exodus 22: 18:  
'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' "

"Where is she?"  Doggett's voice was dangerously still.  
"Have you done something to her?"

"Oh, calm down, Mr. Doggett.  She's safe at home with her 
mama and her sister.  But maybe I should bring them all 
here and let you watch what I do to them."

"If you so much as touch her--touch *any* of them--I swear 
to Christ I'll kill you myself," Doggett said, still quiet.

Goodall moved faster than Doggett would have thought 
possible, swinging his leg in a vicious kick that connected 
with Doggett's side.  The pain was crushing, and Doggett 
cried out despite himself.  He couldn't move at all, 
couldn't breathe at all.

And then Goodall kicked him again, and Doggett felt the 
bitter burn of vomit at the back of his throat.

Through his haze of pain, Doggett didn't see Goodall double 
over, clutching at his head with both hands, and finally 
collapse to his knees.


CHAPTER 8

Saturday Evening

Deborah Boadu had showered and was clean and ready for 
ritual.  She poured the warm, scented oil into her hands 
from the glass bottle on her dresser and rubbed her palms 
together.  Then she ran her hands across her forehead,
cheeks, neck, breasts, arms and belly.  She ran her
oil-anointed fingers down each leg.  She pulled on her 
brilliant striped cotton caftan and wrapped her head in the 
white headcloth she saved for ritual.  She went to her 
altar and lifted her ilekes off its surface and put them 
over her head, one by one, kissing each one before she slid 
it over her braids.  

She knelt on the mat in front of the altar and shut her 
eyes.  

"Abure eiyele, abura eiyele, abure eiyele, abura eiyele," 
Deborah chanted softly, rhythmically.  "Wa ti mo, abure.  
Mo busi.  Gon mi lele, gon mi lele. Eje o orun busi yi a 
awo  Moducue.  Ajuba. Mo dide, mo dide!"   Brother bird, 
sister bird, brother bird, sister bird.  Come to me, my 
brothers.  I bless you. Be my eyes, my eyes!  Blood and 
heaven grant you secret blessing. Thanks be to you.  I 
salute you.  We rise, we rise! 

Over and over, she chanted the words, singing them, praying 
them, swaying and laughing as the room filled with birds:  
doves, crows, wrens, swallows, swirling and banking and 
diving around her, swooping and brushing her with their 
wings and calling to her and to each other in their 
cacophony of languages.

"Abure eiyele," Deborah said,   "brothers and sisters, you 
must help me find this eni, this one we have been watching.  
We must find him and stop him, as I should have long ago."



                 *          *          * 

   
Monica Reyes looked over at Sheriff Ritch as he steered the 
Blazer back up the lane to the macadam road.  "I'd like to 
stop by the Dannahs' house again for a bit, if you can take 
the time, Sheriff," she said.  "I know it's getting on."

"It's okay," Al Ritch said, glancing over at her.  "We've 
got everybody else we can spare right now lookin' for Hugh 
Goodall's truck--and, by extension, Hugh Goodall.  And for 
your Agent Doggett."

"I really appreciate that," Monica said.  I need to call the
Jacksonville field office too.  Ev Clyatt was pretty upset when
he heard that John had gone missing.  They'll probably be sending
some agents over from there too." 

Ritch was quiet.  They hadn't found much at Goodall's house 
that pointed anywhere, much less to anything criminal.  
Maybe Goodall had left in a hurry, or maybe he was just 
absentminded or sloppy:  They'd found breakfast dishes in 
the sink, a half-cup of cold coffee with congealed cream 
floating greasily on the top, a half-read newspaper.  Agent 
Reyes' partner had last been seen around 11:30 a.m., almost 
eight hours ago.  He could be almost anywhere by now.  Or 
he could be-- 

Monica looked up at Ritch and met his sober brown eyes.  He 
hoped she couldn't read his thoughts, because she probably 
didn't need to know what he was thinking, that they might 
not find Doggett alive.  He'd come to realize that he liked 
this woman.  She might be a little odd, but she was 
politic, funny, strong and  intelligent--she'd taken him to 
school on this case, that was for sure, without once 
overstepping her bounds or pulling rank.

He pulled the Blazer up in front of Ruth Dannah's house, 
turned off the ignition and looked at Monica.  He thought 
she looked tired, her eyes dark, her golden skin dulled.  

"You can just leave me here for now, if you need to get 
back.  I'll be fine," she said, her hand on the door 
handle.  

"You sure, now?" He kept examining her face, trying to read 
what she was feeling.  She smiled at him.

"I'm sure."  She nodded.  "I'll call you if anything comes 
up.  And if John left the keys in the rental car, I'll have 
a car here."  Fat chance of that, she thought.  "If not, 
I'll work something out."

"I'll call you the minute we hear anything," Ritch assured 
her.  

"Okay," she said.  "Thanks."  And she opened the door and 
climbed down from the Blazer.

He watched her as she walked up the porch steps and into 
the old house.  Ritch, you're losin' it, boy, he said to 
himself.  Gettin' silly thoughts about a Fed.  He shook his 
head, and turned the Blazer around and headed back down the 
lane, back to Gainesville.


  
              *            *            *    


Doggett slowly came back to awareness--of the gloom, the 
smells, the dampness, the crushing pain in his side, the 
ache in his head.

And a muffled voice tight with anger:  "What did you do to 
me, you filthy heathen?!"  

Doggett heard Old Owdeye sigh softly.  "I have stopped 
you," the old man said in his quiet voice.

Doggett wondered what Goodall had expected to hear.  He 
drew in an experimental breath, and the pain rolled over 
him in a scalding wave.  Broken rib, probably more than 
one.  Shit.  Then the next thought came:  Does Goodall have 
a weapon?

"You 'stopped' me?  What does that mean?  I was fine until 
I found you sittin' out on my lawn doin' your satanic 
mumbo-jumbo," Goodall said, his voice increasing in volume 
as he spoke.  "What did you DO TO ME?"

Doggett lifted his head as far as he could and peered at 
Goodall through the semidarkness.  Goodall was clutching 
his head with one hand, but in the other was a knife, its 
business end pointed right at the old man.  It was big, 
with a curved blade hooked at the end, a particularly 
vicious-looking hunting knife.

It was time to change the subject.

"Mr. Goodall," Doggett said, his voice hoarse.  "Why'd you 
kill Enrique Boadu?"

Goodall turned away from Owdeye to Doggett.  

"And you musta been the one who did all the church 
vandalizing too, huh?"  Doggett asked before Goodall could 
say anything.

Goodall stood over him.  "It was about duty, Mr. Doggett, 
keeping promises--if you can understand that."  The look on 
Goodall's face made it clear what he thought.

