Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Lower Level Parking Garage

A distant, wailing siren blares in the street beyond the hospital's dark sub-basement level garage. Hearing it grow louder, Martina Rosenoff gets a flash of hope that the siren belongs to a police car, not an ambulance. Both she and the stocky man in front of her freeze in position between the two parked cars on either side of them: Martina, with her back inches away from the cinderblock wall; the silver-haired stranger stands only a foot from her, wearing a black down jacket and dark jeans. And holding a gun level with Martina's heart.

When the siren disappears without any sign of an arriving vehicle nearby, Martina has to face the fact that there's no one coming to help her.

The attacker exhales slightly. "All right, hurry up," he mutters, wagging his gun for her to continue. "Get the coat off now."

Somehow Martina obeys his order, her fumbling ice-cold fingers unbuttoning her coat. As she does, she looks away from him to Clark Durand, whose body moves slightly as he lies against her car's rear tire.

Her attacker swiftly points the gun directly at Clark's head, his own gaze not budging from Martina's face. "Want me to pop him first? Will that make you move faster?"

Martina's tight throat swallows painfully. At last she shrugs the woolen coat behind her, letting it fall to the ground together with her purse and briefcase. The stranger directs the gun barrel at her forehead, slowly bending to pick up the handbag. Unconsciously, Martina's mind performs a pointless inventory of the bag's contents. Credit cards, seventy-five dollars, cell phone, pictures of Mike, lipstick, compact, ticket stubs, pack of Trident, the silver pen Rena gave me for my birthday...

The man straightens up and leers at her, and for the first time, Martina notices that his left eye squints a little -- as if the muscles surrounding it have nerve damage. It's a strange detail to notice, but her mind appears to be working independently of any rational logic.

Suddenly his hand reaches for her throat. The quickness of the gesture sends Martina staggering backwards, her head striking the wall behind her. Wincing, she sobs, closed-mouthed ... afraid that if she lets any sound escape, he'll follow through with his earlier threat to silence her with a bullet.

The man curls his fingers around her neck, then lowers them slightly, just above the swell of her chest. Martina is repulsed by his touch, but realizes that his attention is fixated on the necklace resting just above her breastbone. "Sweet," he says to himself, clutching the silver and marcasite in his palm before addressing Martina. "Take it off -- no, I want your hands where I can see 'em. Turn around and face the wall."

She faces the wall, her cheek pressing up against the cold cement, and struggles with the necklace's delicate clasp. Part of her wants to yell at him to just pull the damn thing off her so that this nightmare will end more quickly. Finally she's successful, and with a grunt of satisfaction he slips the chain from her throat.

His muscular body pushes hers as he grasps her right arm and twists it up behind her, nearly wrenching her shoulder. Martina crushes her mouth against the wall in an effort to keep from crying out in pain. The man's hand wraps around the two rings on her fingers and pulls them off with a vicious jerk -- at least, he tries to. The large ring on her fourth finger refuses to budge.

"Looks like your finger's too fat, bitch," he snaps. "Maybe I should just cut it off."

Martina closes her eyes, terrified. She knows how stubborn this ring is -- it's her father's class ring from college, something she almost never removes. Bad enough that she's losing Mike's mother's jewelry to this bastard ... now her father's ring will be gone, too. I'm sorry, Papa, she whispers inside her head.

With a final harsh yank, the man frees the ring. She hears the synthetic material of his jacket squeak as he puts her jewelry into his pocket ... at least, that's what it sounds like he's doing. When that's done, he returns his attention to her. Martina can sense the weight of his gaze looking her up and down.

As she'd feared, the man steps closer to her. His free left hand sidles from behind her to slip across her stomach, which recoils at the invasive heat of his touch through her silk shirt.

Slowly he reaches up to squeeze her breast. "Too bad you wasted so much time," he mutters against her ear. "Wouldn't mind doing this right..."

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fifth Floor Waiting Room

Standing by the ladies room door, Daphne White hangs back for a few moments, watching the young man and his father in heated debate down the hallway. At last Charles Stanford leaves Tyler alone, and Daphne exhales quickly in relief. She's shaky enough as it is without having to deal with Tyler's intimidating dad.

Brushing a nervous hand through her hair, Daphne heads over to catch up with Tyler, who's moving restlessly towards an empty set of chairs in the far corner of the wide room.

"Hey," she says hoarsely, her throat still thick from crying for nearly twenty minutes. Tyler's golden head -- which had turned to face the gloomy scenery outdoors -- looks up in her direction. He stands up at once.

"Daph," he says unnecessarily, as if proving to himself that she's really standing there. His blue eyes search hers for ... Daphne's not sure what he's looking for. "Where've you been? I thought you were in seeing your dad, but--"

"No, I was in the bathroom."

"For this long? Are you -- " He gestures awkwardly towards her stomach. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm not nauseous, if that's what you mean. I was in there just crying. I kind of freaked out while seeing my father." Her lip trembles, and she takes a deep breath. "Ty, I need to talk to you."

For some reason he looks wary, almost resentful. "Okay," he says slowly. "I want to listen."

His hesitation makes her shrink back slightly. "If you're tired of all this, you can go home. You don't have to stay here. I know you must be bored, waiting around--"

"I've been fine waiting around for you," he says with strange emphasis. His hands are resting on his narrow hips, and he shakes his head. "Have I complained or anything?"