More than you could possibly know, Doggett thought.  "I 
just have a hard time understanding how murder could be a 
duty, or keep a promise."

"The Lord makes it very clear:  'The fearful, and 
unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and 
whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, 
shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire 
and brimstone, which is the second death.' "

"So you just take it on yourself to decide who the 
unbelievers and idolaters are, just like you decided I was 
a whoremonger, huh?"  Doggett said before he was seized 
with a paroxysm of coughing that sent almost unbearable 
stabbing pain through his side. He was sweating from the 
pain in his head and his side.  He didn't know how much 
longer he could keep talking to this guy, but if he could 
keep Goodall interested in him instead of Owdeye, all the 
better.

Goodall turned the knife over in his hands, ran his fingers 
over the tip.  Doggett remembered the description of 
Enrique Boadu's body, the dead animals, and remembered that 
Goodall knew exactly how to use that knife, remembered that 
he wasn't afraid to use it.  He remembered that the man 
wasn't quite sane.

If Goodall took it into his head to use that knife of his 
on either him or Owdeye, it'd pretty much be over for them 
both.  For the first time, it occurred to him that he 
really might die here.

It occurred to him that he might never get the chance to do 
things he'd meant to do, that he'd wanted to do.  To take 
down Alvin Kersh.  To explain to Dana Scully how much he 
owed her, and tell Fox Mulder that if he didn't treat 
Scully right he'd seriously kick his ass.  To tell Kate how 
sorry he was that they'd come undone the way they had, that 
he'd loved her with a fierceness he'd never expected to 
experience again. To acknowledge that there might be room 
in his life for love again.

"God provides me with righteous judgment, Mr. Doggett," 
Goodall replied, pulling Doggett away from his thoughts.  

Doggett breathed in carefully, as deeply as he could 
without too much pain.  "So, what, you just went and 
grabbed the guy and killed him, is that right?"

"He was at the graveyard, and I took him across the river." 
Goodall looked down at Doggett.  He kept turning the knife
around in his hands, around, and around.  "His death was a
warning, and a curse, to the family of the man who let my wife
die."  Goodall added, rubbing his fingers over his forehead
fiercely, as if it would smooth the pain away.  "I've been 
thinking about you, Mr. Doggett," Goodall said softly.  "I think
I know what your weakness is."  He ran his fingers slowly down
the blade of the hunting knife.  "Just like I figure hurting you
would be the worst thing I could do to Morgan Dannah.  You're a
policeman--you help people.  I could hurt you, and it really
might not faze you much.  But if I hurt someone *else*--now,
that would be a different story, wouldn't it?"   Goodall stood
up and moved over to Old Owdeye.  

"Goodall!"  Doggett said.  "Let him be.  I'm the one givin' 
you shit.  You just deal with me!" he said.

"That'd be easy for you, Mr. Doggett."  Goodall knelt down 
beside Owdeye.  "I don't think so.  His people lived.  Mine 
died.  This one owes me a life."

"Goodall, he's an innocent old man!  Don't do it!"  Doggett 
shouted, straining at the ropes.

Goodall looked down at Old Owdeye for a long moment.

The old man looked back at him, his eyes bright, his face 
peaceful. "It is over," Owdeye said.

"Yes, it is," Goodall said, and then plunged the knife into 
Owdeye's chest.  The old man gasped, sighed, and then was 
still.

"NO!"  Doggett shouted again, his throat raw, and then he
coughed again, spasmodically.  He squeezed his eyes shut, 
feeling the hot tears behind his eyelids. "No," he murmured 
again.  "Ah, God, no, fuckin' bastard, no. . ." 


               *           *           *


Monica Reyes stood at the Dannahs' screen door and looked 
out at the porch. The sky was starting to darken into dusk,  
and the swallows were flying low after the mosquitoes. Mo 
Dannah was sitting motionless on the top step, her hands on 
the porch behind her, looking out toward the little town.  
Monica didn't know the other woman well enough to know 
exactly what was going on with her, but she pushed the door 
open anyway. Nothing ventured, she always figured, nothing 
gained. . . 

Mo didn't look up, and Monica stood on the porch, silent. 
Then she saw that the other woman's body was shaking with 
quiet sobs. Monica approached her quietly and laid a gentle 
hand on her shoulder. 

Startled, Mo jumped and turned around, wiping her face. 
"Agent Reyes," she said, confused. 

"Ms. Dannah, we'll find him," Monica said. "John." She 
nodded, her dark-hazel eyes intent on Mo. 

Mo turned away, wiping her eyes surreptitiously. After a 
moment she looked up again at the other dark-haired woman. 
"I appreciate that," she said. "I just wish I believed it." 

"I think you can believe it," Monica said, sitting down 
next to Mo. "I just. . .think you can believe it, that's 
all. We'll get him back." 

Mo stole a sidelong glance at Monica. 

"He means a lot to you." Monica said. 

Mo sighed. Then she looked right at Monica. "Did he speak 
to you at all, about. . ." 

Monica laughed softly. "John? No." She shook her head. "I'm 
not laughing because the situation is funny. I'm just 
laughing because John would never--John doesn't talk about 
that sort of thing." 

"Then how--?" 

Monica didn't say anything for a moment.  She wasn't about 
to mention the Ramada Inn's thin walls.  "It's going to 
sound weird." 

Mo smiled ironically.  "Weird doesn't bother me, Agent 
Reyes." 

Monica's brows rose. "Really?" 

"You have no idea," Mo said drily.

"Is it too strange to tell you that when I met you the 
first person I thought of was John?" Monica studied the 
other woman. 

"No," Mo said softly. "Not too strange." She looked at 
Monica.  "You know him well?  I mean, you must have a 
pretty good feel for--"

"For who he is?" Monica asked.  "Well, I have a fairly good 
idea, I guess. I mean, we were never intimate--I mean, 
intimate friends."  Monica smiled, a little embarrassed.  
"I've known him for a few years.  We worked together 
through a really hard time for him."

Mo nodded.  "He mentioned you once, a while back.  You 
worked with him when his son was. . .taken."  Mo found that 
she had a hard time saying it.

"Yeah," Monica said.  "Well, then, you must know how it 
ended.  His little boy was murdered."

Mo rubbed her forehead.  "I can't imagine how he must have 
felt."  She looked at Monica.  "How could you bear to lose 
a child who was born to you, one you held, one you raised?  
I think I would have died along with my child." 

Monica looked down at her feet and then back at Mo.  "I 
think John wanted to."

"You know, almost from the day I met him, I wondered what 
had happened to him," Mo spoke softly, almost to herself. 
"There was always a part of him, a part of his heart, that 
was walled off.  I could feel it, but I couldn't get past 
the wall.  For the longest time I didn't know why, and I 
just let it be.  After he told me about his son, it made a 
little more sense." She looked at the other woman.  "And 
then the wall wasn't so strong anymore."

"You're an intuitive, aren't you?  I thought so," Monica 
said.

"I'm a healer," Mo said, her eyes bright.  "That's all.  
You seem to have a little talent yourself, Agent Reyes."

"A little," Monica admitted.  "I just sense things 
sometimes."  

"You know," Mo said quietly, "I never had the chance to 
tell him how much I care for him." 

Monica reached over and put a gentle hand on her back. "I 
think he knows," she said softly.

"I wonder," Mo murmured.  "I wonder if he does."

They sat there together, quiet, as the dark settled over 
the town, the birds went home, and the stars filled the 
sky, one by one.  

~~~~

Monica stood up, touching Mo's shoulder one last time, and 
walked down the wooden steps toward the lane.  She shoved 
her hands into her jacket pockets and looked up into the 
starry sky, restless, frustrated, worried.  She was worried 
that she hadn't heard anything yet from Sheriff Ritch, and 
she was more worried about John than she would admit.  She 
wanted to put some distance between herself and Mo Dannah 
right now, because if Mo really were as close to John as 
she suspected she was, the last thing she needed was to 
pick up on Monica's worry--something that was probably as 
natural to Mo Dannah as breathing.

Walking down the lane toward the little town, she ran her 
hands back through her hair, breathing in the spicy, humid 
air.  

Monica had been in the Bureau for seven years, and she 
wasn't naive, despite what some people believed.  Given her 
specialization in ritual abuse, she'd dealt with some 
horrors and had seen things that could easily have made her 
old before her time.  But right now she was feeling just 
about as bad as she'd ever felt about a case.  If it turned 
out that Doggett were injured--or worse--she'd have to live 
with the guilt that she'd gotten him involved in the first 
place.

Monica walked, listening to the crickets' happy thrum, 
breathing, trying to calm herself, to think clearly.   
Maybe that was all she could do, she thought:  Keep a clear 
head, and do what she could to find him.  She had to call 
Sheriff Ritch.

She already had her hand on her cell phone when it rang.  

"Monica Reyes," she said into the phone, anxious now.

"Agent Reyes?  It is Deborah Boadu." She sounded agitated.  

"Deborah," Monica said.  "What can I do for you?"

"Agent Reyes, I know where he is," Deborah said.

Monica stopped dead in the middle of the lane.  "What?  
Who?  Goodall?"

"Yes.  He has Old Owdeye, and Agent Doggett."

Monica began walking back to the house.  After listening to 
Deborah for just a few seconds, she was running.



                *          *          *


"I'm going with you," Mo said to Monica.  

Monica frowned at her thoughtfully.  "I don't think--"

"You said they were somewhere at Ichetucknee Springs.  You 
don't know how to get there," Mo said.  "I do.  If you go 
with the Sheriff, I'll just go by myself."  Mo smiled at 
her. "You can't stop me," she added.

Monica just blinked.  This was a side of Mo Dannah that she 
hadn't yet seen, and it surprised her.  "Ms. Dannah," she 
said, "you could get hurt.  I can't let you--"

"I won't get hurt.  I might be able to help you.  And, like 
I said, you won't be able to stop me anyway."  Mo looked at 
Monica with calm, determined eyes.

It was pretty clear that Mo wasn't going to give an inch, 
and Monica was the one to finally give.  "All right," she 
said.  "I don't see much point in having Sheriff Ritch come 
back here."

"Good," Mo said.  "We need to hurry."  She was already out 
the screen door and halfway down the porch steps by the 
time Monica moved to follow.



             *             *            *


"You owe me a life."  Goodall said.  He looked down at Mo, 
who looked up at him, her face peaceful.

"My life for his," she said. "Promise me."

"I promise," Goodall said to her, and smiled.  He stabbed 
down with the big knife with all his strength, the heavy 
blade shattering her sternum.  Gouts of bright red blood 
gushed out, soaking her white shirt, and she shuddered as 
the light faded from her eyes. 


Doggett cried out, gasping awake, coughing.  Breathing 
hard, he looked around.  Mo was nowhere to be seen.   His 
heart was hammering hard and fast, pounding the blood to 
his head so hard that he thought he would throw up.  
Through the sweat running into his eyes, he could see 
Goodall sitting next to Owdeye's body, swaying back and 
forth, moaning, clutching his head with his hands.

Then Goodall began to scream, tearing at his head and face 
with his fingers, his nails scratching bloody fissures in 
his skin. 



Later, Doggett  was never sure after that exactly what 
happened in the cave that night.  It was surreal, filtered 
through his own haze of pain and sickness, so far off the 
chart of what he'd ever understood to be reality. 

Sounds.  Smells.  Blurred images.  Things happening that 
couldn't really happen.

A noise that sounded like the flapping of small wings, and 
then the birds, dozens, hundreds of them, filling the 
cavern with their cries and the air from their beating 
wings.   

A figure he couldn't make out, who bent down over Owdeye's 
body and touched him tenderly, and then straightened and 
turned to Hugh Goodall like the wrath of God. 

The blinding flash of light, the screams, the smell of 
burnt flesh.  Doggett squeezed his eyes shut against the 
brilliance, and the horror.



"Holy fucking Christ, what the hell--?"  "This one's gone--
"  "Over here, we need help here!"  "Lady, you all right? 
Lady?!"  "Get the O2 the hell over here--move your ass!"

And then someone was kneeling over him, and there was the 
light touch of fingers on his forehead.  A blurred face 
close to his, tears dropping onto his cheeks, a sobbing 
laugh.  A soft Carolina voice.  "No, don't move, John.  We 
don't know how badly you're hurt."

Another person, much larger, kneeling beside him, cutting 
the ropes that bound him with a gentleness belying his 
size.  "Agent Doggett," the person said in a deep Florida 
drawl, "the EMTs'll be with y'all in just a minute.  Y'all 
hold tight, now." 

Her hands were on his face, warm, soothing, wiping away the 
sweat, giving him her strength.  Once the ropes were gone, 
she slid a hand into one of his and left it there, a silent 
reminder that he was all right, that she was there.

"Is he okay--?"  Another soft female voice.  He opened his 
eyes.  A tall, female figure.  Monica.  

The EMTs came and did what they did, and they took him out 
of the cave and into an ambulance.

As the ambulance moved slowly down the rutted road, she was 
still there, her hand in his.  And then whatever they were 
dripping into his arm made him too sleepy to know anything 
else.


CHAPTER 9