"No. Are you all right? You seem weird. I didn't say you were complaining, did I?"

Tyler doesn't respond, and Daphne takes a step closer to him. "You know how glad I am you're here, don't you?" she asks, her voice soft as she touches his fingers with her own. "You've been so supportive. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't with me."

"You've got other people here with you." His words are rushed, but then he seems to check himself. "I mean ... like your uncle."

"But I don't love him. I mean ..." Daphne smiles a little. "Not like I love you."

The way he's peering into her gaze, Daphne wonders if he can see clear through to the other side of the room. Finally his hand clasps hers. "I love you too, Daph," he murmurs. "More than anyone. I've been there for you, haven't I? Through everything?"

"Of course you have! And I don't know why. I'm not worth everything you've put up with."

"You are."

She shakes her head, lowering her gaze to the sneakers lent to her by Rena Carlson. "I'm a rotten person. I ... sometimes I can be a totally evil, unfeeling bitch."

"Stop saying things like that!"

Pulling her hair away from her face, Daphne still can't meet his stare. The words she said to her father gnaw a hole in her with the force of battery acid. "You don't understand. I need to tell you stuff, and I can't say it if you're just gonna automatically try and make me feel better without really hearing me."

Tyler's expression again wears a flash of dread -- and there's hurt, too, in his ocean blue eyes. "All right," he says, sitting back down in the black vinyl chair behind him. "Then tell me whatever it is you need to say. But maybe... "

She waits for him to continue. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe I already know."

Sighing, Daphne sits down beside him. "No. You couldn't possibly."

"The thing is ... " He licks his lips, oddly nervous and uncomfortable. "Daphne, while I was waiting for you before, I ran into--"

"Daphne!"

Jerking her head up at the sound of Greg White's stressed voice, Daphne rises at once. "What? What is it?"

Her uncle weaves his way through the maze of chairs to reach her. His face is flushed, radiating with excitement. "He's awake. At least, he was awake, then he fell asleep, and then he woke up again. Damn, I've been trying to find you for twenty minutes, where the hell have you been, kiddo?" Greg grins and grabs Daphne's shoulders, shaking her. "He understands questions and asked some of his own. Even nagged me to call his sponsor, which took some doing since I have no idea what the guy's last name was--"

"Wait a second, hold it!" Daphne clutches at Greg's blue scrub shirt, trying to take in everything he's saying. "Are you serious? Dad -- he's okay?"

"I'm not saying he's out of the woods, not by a long shot, but the fact that he's coherent ... well, that's a big thing. A really big thing. So you can exhale, kiddo, because we've made it past the first hurdle!"

Though she's almost afraid to accept Greg's infectious exuberance, Daphne can't help but return his hug. "But how can he talk to you? Doesn't he still have that breathing tube?"

"Oh, sorry, yes, he wrote things down. Just a couple of words, but the meaning was clear. And he asked for you."

Daphne's arms freeze around him. "He did?"

"Yup. I'd gone out to grab a doctor and find you, and when I came back, he was asleep again but he'd written your name."

"What does he want me for?"

Greg pulls back, a crooked grin mocking her. "I guess he wants you to teach him Britney Spears' latest single. What do you think he wants you for? He just wants to see you, that's all!"

Glancing around to Tyler, who's watching them both with a small smile, Daphne then shifts her gaze to the bank of elevators. "Rena's back," she says softly, hoping to transfer Greg's attention away from her. "Maybe you should tell her about Dad."

"Damn straight I will. Look," Greg says after swiveling to glow at Rena for a few seconds. "I know you've got mixed feelings about everything, lots of guilt and awkwardness. But I also know you'll be okay. You've been incredibly strong through all this. So just take a few minutes, get yourself together, and if you want I'll take you in to see him."

"He's awake now?"

"Yeah. His sponsor was in before, just because your dad seemed to need reassurance pretty badly. John seems like a nice guy, he says there's some special type of program for people in Doug's situation who have to go back on meds -- but anyway, Doug really wants to see you. So hang on, okay?"

Greg 'beeps' her nose with his thumb and practically leaps over to join Rena. As torn and exhausted as Daphne is, she has to smile at seeing her uncle this, well, bouncy.

Behind her, Tyler stands up and slips his arm around her waist. "That's amazing," he says quietly, turning her around to face him. "I'm happy for you, Daph. Aren't you? Happy, I mean?"

"I don't -- I mean -- oh, yes, I am glad he's awake," she says, suddenly leaning up against him, weak with a flood of battling emotions. "I really am, Ty!"

Relieved, Daphne has no wish to continue their earlier interrupted conversation. Because Tyler's arms are cradling her, and right now that's all she needs.

Schuyler Falls Police Station

Off Route 58

The file cabinets are a mess, and Frank Gabriel grimaces while trying to pull out a folder stuffed to its limits with materials relating to recent suspicious fires in the vicinity of Schuyler Falls. When at last he's successful, the detective kicks the lower drawer closed, annoyed at it for being so uneven and difficult to control. Frank likes devices that work smoothly, like the tools he used to build his cabin, or those with which he reconstructed the kitchen in his home. But here, at the police station, the furniture and supplies are substandard, always breaking down or jamming and generally working Frank's last nerve.