Sunday Morning

Monica Reyes walked into Doggett's room and stopped just 
inside the door.  He was lying motionless, his head turned 
toward the windows, not asleep but not totally awake.  How
vulnerable he looks, she thought, realizing that she hadn't
really thought of him that way in years, really not since 
he'd worked his son's case with him.  She pushed those
memories back down to the place where she kept them and
walked inside.  

"John," she said to him softly.  He turned his head slowly 
and looked at her.  She could see the ugly bruising on the 
side of his face now.  "Morgan Dannah's sister told me to 
tell you that she dragged her home a while ago to throw her 
in the shower and make her sleep for a while."  Monica 
smiled.  "But my guess is that she'll be back here after 
her shower."

So Monica had seen Mo's stubborn side.  Doggett smiled a 
little.     

Monica wondered if he knew that Mo had sat there with him 
all night, curled in the big chair by the side of his bed, 
watching, dozing.  She had a feeling the drugs had erased 
that memory.  "How are you doing, John?"

"Hard to breathe," he mumbled.  "Hurts like hell."

"The doctor filled me in on the damage," Monica said.  
"Stitches in your scalp, a concussion, three broken ribs, a 
partially collapsed lung--I think they were worried about 
pneumonia.  They're giving you morphine and azithromycin 
and fluids."  She walked closer to the bed and sat down in 
the big chair.  "What do you remember?"

He leveled his intense blue eyes at her.  "Before the 
morphine?  I remember everything." He shifted his body in 
the bed slightly, trying to find a comfortable position.  
Unsuccessful, he sighed and turned his face away from her 
again.

Monica thought maybe it was a signal for her to go, but 
then he turned his head on the pillow and looked at her 
again.

"Any news about the case?" he asked.

She was surprised at the question, but then this *was* John 
Doggett.  Why let a concussion, broken ribs, a collapsed 
lung and morphine fog get in the way of the job?  Her lips 
twitched with ironic amusement, and she leaned closer to 
him.  

"Hugh Goodall is dead," she said.  She watched Doggett's 
face.  He nodded; he remembered that.  "He must have been 
losing his mind for a long time, and no one even noticed.  
That's really pretty sad."

"Excuse me if I don't cry, Monica," Doggett said.

She raised her brows but didn't say anything.  "He was 
burned to death," she went on.  "No one's saying how he got 
that way, but I have a theory."

Doggett lifted a vague hand to her.  Get on with it, it 
seemed to say.  Theories later.

"Deborah Boadu was found naked and disoriented in the cave 
with you all last night.  She's upstairs being observed by 
psych, but I'm told they'll be releasing her this 
afternoon.  Jacob Owdeye went through seven hours of 
emergency surgery last night and is in the ICU.  He's 
expected to live, which surprised everyone."

Including Doggett, apparently, if the expression on his 
face was any indication.  "He's alive?  I watched Goodall 
stab him to death--I thought so, anyway."  

"I guess the knife just missed his heart, and he lost a lot 
of blood and had extensive trauma, but the old man's still 
hanging on."  Monica wasn't really surprised.  The old man 
was a priest, and a strong one, from all indications.  From 
what Deborah had told her, Owdeye was the one who'd trained 
the murdered priest, Enrique Boadu.  Spiritual power 
counted for something, she knew, whether Doggett understood 
it or not.  Monica glanced at her watch.  "They did the 
postmortem on Goodall a couple of hours ago."

"Who the hell pushed *that* through so fast?" Doggett 
asked.

"Sheriff Ritch," Monica replied.  "He seems to know the 
right arms to twist," she added.

Doggett smiled.  "I just think he likes you, Monica," he 
said quietly.

She looked down at her lap with a small smile and didn't 
say anything for a moment.   Then she looked up at him.  
"Do you want to know what they found, or do you want to 
discuss my personal life?"

He smiled tiredly.  "Well, discussin' your personal life 
would probably be more fun," he said.  "But, no, go on."

"Goodall's brain showed advanced degeneration.   Way beyond 
anything a disease could cause, even something like 
advanced syphilis. I believe the M.E.'s technical term for 
it was 'mush.' "

Doggett frowned.  "How could *that* be?  He sure as hell 
wasn't sane, but he was able to carry on a damn good 
conversation when we interviewed him.  You can't do that if 
your brain's turned to tapioca, Monica."

"I know, John," she said simply.  "So it must have 
degenerated fast.  It'd be interesting to look at his 
medical records just to see if he has any history--"

"Monica, do me a favor," he said quietly.  "Just let it 
go."

She blinked, drawn up short by his tone, the finality of 
it.   "What, John?  What should I let go of?  And why?"

"It's over.  Goodall's dead.  We both know no one else is 
in danger anymore."

Monica stared at him.  "That's probably true, John.  But 
aren't you the slightest bit curious about what happened to 
him, and how it happened?"

Doggett didn't say anything.  He remembered the old man's 
words to Hugh Goodall in the cave:  "I have stopped you."
He could still see Goodall screaming, tearing away his own 
flesh.  He had a feeling he might be seeing and hearing it 
in dreams for a while to come.

"John," Monica persisted, "Deborah Boadu told me that Jacob 
Owdeye assured her he would take care of Goodall, and 
Owdeye's a Lucumi priest.  He has certain, well, abilities.  
He could have caused what affected Goodall, the 
deterioration of his brain."

Doggett made a noise that somehow managed to sound tired 
and dismissive all at once.  

Monica stood up and folded her arms in front of her, took a 
deep breath and let it out.  "All right, John," she finally 
said, softly.  "We'll just pretend that we both don't know 
anything, that none of this stuff ever happened.  That Hugh 
Goodall didn't die because a Lucumi priestess let a power 
move through her that turned him to cinders, that his brain 
was already disintegrating because of a ritual performed by 
a Lucumi priest."  She walked to the door and looked back 
at him.  "I'm sorry, John.  Maybe I'll be more 
understanding later.  And maybe you'll be more able to 
listen."  She turned to go.

"Monica," he said.  

She stopped in the doorway.

"Monica," he said again, and what she heard in his voice 
made her turn and look at him.  

Something in his eyes made her walk back over to him.  She 
sat back down in the chair and touched his arm.  "John, 
what is it?" she asked, her pique forgotten.

"Monica. . .I don't know if I can do this anymore."

"John," she said softly, "do what?"

"This work.  This. . .nuts stuff.  I just feel like my 
whole life has gone to hell since I--well, since the X-
Files."  He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at 
her again. "I know I need to stay, you know--there are 
things goin' on I know I need to play a part in--it's the 
right thing to do.  But I can't help but wonder if I'm the 
guy for the job."

"John, you're a good agent, one of the best, most 
instinctive investigators I've ever known."

His laugh was dry.  "Oh, I'm not doubtin' I'm a good 
investigator.  I'm just doubtin' if I can ever do what's 
required to do this work.  Monica, I can't work the way you 
seem to be able to.  I can't just accept the stuff that 
seems so normal to you.   I can't run off based on whatever 
crazy hunch I might take into my head.  I fucked things up 
royally yesterday doin' just that, actin' like a fuckin' 
amateur."  

"I don't think you did," she said.  

He laughed again.  "Oh, I did, all right.  Big time, major 
league."

"John, you're just learning how to listen to your 
perceptions--and your perceptions about Goodall were right 
on the money.  But you're bound to make mistakes.  It's 
part of the process."

"That's my point, Monica.  I'm not wired the way you are.  
There *isn't* any process.  I don't have perceptions that 
way." 

"I think you do.  I've told you that before.  Where did 
your impulse to look in Goodall's closet come from?  John, 
you need to give it a chance.  And you need to cut yourself 
some slack.  You're human, and you make mistakes.  Things 
like that happen," she said.

"Not to me, Monica.  They don't happen to me.  And you know 
as well as I do that in our line of work, makin' mistakes 
can get you killed--other people killed.  I can't shrug off 
mistakes like they didn't happen."

"I know that," she said.  "I'm not saying you should shrug 
them off.  But if you can't learn to let go, you'll drive 
yourself crazy, John.  Do you want to do that?"

"No!  I just want to do what's right, whatever it takes!  
And I can't just let go of things to make my karma all 
better--or whatever the hell you want to call it, Monica.  
I can't *be* like you!" 

They stared at each other.  

Monica pressed her lips together tightly, as if she were 
trying to stop herself from saying something.  "I don't 
want you to be like me, John.  But I don't want you to give 
up, either." 

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into them.  She 
noticed the IV shunt taped to the back of his right hand 
and saw the pale purple bruising around the needle 
puncture.  Suddenly he seemed younger, vulnerable, tired, 
injured, and it took all she had to keep from smoothing her 
fingers back through his hair and telling him it would be 
okay, that it would all be okay in the end.

He looked at her.  "I'm just tired," he whispered, as if he 
were reading her mind.

"I know," she said quietly, standing up.  "I shouldn't have 
stayed so long. You need to rest."  She touched his hand, 
and he squeezed it weakly.  "I'll come back a little later.  
You sleep now."

He closed his eyes.  "Thanks," he murmured almost 
inaudibly.

She walked to the door and almost bumped into Mo Dannah, 
who was walking into the room.  Her hair was damp, and she 
looked harried.

Monica smiled at the other woman.  "I'm glad you're here," 
she said.  "He needs a friend--someone who can just care 
about him, and not. . .push."

Mo smiled back, a little puzzled, and Monica left the room.  
Mo looked after her and then followed her into the hall.

"Agent Reyes!" she called out, and Monica turned. 

Mo caught up to her.  "What did you mean in there?"

Monica looked at the other woman, weighing how much she 
should say.  "Ms. Dannah--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, call me Mo!"

Monica smiled.  "Okay.  Then you need to call me Monica."

"All right, Monica, what did you mean?"

"Well, obviously, he's been through a lot," Monica said.

"Obviously," Mo said.

"But I think he's having some troubles reconciling the 
things he saw.  He's not the most open-minded person when 
it comes to what you might call extreme possibilities."

Mo glanced around them and pulled Monica over to some 
chairs away from the main hallway.  "Monica, I really do 
understand that sort of thing.  Tell me what you think 
happened in that cave."

Monica examined the other woman's face for a moment.  Then 
she made a decision.  

"In just a few words?" Monica asked.  "I think Deborah 
Boadu focused some sort of energy and burned Hugh Goodall 
to death.  I think the little Lucumi priest did some sort 
of ritual that would have eventually killed Goodall, 
anyway.  And I think that John saw it all happen, and 
watched Goodall stab a helpless man while he was tied up 
there, totally unable to do anything."

Mo looked like she'd been slapped, and Monica wondered if 
maybe she'd said too much.

Monica was silent for a moment.  "There are a lot of things
going on with him," she said.  "I think he feels some guilt
--you know about survivor's guilt?"

Mo nodded.  

"I think he's feeling something like that.  He's had to deal
with that more than once in his life.  I also think maybe he's
just beginning to accept things he's denied for a long time.
And he's not comfortable with it."

Mo took a deep breath and nodded. "Thanks.  That helps me
understand a little better."

"I think John has a lot to think about right now--about 
everything.  It's hard to see things happen right in front 
of you that you would have never believed," Monica said. 

Mo nodded.  "Monica, I appreciate your telling me this.  I 
really do."  Mo touched the other woman's arm.  "What are 
your plans?  Do you go home now, or--?"  

"I need to spend a little time up at the Jacksonville 
office tomorrow with an old friend, and then I fly back 
home."  Monica smiled.  "Or what's home now.  I just moved 
from New Orleans last week, so things are still a mess."

"Do you need a ride to Jacksonville?"  Mo asked.   "I could 
take you."

"Thanks," Monica said.  "But I have a ride.  I thought I'd 
leave the rental for John."

Mo wondered if Monica's ride had anything to do with that 
tall, solicitous sheriff, but she didn't say anything.   
"I'm glad I got to meet you, Monica."

"I am too," Monica said.  "Take good care of yourself."

"I will," Mo said.  "You be careful too.  You have an 
awfully dangerous job."

Monica laughed softly.  "I will," she echoed, and watched 
the other woman walk back toward Doggett's room.  "Mo!" she 
suddenly called out.

Mo turned back to her.  

"You might be the best person to be with him right now," 
Monica said.  "Because you *do* understand."

Mo looked thoughtful.  "I don't know," she said softly.
"Maybe." She continued on down the hall.

She walked inside his room quietly, then over to the bed.  
He was asleep, looking very young, his face peaceful.  She 
sat down in the chair there, leaned toward him and lay her 
hand gently against his cheek.


             *           *           *

 
Monica held up her credentials so the front desk nurse at
the psych ward could see that she really was who she said
she was.

The nurse nodded.  "Sarah," she said to a nursing assistant 
walking by, "could you take the agent here to see the lady 
the cops brought in last night?--the one in C-16 with Mrs. 
Hartshorn?"

Monica followed the tall, blonde Sarah down the hall to the 
last room on the right.  "Thanks," she said to Sarah.  
"I'll only need to be here for a few minutes."

"That's fine, ma'am," Sarah replied.  "She's been real 
quiet.  I don't think she's any danger to anyone."

Tell Hugh Goodall that, Monica thought.  "Thanks," she said 