Surprised by a tap on his shoulder, Frank looks up from the folder in his hand. "Yeah, Smitty?"

Paul Smithers, the Desk Sergeant, gestures with his head to someone behind him. "Someone's here for you. Said she's handling the Record case."

"Is she from the fire commissioner's office?"

"Don't know. Her name's Granger, like the DA. Looks like him, too."

With a frown, Frank closes the file and follows Smitty to the front area near the station's entrance. The woman waiting for him is has a medium build, smooth skin the color of molasses, and dimples that definitely prove that she's related to Ross Granger.

When he approaches, she swivels on a boot-clad heel and holds out her hand. "Sergeant Gabriel. I'm Maxine Granger, hi."

Frank tilts his head for a second while accepting her handshake. "I remember you. Smitty," he comments to the older man returning to his desk. "This is Ross Granger's sister."

"Actually, no, he's my brother." Maxine grins. "Younger brother, which is why I make the distinction. I got here first."

Frank gets the impression from her determined chin and even, powerful gaze that Maxine Granger wouldn't have it any other way. "Well, it's good to see you again. Sgt. Smithers says you're dealing with the fire investigation? Last time we met, you were private. And not living in Skyfalls."

"Good memory. I freelance, but I've got a longstanding gig with Glenford Insurance out in Binghamton. I'm already in town for another job, so they gave me a call to see if I could check things out for them."

"About the fire last night." Frowning -- he's not a fan of insurance companies -- Frank glances over to Smitty. "Sure don't let any grass grow under their feet, do they? So who's the policy holder? The Record, or the school building?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Didn't hear that a school was involved."

That answers my question. "The High School has some pretty serious smoke damage.. It's right next door to the newspaper."

Maxine pulls out a small blue notebook and slips a thin pencil from between the wire spirals. "A High School. They'll love that," she murmurs, copying down the information before returning her dark brown stare to Frank. "By the way, I'm only here 'cause the fire department's not letting any civilians near the site."

"Yeah, I know."

"--Otherwise I'd be getting this info for myself. I figured why hang out in the cold when your department's probably got everything I can get so far?"

"Makes sense. But I'd rather not get into this with you so soon."

"No?" Maxine shifts her balance, resting her weight on one leg while tapping her pencil on the notebook. "Why not?"

"'Cause I know how you insurance ops work, you've all got one-track minds. I don't want to get pushed in any one direction yet."

"I'd just need a few questions answered. What's the problem, Gabriel? You're so easily influenced by an outside opinion?"

Frank lets his lips betray a cool smile. "Nice try, but making me defensive isn't gonna work. Anything you need short of public information, you can go get it yourself tomorrow."

"Fine. Then what is public so far?"

"The fact that at approximately ten thirty--" Frank interrupts himself when a familiar dark-haired man enters the front door, bringing the icy wind in with him. He grins at Mike Fiore, whose face is bright red from the weather, and points a finger in his direction. "Yo, the address you wanted is on my desk."

Mike hesitates slightly. "Address? Which one?"

"Sorry -- you said you wanted the name of that country inn Livvy discovered upstate --"

"Oh, right, right. Thanks!"

"Don't thank me, I never set eyes on the place. For all I know it's a dump."

"If Olivia's recommending it, I think that's pretty unlikely." Smiling his gratitude, Mike nods and, after sending a quick curious glance at Maxine, disappears into the bullpen.

Frank returns his attention to the private detective. "Sorry about that."

"No prob'. A cop's work is never done," Maxine says with a sideways smile. "So you were saying...?"

He ignores her sarcasm. "Actually, let's go back a bit. I'd like to ask you a question first."

"Shoot."

"How much was the Record insured for?"

Maxine smiles. "Up to $500,000 for total destruction."

"Pretty steep. But that's not what we've got here. Building wasn't destroyed."

"Maybe not for lack of trying." She lifts her notebook. "Which brings me to my first question. What kind of background record have you got on Mr. Jeremiah Van Doren?"

Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

Leaning his tall frame against the bookcase, Jem Van Doren continues to talk on the phone while Chelsea Stanford glares at him from her perch on the edge of the sofa arm. She plays with the ends of her hair while waiting for him to finish.

At last, he hangs up the receiver, staring down at the phone as if trying to decide whether to pick it up and smash it through the window.

Chelsea straightens up, smoothing her tight black skirt over her thighs. "Are you finally done?"

His ice blue gaze flickers over to her. "Yeah, I'm done. Sorry if my little petty problems trying to reorganize my staff and my whole goddamned business are infringing on your tight schedule."

"Don't give me that attitude. I came here because I wanted to see how you're doing."

Jem smiles -- at least, he probably thinks he's smiling. Looks more like a grimace to Chelsea. "I'm touched. So after spending the whole night with Greggie, you finally remember little ol' me. I'm honored, I really am."

"What the hell did you expect? His brother almost died in that firetrap of yours."

"Yeah. I know that. I wish people wouldn't keep saying that like I'm likely to forget it."

"My point is that he needed someone to be there with him."

"And you thoughtfully volunteered. You ever think of applying for sainthood?" Jem wipes a hand over his mouth. "So, in lieu of bringing your own self over here, you sent over Rena to do your dirty work."