instead.  She walked over to Deborah's bed and stood next 
to it.  Deborah looked smaller, almost frail.  Her eyelids 
were a translucent gray.  She'd been through a lot in the 
last few days.

She opened her eyes and looked up at Monica.  Monica reached
out and put her hand on Deborah's arm and watched as the fear
in the woman's eyes faded.

"Deborah, how are you?" Monica asked.

"Agent Reyes," she said with a wan smile.  "I am okay.  I 
want to go home."

"I wanted to let you know that I checked in on Jacob Owdeye 
just now.  They tell me he'll probably have to be here for 
quite a while, but that he should be all right."

Deborah closed her eyes.  "Ashe," she murmured.  She looked 
at Monica again.  "Your partner?  He is all right too?"

"Yes," Monica said, "John will be fine.  I think they'll 
keep him here for another day or so just to make sure he 
doesn't develop pneumonia or have any problems from the 
concussion."

Deborah nodded.  She was still for a long moment.  "Agent 
Reyes," she finally said, "you know what I did."

"Yes, I think I do."

"Then I must tell you that I should have done it much 
sooner."

Monica didn't say anything.

"If I had followed my own instincts--if I had not been so 
careful to follow the wishes of my priest--neither Owdeye 
nor Agent Doggett would have been hurt.  That's something I 
will always live with."

This seems to be a day for regrets, Monica thought, and for 
guilt.  

"You were doing what you thought you should do, Deborah.  
Keeping a promise, isn't that what you told me?" Monica 
said.

Deborah nodded.  "It is not an excuse."  She sighed.  "Are 
you going to tell. . . the others?"

"No," Monica said.  "They wouldn't believe me if I did.  
What would be the point?"  She took her hand from Deborah's 
arm.  "May I ask you something?"

"Yes," Deborah said quietly. 

"The birds?   Was all that your doing?   You were keeping 
watch, through them?"

Deborah nodded.  It was enough of the truth.  

"And was it Shango who created the fire?"  Assuming you 
believed in the powers of the orishas, the orisha Shango 
would explain the fire, the lightning-like flash Monica had 
seen at the church that day.  It would explain Goodall's 
body.  Monica wondered if Deborah's actions in the church 
that day were out of anger or had a deeper purpose, though 
it hardly seemed to matter anymore.

Deborah's brows rose.  "Yes," she said.  "Agent Reyes, you 
know more than you let on.  The orishas come to us when we 
are in trance, as if we are the horses and they the riders.  
I am sanctified to Oya and Shango.  It is a duty that is 
both beautiful and terrible."

"Yes," Monica said softly.  "I can see that it would be."



As she left Deborah's room, Monica thought about how ironic 
it was how people are so often chosen to do things they'd 
rather not do.

And she thought of another irony:  Deborah had more in 
common with John Doggett than either of them could ever 
imagine.   


             *            *            *


Tuesday Morning

It was steamy and overcast, hotter than a stove already at 
8 a.m.  Ruth Dannah pushed the screen door open and walked 
out onto the old porch with her glass of tea.  She sat down 
in the rocker there and crossed her bare legs, sipping the 
cold drink.

It was so quiet.  It was going to take some getting used 
to, she thought, being alone.  Maeve had left on Sunday 
evening, after supper there at the house with Morgan and 
Max.  Maeve and Max both had flights out of Jacksonville 
around 9 p.m., so they left right after supper.  Morgan had 
helped her clean up the supper dishes, and then she had 
gone too, back to Gainesville to the hospital.  

Morgan had been back and forth several times a day since 
Saturday night.  The child was looking tired, but Ruth knew 
her daughter and knew it wouldn't do her a bit of good to 
tell her to stay there at the house and rest.  Ruth had 
learned over the years that it was usually fine to offer 
gentle counsel but that it was a waste of energy and time
to try to impose anything on either of her daughters,
particularly Morgan.

Ruth sipped the tea.  She would be 65 years old in 
September.  She had been married for almost 40 years to a 
man she'd loved passionately and had borne him two 
beautiful girl babies.  She'd taught school for 30 years 
and piano lessons for even longer.  Her life had been good, 
was still good, even though she would miss Jack Dannah 
until the day she died.

It's just that change was never easy.  She didn't fear it, 
but she knew she didn't welcome it, either.

She watched the birds in the old pecan tree flit from 
branch to branch.  There were fewer birds out there now, 
and they were quieter.  It was as if something had changed, 
as if some peace had fallen over them.   Ruth smiled.

The screen door opened, and Mo came out to join her.  
Dressed in her white shirt and denim skirt, she was 
eating a fresh biscuit covered with butter and jelly.
Ruth smiled to see that her daughter's old habits hadn't
changed much.  She'd always loved Ruth's biscuits, and
always with butter and jelly.

"Mama, how are you doing?" she asked, wiping her mouth 
clean and kissing Ruth on the cheek.

"I'm doin' okay, sweetie.   What have you decided?"  Ruth 
pulled the other wooden rocker over close, and Mo sat down.

"John leaves the hospital today.  Mama, I'm going to fly 
home to Virginia with him."  Mo said.

Ruth looked at her daughter.  "Well, I can't say that comes 
as a big surprise," she said.  "You don't really think 
either of you fooled me, do you?"

Mo laughed.  "Mama, you're somethin' else," she said.

"Well, he may not be the love of your life, darlin', but 
it's been fairly obvious since he showed up here that you 
like him more than a little bit." 

"Yeah, I do," Mo admitted.  "And you know what?  I don't 
know why I didn't learn this last winter when I came so 
close to dying myself, but I think I've learned it these 
last few days.  I'm not going to waste any more time being 
afraid and telling myself I don't really care for him.  
Because I do.  And life's too fragile.  You just never know
when your choices aren't going to be there anymore."

Ruth covered Mo's hand with hers.  "It's an important 
lesson to learn, sweetie."

"It is, isn't it?" Mo said.  "It's about time I learned 
it."  She smiled.  "I'll probably only stay in Falls Church 
a few days, though.  I have to get home--I have a lot to do 
there."  She squeezed Ruth's hand.  "I love you, Mama.  I 
probably don't tell you that enough, either." Ruth smiled 
at her.  "I'll have to go get my stuff together.  I need to 
get back to the hospital before too long."

"Do you need my help gettin' anything together?"  Ruth 
asked.

"No, Mama.  Just your company.  Always."


OBLIGATION 10/10
Rating:  A strong R for violence, language, and sexuality.


EPILOGUE

Falls Church, Virginia
Sunday Evening

Mo rinsed the last plate and set it in the rack.  She 
turned off the water, wiped the sink and counter and dried 
her hands on the hand towel there.  Then, resting her arms 
on the edge of the sink, she stood for a moment and looked 
out the window at the enveloping darkness outside, at the 