Shrugging, Chelsea slips off the couch to stand up. "She was worried about you too, and I figured, you know, she's a nurse and maybe she could help--"

"Jesus, Princess, who the hell do you think you're talking to?" He pushes himself forward, standing inches from her. "You sent her over because even in the middle of a life-and-death situation, with Lainie and Doug White and yours truly suffering untold agonies, you were more concerned about that dumb-ass scheme of yours to latch onto Greg."

"I wasn't more concerned! I just -- well, two birds with one stone, right?" She smiles with only a little embarrassment, but then quickly sobers up again. "You don't have to get all holier-than-thou on me. I was just figuring that we might as well get something out of this mess. You always want me to take advantage of opportunities, that's what you said I had to do as a photographer, right? Well, I did."

"At someone else's expense."

"Whose? Rena's? Please. She loves playing the martyr. You should've seen her when I suggested it -- the chick's a masochist, I'm telling you. She was happy as a clam to rush out into the snow to be with you."

Jem's head shakes slightly, looking down at her. "She didn't know what she was getting into," he mutters. "What you sent her into."

"What do you mean?" She waits, but he doesn't answer her, instead looking away to the window. Pursing her lips, Chelsea shakes some strands of golden hair from her eyes. "Were you -- were you really bad off last night?"

"I don't remember much. I was drunk. But yeah, I was. I wish you'd been--" Jem blinks, then shakes his head again and returns to focus on her. "Why are you even asking? It doesn't matter to you, does it?"

"That's a crappy thing to say. As a matter of fact, my very first thought was about you, when I heard. I drove down to the paper to drop off the film from the gala, and when I found out what happened, I was gonna come by."

"Yeah?" Jem's eyelids raise a little, widening his gaze. "And what stopped you?"

Chelsea hesitates. "Well ... when I heard that Doug White was trapped in there. I thought I should -- I knew Greg would need to know." At Jem's bitter smile, Chelsea flushes and hastens to continue before he can interrupt her. "Look, smirk at me all you want, but he was the one who had a brother almost dying in there. This was just a building to you, it's not as big a deal -- I mean -- I know it's a big deal, but it's not like you can't fix a building."

"Yeah. Building's are easy to fix, 1,2,3."

"Well, it's not as serious as someone's life, is it? I figured Greg needed me more."

"He has Nurse Carlson."

"That's not good enough. Nurse Icicle's not gonna be any use to him, a frigid cow like her. He needs someone--"

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about. She's not cold at all."

The annoyance in his tone surprises Chelsea, and she takes a step back to look at him. "That's interesting," she says after a moment, raising an eyebrow. "Pretty quick to defend her suddenly, huh? What's up with that?"

He meets her gaze evenly. "She was helpful to me, that's all. Don't read anything into it, don't get all excited and hope I'm gonna redouble my efforts to sweep her off her feet and away from Greggie."

"I just think it sounds like you're getting a little soft on her, too. Are you?"

The corner of Jem's mouth quirks in amusement. "Would that bother you?"

"Don't -- don't be an idiot all your life, okay? You know I've been trying to push her off on you! Why would it bother me?"

"No reason." He turns away, still smiling. "Truth is, we did have some good moments. She's not at all an unattractive woman, you know."

Chelsea narrows her eyes, her mouth twisting in a sneer. "Yeah, I can see you're really upset about the building. So upset you're still able to think about sex."

"Isn't that what you're thinking about right now? I figured that's why you really came over here. Whenever you're frustrated about something, you come by here for a booty call."

Reddening, Chelsea snorts, but he just continues. "Well, getting back to Nurse Carlson ... she was awfully willing to comfort me. I do remember her holding me in her arms last night, sorta running her fingers through my hair while I was in bed. If I'd've been sober, I probably could've gotten her to join me."

With a roll of her eyes, Chelsea laughs. "Dream on. You don't know how wrong you are, buddy."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Jem returns to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe you're so Greg-centric that you can't see straight. I'm not all that unattractive myself, and Rena's got eyes in her head. Plus, she's seen me naked before, so she knows I've got the goods--"

"When?"

He chuckles. "Now you're getting worried, aren't you? If it makes you feel better, I still plan on enforcing my side of our bargain. Considering how close she and I are getting, I think it's time you paid up on your end."

She can't help but feel a little tingle run through her, considering his bare chest, the warmth of his hand, the stubble on his cheek that makes him look unusually rough and highly sexy. But her chin lifts with defiance. "Not the way you smell -- like a bar that's been closed down by the health department."

"Then help me upstairs and bathe me. We've done that before, remember?"

Chelsea backs away again, glancing at the stairwell. "Fine. Let's get it over with."

"Don't do me any favors. I can always wait for my nurse to come back and take care of it."

Giving another snort, Chelsea escorts him towards the foyer. "Boy, are you barking up the wrong tree. You'll look like PigPen if you wait for her to take care of things like that for you."

Jem grins. "You seem awfully certain Rena can't lust after me the way you do."

"I don't--"

"At ease, at ease. I know, you don't lust after me, you want Dr. Right. But why are you so sure I can't get our Nurse Carlson to turn down my bed and show me how to make hospital corners with her?"

A satisfied grin lifts Chelsea's lips.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Sixth Floor Administrative Offices

Conference Room

Charles Stanford knocks lightly on the honey-brown oak door, brushing his tie absently with his left hand. After a moment, he enters the room.

To his surprise, the only people inside are Sarah Fried -- the director of the hospital's Endowment Fund campaign -- and Frances Granger. Sarah is in the process of gathering up some annual reports, and her dark head lifts immediately when she sees the chief of staff. "Dr. Stanford," she says, straightening. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon. I didn't -- " Charles glances down at his watch, realizing how late it is. "I should have guessed Mrs. Nichols would have left by now. I'm sorry, I know I promised to poke my head in, but I couldn't get away..." He clears his throat and steps into the room. "How did it go?"

"I think it went well. Don't you, Frances?"

With a small smile, Frances nods. "Mrs. Nichols keeps her cards close to her vest, but I do believe she's genuinely interested in getting involved here."

"I trust you. I just wish I could have stopped in. I don't like not fulfilling my promises--"

"Please don't worry about it, Dr. Stanford," Sarah assures him, heading towards the door. "No doubt we'll have many more chances to cultivate the Criterion Foundation. If you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for another appointment. I'll write up my notes in a follow-up report to you."

"Thank you." Charles watches her leave, and then turns back to Frances. "How did she do?"

"Very well. I think you made a very wise choice in promoting her. Danielle Nichols isn't an easy prospect, but Sarah managed her quite well."

"With your help, I'm sure. You could manage a wild bull stampede, Frances."

Frances chuckles, a low, musical sound that Charles has always found extremely pleasant. He smiles despite his stress and takes a seat beside her, exhaling heavily. "I really am sorry I missed the meeting."

"As Sarah said, we'll have many more before Mrs. Nichols gives us a final decision. But tell me, why do you look so miserable? You're not that upset to have missed one of these dull meetings, are you?"

Charles looks down at his hands, which rest on the highly polished wooden tabletop. "No. It's nothing, just ... It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing." Frances leans forward, touching his hand with her soft, perfectly manicured fingers. "If there's anything I can do... we are old friends, Charles."

"I know. Very old friends. How long has it been? Fifteen years?"

"Sixteen years now, I should think. Since just before you left Schuyler Falls."

"Oh. Yes." Charles glances out the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the long table. "I sometimes think I should have stayed away. Kept my family away from here. I don't know why I returned."

Frances's coal-dark eyes measure him. "You returned," she says softly, "because part of your family was already here. Because you wished to be closer to Chelsea."

His own laugh is far from musical. He turns back to Frances, not smiling. "And I've succeeded beyond my wildest expectations, haven't I? Not a half-hour ago, Chelsea was close enough to spit at me, if she wanted -- and I suspect she sorely did."

"Tell me."

Her response is so very like Frances -- direct and to the point, with no grimace at his bluntness, no false attempts to dismiss the unfortunate truth in his words.

As briefly as possible, he relates the embarrassing argument that erupted between him, Tyler and Chelsea down on the fifth floor. Frances listens without commenting, but when he concludes, she simply nods her head.

"Not an easy time for your family."

"You have a gift for understatement. Thank God for Jason, that's all I can say. He hasn't given me any problems yet." Charles leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I'm at a loss. Tyler thinks I'm hounding him without cause, and Chelsea ... for the first time, I realized just how little she understands what happened to us all those years ago."

Frances's full lips tighten. "But how can she? She remembers it through the filter of her mother. And Charles, although I wasn't there ... I can well imagine how your own behavior back then colors her feelings towards you now."

His eyes shift to pierce hers. "You're blaming me too?"

"Not blaming, no. Understanding. You value control above all things. You keep such a tight rein on your emotions even now. Back then, when they must have threatened to overwhelm you -- they did overwhelm your wife, poor woman -- well, you must have become a veritable stone sculpture."

"I didn't fall to pieces, if that's what you mean. I kept myself together. I had to -- one of us had to, for God's sake. Certainly, if I'd let myself, I could have collapsed just like Robbie did. But that would have done none of us any good."

Frances's expression remains sympathetic, but a glint of dissent flashes in her eyes. "You think so? Maybe it would have helped a great deal. If you'd shared what you went through, instead of--"

"That's all well and good," Charles says, his voice forced and rushed. "But I had to earn a living. We had Chelsea to take care of, and Robbie needed hospitalization, and -- I didn't have the luxury of falling to pieces. Someone needed to remain rational. With all due respect, you can't know ... you can't." His throat constricts, and he clears it quietly while standing up from his chair.

Frances waits a moment, letting him walk to the windows in silence. Eventually she lets out a small sigh. "No. I cannot claim to know what it was like for you two. It was the unthinkable, the worst calamity a parent can face, and thank the good Lord I haven't had to face it."

Charles listens, although his gaze is taking in the snow that's beginning to fall outside. When he speaks, his tone is extraordinarily tight and measured. "Even though we only had him a week?"

"A week of a child's life is never an 'only.' And Charles, you had the hope of him for many months before that."

Shaking his head, although he doesn't disagree, Charles doesn't stop looking at the drifting snowflakes. "All this is ancient history," he murmurs. "What do I do with the children I have now? Chelsea couldn't possibly understand or care about my motivations, she's almost physically unable to let go of her anger. And Tyler seems determined to follow in my footsteps. He'll try in vain to ride to that White girl's rescue even if he ends up forfeiting his future!"