lights from neighbors' houses, at the glimmering walkway 
lights and the lights on spacious backyard decks.  It was a 
lovely neighborhood, peaceful, green, comfortable.  Safe.

But it wasn't home, and the thought made her indescribably 
sad.  She needed to go home, to *her* home.  

Home.  She thought about the first night she'd spent with 
him, back in the winter, at her house in Boulder.  Barely 
more than strangers, they'd taken each other's clothes off 
with hardly any words and made love in her living room and 
then again, later, in her big four-post bed.  Afterward,  
they'd lain under her heavy comforter while a fierce wind 
threw swirls of snow against her bedroom windows.   They'd 
talked quietly, kissed, touched each other.  She'd been 
perfectly content to lie with him while he ran his hands 
over her body like a blind man trying to learn her secrets.  
After a while, he'd slept, and she had curled into his 
warmth and slept herself, her arm wrapped over his waist, 
her body curved around his.  It had been a few hours of 
peace and safety during the worst period of her life.  
She'd needed him.

Maybe he'd needed her too.

She had trusted him, and he hadn't disappointed her.



Even injured, he moved quietly, and she felt more than 
heard him come up behind her.  She stood still, holding her 
breath, feeling a shiver run through her body as she waited 
for him to touch her.  He slipped his fingers under one of 
the thin straps of her blue silk top, slid it down off 
her shoulder and ran his fingers up her bare arm to her
neck.  He put his other arm around her waist and pulled her
close, touching his lips to the nape of her neck.  Sighing,
she leaned back against him, and he held her, laying his
cheek against her hair.   

If anything could make this place home to her, it would be 
him, but she didn't think that wishing could make it so. 

At last she turned around and looked at him.  The bruising 
on the side of his face was fading a little, but it was 
still hard to look at.  "Why don't you go on outside and 
sit down, get comfortable?  I'll bring you one of the beers 
I bought."

Doggett's lips quirked up in an ironic half-smile.  "Mo, 
you don't need to wait on me," he said.

She held up her hand.  "Just let me take care of you," she 
said.  "You took care of me when I was hurt."

He couldn't argue with that.  He remembered holding her one 
night last winter when she'd awakened, crying and shaking, 
from a nightmare full of terrors that she couldn't remember 
when she was awake.  The memories only came back in her 
dreams, and they kept coming back for months and months.

He didn't think his dreams had awakened her yet.

"And, you know, I actually *can* do domestic pretty well," 
she added, smiling.  "Go!"  She flapped her hands at him, 
shooing him out the screen door to the deck.  

He shook his head, smiling, and walked over to the glider 
and eased himself onto it.  God damn, how long was it going 
to be before it wouldn't hurt to roll over in bed, to walk, 
to sit up, to fucking breathe?   

Mo slid the screen door open and stepped out onto the deck, 
holding two cold Peronis.  She walked over to the glider 
and handed one to Doggett, then curled up against him on 
the seat, pulling her legs up in front of her and tucking 
her long silk skirt around her legs. 

"Thanks," he said, putting his arm around her.  He watched 
her.  "Mo, was your mom okay with this?"

"With this?" She looked puzzled, and then understanding 
dawned on her face.  "Oh, my coming here?  Yes, I think it 
pleased her, actually."  She smiled at him.  "I'm a big 
girl now, you know."

"I know," he said.  "I just wondered.  I'd been wonderin' 
what she'd think if she knew--"

"That you were sleeping with her daughter?" Mo said 
wickedly.  "Did you think she was going to get out the 
shotgun?"  She laughed.  "You're so funny."   He shook his 
head, and she put her hand on his leg.  "John, my mother 
knows I care for you, and all she's concerned about is 
whether I'm happy."

She smiled and lifted the beer to her lips and took a long 
sip, enjoying its slightly bitter bite.  She looked up.  It 
was a clear night, hot and humid and starry.  The moon was 
a tiny, waxing sliver in the purple sky.

"It's a pretty maiden moon," she said quietly.

He looked at her quizzically.  

She realized that he had no idea what she was talking
about.  They really were from opposite sides of the universe.
"A maiden moon is a crescent moon waxing," she explained. 
"The full moon is the mother, and then the waning moon is
called the crone.  It's a symbol of the triple goddess."

"I'm sorry I asked," he said wryly.  

"No, you're not," she murmured, smiling gently.  "Look at 
the education you're getting."  She laced her fingers in 
his.  "That, and free beer."  She looked at him, expecting 
him to laugh, and the look on his face surprised her.

He put his beer down and pulled her close to him wordlessly,
holding her tight.  He didn't really know what he wanted from
her, what he expected her to give him, to tell him.  Maybe he
just needed some of her strength.  It occurred to him that he'd
never looked to her for that before, that she'd never been the
stronger one.

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling his sudden upwelling of 
pain.  She ran her fingers back through his hair, massaged 
the back of his neck with sure, practiced fingers.  

"You're gonna be all right, darlin'.  It'll all work out," 
she murmured.

"I know," he said into her hair.  "I know.  It's just too 
soon, I guess."

"I understand," she said softly into his ear.  "Darlin', I 
really do."

He knew that she did.  

"The worst part was not being able to help," he said.  
"Feelin' so fuckin' helpless."

"I know.  That's because of who you are down to your 
core." She lifted his face to her so that she could see his 
eyes.  "That man knew that about you, somehow, and he used 
it to torture you."  She ran her fingers down his cheeks.  
"But it's over, darlin'.  He's dead, and you're here.  
Jacob Owdeye is still alive." 

"You make it sound easy," he said.  "Like when it's over, 
it should be over up here too."  He touched his temple.  
"Monica said something to me about lettin' go, like it's 
easy."

"If I made it sound easy, I didn't mean to.  It's not easy.  
And I'll bet Monica didn't mean that either.  This kind of 
stuff is never easy."

They settled back onto the glider together.  Doggett sipped 
his beer and sighed.  He shifted his weight, uncomfortable.  
"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," she said and waited for him to continue.

"What makes you believe?"  he finally asked.

She blinked.  "What makes me believe?  Believe what?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.   "You know, the paranormal 
stuff, the New Agey stuff."  He checked to see if his words 
had offended her and was relieved to see her smile.  "Mo, 
you can accept the damnedest things--you can *do* the 
damnedest things.  I mean, that first day I met you and you 
sat there and just--"  He shook his head.  "You called it 
magic, but whatever the hell it was you did, I could *feel* 
it.  I damn near fell off my chair."

"Do you mean this?"  She shut her eyes and breathed in 