"I wish I had an answer for you." Frances rises and joins her friend by the window, resting her head against his shoulder. "All we can do with our children is love them, feed them, guide them, and in the end -- trust them."

Charles inhales deeply. "I was afraid of that," he mutters, and kisses Frances's forehead before turning to leave.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Lower Level Parking Garage

The man's grasp tightens around Martina, making her wince with pain and disgust. "At least I've got your home address now," he says, chuckling. "So we can catch up later. But now it looks like I'll have to--"

He doesn't continue, and instantly his hand drags away from Martina's breast. A strange noise emanates from his throat, halfway between a grunt and a cry of surprise, and there's a thumping sound as something slams against the car. She can hear a struggle going on behind her, and finally, despite her panic and the man's instructions, Martina whirls around.

A tall, broad-shouldered stranger holds one hand on her attacker's chest, his right hand pulling back for a punch. He lands it squarely on the white-haired man's jaw, sending him reeling back against the car window.

Martina's attacker recovers with astonishing ease considering the power of the blow, and pulls his gun up to the stranger's chest. With the speed of an expert, the tall man snaps his left hand out to clutch the attacker's wrist, shoving it up in the air, spinning around and brutally twisting it like a butcher tearing the drumstick off a chicken. This time, the short man's voice is unambiguous -- it's a gurgle of agony, loud but not loud enough to cover the sick, snapping sound of his shoulder as it's dislocated from its socket. The gun falls to the ground.

Paralyzed as she watches her attacker sink to his knees, Martina winces at the sight of his contorted expression -- but can't help feeling overwhelming relief. Meanwhile, the stranger glances up at Martina, facing her for the first time. His face glistens with perspiration, although not nearly as much as that of his victim beneath him, and his breathing is smooth and unhurried despite the exertion.

"Thank you," Martina whispers, barely audible. "Thank you."

The man just nods. "Did he hurt you?" When Martina weakly shakes her head, he returns his attention to the groaning attacker. "Good. But he took some things from you, didn't he?"

Before Martina can respond, the stranger takes a fistful of the attacker's hair and jerks him backward. "Tell me where they are," he murmurs. "Or I'll twist your neck as I did your arm."

The attacker says something, but Martina can't hear him due to more approaching sirens. This time, however, they're clearly coming this way. Someone must have witnessed all this and called the police -- or perhaps this stranger himself called 911 himself.

The noise wakes Martina from her numb daze. With a sharp cry, she stumbles over to Clark's body, kneeling down. Her friend groans at her touch, but his eyes open and he sees her. "Marty...?"

"Are you all right?"

"'m okay," Clark mutters, trying to push himself up. As he shifts, his eyes squeeze shut with pain. "What the hell hit me?"

Martina hugs his shoulders. "Don't move, help is coming!"

"Tell 'em to start by shutting those goddamned sirens off. What about you, are you--"

"Fine. I'm fine." As she nods, an ambulance parks itself nearby, and seconds later a police car screeches to a halt. Fortunately for Clark's pounding head, the sirens cut out simultaneously. Doors open and slam shut, and Martina sees two uniformed offers approach them with weapons drawn..

One of them gapes at her with instant recognition. "Marty?"

Martina just looks at him, as happy to see Bill Howard's earnest young face as he is surprised to see hers. "It's all right," she says, more to herself than to him as she bends over Clark's head with a ragged sigh. "It's all right."

Schuyler Falls Police Station

Off Route 58

Maxine Granger waits expectantly, looking up at Frank. He just shakes his head, halfway between amused and annoyed. "I don't think so," he says. "You're not getting anything on Jem Van Doren, or his background, or anything else that's not in the public record. I told you that already."

"Can't blame me for trying. All right, I'll get it myself. So what can you tell me?"

"Same thing I was about to. That at ten-thirty or so, a fire started in the Record's oil heater, sparked by something outside in the--"

"You know that for sure already? That it wasn't the heater itself that malfunctioned?"

"If I didn't know it for sure, I wouldn't be telling you. Yeah, the flashpoint came from outside the heater. Some spark must've landed in through a vent or something, and the thing exploded like it had fifteen roman candles in it -- that's the way it was described by two different witnesses."

"Not the injured parties, presumably. So who?"

"The witnesses' names are currently off the record. Dig 'em up on your own ... if you can."

"Oh, I can." Maxine's confidence brooks no disagreement. "By the way, I heard that one of the victims called 911 during the fire."

"That's right."

"...And that it took something like an hour to get them out of there. Kind of slow, don't you think?"

Frank feels his neck muscles tightening. "Considering the danger, I think they did a damn good job."

"I'm not talking about the EMS and firefighters. I'm talking about your dispatch units. How fast does it usually take--"

"Uh, excuse me, I wasn't aware you were on some kind of 911 investigative task force. And I'm running out of time, here. I'm doing this as a favor, you know." He gestures towards her notebook. "How about you limit your questions to something that might be remotely related to an insurance investigation?"

"Fine. Getting back to the people in the building -- has anyone talked to 'em yet?"

"No," Frank says dryly. "They're busy trying to stay alive."

Maxine cocks her head. "I'm just asking, Sergeant. Not suggesting that you go pull the vics in for questioning. So do you think it was a coincidence that Doug White was one of 'em."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because -- well, he's not Dr. Popularity around town. Or is he such a good friend of your chief that you weren't aware of that?"

Now definitely more annoyed than amused, Frank clears his throat. "Um. So your take is that someone set the fire to target him? On the off-chance that he'd be in a building where he doesn't even work?"

"No. I'm just casting a wide net. I'm sure you do that too, sometimes. Besides," Maxine adds with a shrug, "let's just say these days I'm a little suspicious whenever I hear someone named White is involved in anything."

After a few seconds of thought, Frank nods. "Guess I can see why you might be. I read your deposition in the Nora White sentencing hearing. Pretty uh, interesting stuff."

Maxine's gaze narrows slightly. "You say that like it's an accusation."

"Not an accusation, no. Just made me curious, that's all."

"About what?"

Frank's mouth tightens. "Whether someone like you ever feels guilty about basically aiding and abetting three murders."

Maxine opens her mouth to respond, but she's interrupted by Mike's sharp voice calling to Frank. Turning around, Frank sees his friend rushing towards him, looking pale and grim..

The expression looks familiar. Far too familiar. It's the face of someone on the wrong end of a phone call, the call every person with a loved one dreads.

"What happened," Frank asks, his voice low but hurried. "Talk to me."

Mike's usually smooth motions are jerky and faltering as he pulls on his jacket. "Martina -- she's at the hospital. A robbery and assault. She was held at gunpoint, I don't know--"

"Jesus Christ! Is she all right?"

"I don't know. I mean -- yes, she wasn't shot, but Bill says she's been smacked around and--" Mike's face convulses, and he swallows. "I'm going down there."

"Go. I wish I could go with you, but I'd take too damn long." Frank glares at his leg cast for a second. "Call me when you can, okay?"

With a brief nod, Mike runs out the door. Frank stares after him, his head shaking slightly to himself. "Jesus Christ," he repeats roughly. "Two murders and now this. What the hell is going on in this city?"

"Good question." Maxine's voice surprises him -- he's forgotten she's still here. "Seems to me you have more important things to do than blame me for Nora White's three-year-old crime spree."

Frank turns to her, glowering, and says distinctly: "I think we're through here."

"But I still need to ask--"

"I said we are done!" He holds her gaze for a few heated seconds before using his cane to limp back to his desk.

Clark Durand's Residence

42 Adams Street

Winter's early darkness comes even earlier this afternoon, thanks to the heavy gray clouds overhead. The falling snow brightens things a little, particularly whenever Beth Durand's figure approaches a street lamp, where the flakes are turned into shining golden dots as they pass by the light.

The eight-year-old in the older woman's body tramps homeward, sticking to the unshoveled parts of the sidewalk so she can make footprints in the pristine snow. Clean, unbroken snow annoys her. She likes making a mess, and even though the borrowed leather loafers Beth's wearing are getting ruined, Bitsy grins crookedly in satisfaction while kicking some snow in front of her on her way.

As she crosses the quiet street, a dog starts barking at her from one of the neighbors' yards. Sticking her lower lip out in irritation, Bitsy slows down to stare at the big ugly thing. It's black with brown patches over its shoulder, and wears a thick collar with little metal discs that jangle when its head moves. Which is happening a lot now, since the closer Bitsy gets to the picket fence, the more angry and agitated the animal gets.

"Just shut up," she says to it, glaring. "You just shut up."

Pulling at its long chain, the dog bounds forward, unable to move any farther but still straining to reach her. It's white teeth look deadly, and the pink tongue lolling out whenever it barks makes Bitsy grimace in disgust.

She bends down, grabs a handful of snow and pats it into a hard ball, and -- looking on either side of her first -- flings it at the dog. "Shut up and go away!" she cries, watching the snow explode in the animal's face.

This doesn't seem to do anything but anger him further, and Bitsy wishes she could find a good rock to throw.

She doesn't like dogs, never has. Cats are no better, even the one that the Durand family used to have a long time ago. Luckily she was able to make it disappear, which no one ever blamed her for, although Molly used to look at her with suspicion. Then again, Molly looks at everyone like that.

Bored with taunting the animal, she continues down the street, running her bare fingers through the snow that's settled on the parked cars she passes by, making little zigzag patterns. Feeling naughty, she's tempted to scrape a curse word or two in the crusting ice on the windows of the silver car parked right across the street from Clark's house, but some cars driving past change her mind about that.

Finally she walks up into the driveway of Beth's brother's home, glad that his car's not there. At least she'll have the house to herself. She's in no mood to see anyone, now that she finally has control of things. She can use the time to play or listen to music or watch TV and no one can tell her she can't.

But when she clomps up the stairs, kicking the snow and dirt from her shoes, her sharp brown gaze flicks to the left, spying someone leaning against the left wall of the porch. "What do you want," she snaps, furious to have her plans ruined.

The tall man steps forward, wearing a dark wool coat that makes his skin look very pale. Bitsy recognizes him at once. The others, Amanda and Molly especially, would be surprised to know that she knows who he is. But Bitsy knows a lot more than a girl her age should. And she's always paid very close attention to whatever the others in the household -- even Beth herself -- get themselves up to.