deeply, spreading her fingers.  And then, in just a few 
seconds, Doggett felt it:  The shift in the atmosphere, the 
pressure on his eardrums, the hair standing up on his arms, 
the back of his neck.  

"Yeah," he breathed.  "That."

She opened her eyes and smiled.  "I'm sorry, darlin'.  I
don't mean to tease."  Her face grew serious.  "You have to
understand that I was born able to do that.  I don't know
what it's like not to be able to do it.  So that might make
me different from someone else."  

She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned toward 
him, suddenly energized.  "If you want to know what makes 
me believe, I'd just have to ask you what makes you believe 
in gravity," she said, trying to explain herself.  "It's 
not really a matter of belief.  It's just a given."  She 
shrugged.  "That's how I feel about magic.  It's life and 
energy and the power at the heart of everything, and it's 
everywhere.   You have to learn to love the process, to 
learn how to see it, how to work with it.  Everyone seems 
to tap into it in different ways.  The Lucumi you met down 
in Florida have their own ways, very powerful."

Doggett wondered if she'd spoken to Monica, or if she just 
knew this stuff.  He figured she probably knew it.  He was 
beginning to recognize just how much he didn't know about 
this woman.

"I guess I just want you to know it's not anything to be 
afraid of--the magic, or whatever you want to call it, the 
ability," she added.   She scanned his face.  "Because I 
think you're afraid of it, a little.  Afraid you might be 
giving in to something you don't believe in.  Am I right?"

He shook his head.  "I'm not really sure.   I guess I'm 
tryin' to figure it out.  Like you said, maybe it's 
educational."  He smiled a little.   "Or maybe you've just 
grown on me, Mo." 

She looked away from him, smiling. Then she looked back up
at him, right into his eyes.  "Can I say something else?"

He nodded.  "Sure."

Now it was her turn to hesitate.  "I guess I just believe 
that nothing else really matters more than love--love and 
faith and sacredness."  He could see that she was a little
embarrassed.  "Maybe I have a different view of what sacredness
is than some people do, but it's important to me.  And I just
need to tell you--"  She looked away.  She was nervous, her 
palms damp, and she knew he could feel it too, and oh, God, 
she was making a total mess of this--

She looked back at him, and those amazing eyes were intent 
on her.  

"--I just need to tell you that I love you."

Silence.  She drew in a breath and waited a beat.

"Because you just don't know what life's going to bring 
you," she hurried to add.   "When you went missing, I was 
afraid that maybe I'd never see you again.  And I would 
have hated it if you'd never found out how I feel, just 
because I was afraid to tell you."  She smiled at him 
tentatively.  "There.  I'm done now."

His eyes were still uncomfortably intent on her, but their 
expression was warm.  "You don't have to make light of it, 
Mo.  Did you think I was gonna run away?"

She searched his face for a moment.  "No, I guess I didn't, 
not really," she finally admitted. 

"It finally dawned on me last week, in Florida, that maybe 
you did love me." He smiled.  "Guess I'm a little slow.  
And I guess I've been wondering for a while now what it 
would be like to love you."  He rubbed his hand down his 
cheek.  "I've been wondering for a while now about a lot of
things, to tell you the truth."

She nodded.  "I got that feeling," she said gently.  "You
Have a lot to look at right now, don't you?  I don't want to
add more to it." She put a hand on his knee.  "I don't want
you to feel uncomfortable about what I said."   

"I know," he said softly.  "I think I understand.  You don't
want to let things slide."

She nodded.  "Almost dying has a way of changing you, you
know?"

"Better than you might think," he said dryly.  "But you 
lovin' me isn't a burden.  Why would you even think that?" 

She looked at him in wonder.  "I don't know.  I guess I was
afraid it could complicate things."  She pushed a wayward
lock of hair off her forehead.  "It's easier when you're
20, you know?   You're young--you tend not to see the shades
of gray. There's less history to get in the way."

He regarded her, saying nothing, knowing what she said was 
true.

"I need to go home, darlin'," she added.  "It's been 
weighing on my mind the last day or so.  There's stuff I 
need to do, people who need me."

"I know that," he said, rubbing his fingers absently along 
her arm.  "It's where you belong, isn't it?"  He knew that 
was true too, though it hurt a little.  

She nodded.  "It really is."  She took a deep breath and let
it out in a sigh.  "Oh, Lord.  I think I need another beer." 
She smiled at him.  "Or maybe a Valium."

"No," he said.  "You need to come here."  He pulled her 
closer to him and up, gently, onto his lap.  She rucked her 
skirt up and straddled his thighs, careful not to jar his 
still-painful ribs, and put her hands on his waist.  He 
combed his fingers back through her hair, holding her head 
gently between his hands.  "You're such an amazing, 
beautiful woman," he said to her.

"You keep telling me that, I'll start to believe it," she 
said softly.

"You should."  He kissed her once, slowly, then again.

She lay her head on his shoulder, pressing her face against 
his neck, breathing in the warm scent of his skin.  He held 
her, lazily caressing her bare shoulders and back, and they 
rested together in the quiet, listening to the peaceful 
sound of crickets in all the green back yards.

"You're not leavin' right away, are you?" he asked then, 
his lips warm and soft against her cheek.

"No.  I was thinking maybe Tuesday, if I can get a flight."

"Then be with me now," he said.  "Let me love you."

She raised her head and smiled at him.  "I'm here," she 
said.  "I wouldn't be anywhere else right now."

He kissed her again, harder, one warm hand on the back of 
her neck, the other on her breast, circling the taut nipple 
with his thumb until she moaned quietly. 

He slid his hand under her skirt, his fingers drawing 
languid circles on her naked thigh. 

"Ah, darlin', don't stop," she sighed against his mouth. 

"I think we'd better go inside," he said, amused. 

"Or we could stay out here," she whispered, "and scandalize 
your neighbors." 

He laughed.  "You don't have to live with my neighbors," he 
said.

"True," she admitted, smiling.  "I guess we should be good 
and spare them the shock."  She got up from his lap and  
held out her hand to him.  "Come love me, then," she said 
softly.

He took her hand and stood up, and they walked inside, 
sliding the door closed behind them.  He locked the door, 
and she turned off the kitchen lights.

And they walked upstairs together, in the quiet dark.


End



Notes

My father was born and raised in North Florida, and the 
area is very familiar to me.  Any inconsistencies are 
mistakes of memory or simply artistic license.  I 
researched the Lucumi religion (Santeria), and I regret any 
mistakes in respect to that.  Of course, certain liberties 
were taken for the sake of the story.