He looks intently at her. "You had to know I'd find you eventually."

"You're not supposed to be here," she says, lifting her chin and walking to the door. "Go away."

But he doesn't. Instead, he advances towards her and blocks her path -- and from the look on his face, Tristan Campbell has no intention of leaving.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Emergency Department (ER)

Noise and quickly moving bodies are the first things Mike notices upon entering the hospital's ER, but as he wipes a restless hand through his snow-dampened hair, his gaze falls on Bill Howard. The beefy young man stands near a curtained partition, talking to someone apparently sitting within the blocked off area.

Striding forward, Mike brushes past several people before calling his name from a few feet away. Bill, turning around, nods at him and with a last word to the person inside the curtain, heads to meet Mike. "She's all right," Bill says, for the third time since he phoned in the news. "Calm down before you go in there. I can tell you're already off the deep end--"

"I'm fine. I wanna know what happened before I see her. The less I need to ask --"

"Okay, of course." Bill quickly fills him in on the crime, using as objective a tone as possible considering Mike's obvious rising anger. At last he finishes up: "Alvarez took the guy in, you probably just missed them down at the shop. I'll telll you this, Mikey, he's been around the block, this guy. Clammed up and asked for his lawyer the second we read him his rights. I bet he's already made his call."

Mike's temples throb. "How's Durand?"

"Got a splitting headache, blurred vision and a lump on his head the size of Maine, but other than that he's fine."

"And this Good Samaritan?"

"They took him off to deal with his cuts and bruises. The perp laid in one blow to his cheek, cut him a little, but other than that he's --"

"I mean, who is he?"

"Don't know. He clammed up pretty good too, but once they stitch up the cheek he's gonna be out to talk to me."

Silently, Mike glances towards the curtain. Bill nods and continues: "Like I told you on the phone. Bruises on her throat where he choked her, a cut on her temple thanks to his getting playful with the gun, and some contusions on her back where he slammed her against the wall and car. Luckily that's the only physical damage he got a chance to do."

Got a chance... Mike feels a stab of nausea at the thought of what else the man intended, but just thanks Bill and -- after rubbing a nervous hand across his mouth -- quietly moves behind the curtain.

At first Martina doesn't notice his approach, and Mike has a few seconds to look her over, his heart aching at the sight. She looks small and defeated in her grimy silk shirt and trousers, sitting on the end of a bed, her dark, chocolate-brown hair falling into her face as she looks down at the floor.

But when she lifts her head and spies him, her widening, dark eyes still somehow sparkle with life. And she's even able to offer him a weak smile.

"So, Detective," she says, her voice scratchy. "This is what I have to do to get you to leave work early?"

A slight moan escaping his lips, Mike moves to forward at once, careful to be gentle when wrapping his muscular arms around her. "Martina," he whispers into her hair, closing his eyes. "My Martina." After a moment, he pulls away just a little so he can meet her gaze. "Are they doing whatever they need to with your injuries?"

"Already done. There wasn't really much, I -- did Bill tell you...?"

"Yeah. He filled me in." He caresses her curling hair, brushing it from her pale face. "You can tell me about it too, if you want. Oh God, Martina, it must have been--"

"It was," she says bluntly. "But I'm all right. If that man hadn't come around, I don't know what would have happened." She winces a little when his movements inadvertently pull at the cut just above her ear, and Mike instantly stops. When she continues, her voice is much quieter. "Honey, I can go home now, can't I? I don't have to go to the station--"

"No, no. There's no need for anything like that when the bastard's been caught dead to rights. His lawyer can't claim we've got the wrong guy, that's for damn sure."

Martina lifts an eyebrow and gives a small ironic laugh. "He'll come up with something else. That's what I would do if --"

The curtain parts, stopping her comments, and Mike turns to see a tall, very fit man with short dark blond hair, a black leather coat and a medium-sized bandage above his cheekbone. His dark brown eyes focus on Mike first, then Martina.

Behind him, Bill Howard appears. "Our Good Samaritan here's a little shy," Bill says, nodding at the stranger briefly. "Looks like he's not big on getting thanked for stopping a crime."

"One does what one has to," the man murmurs, giving Martina a shake of his head. "No reason to make a fuss."

Martina moves herself away from Mike, wanting a clearer view of the tall newcomer. "But there is. There's every reason. I could've been killed, or -- you could've been killed."

"I doubt the latter very much. He wasn't much of a fighter."

"But he had a gun."

Bill nods. "We found a nasty blade on him too. If he'd gotten that out during your scrimmage, it wouldn't have mattered how good a fighter he was." He looks at Mike. "I'm looking forward to getting his yellow sheet, I can tell you that much. A regular street thug doesn't usually carry around that much of an armory, just to grab some jewelry and a wallet -- which we can't find, by the way. He didn't have anything on him, so he probably tossed the evidence the minute he saw us."

Martina turns to the other man. "I remember now ... you were trying to force him to hand my things back. Did you find them? I forgot all about--"

"Yes, don't worry. It took a little digging, I'm afraid, but ..." The man grins and pulls the rings, necklace and wallet from his coat pocket. "Here you are. Safely kept for you."

Her eyes brimming with tears, Martina clasps the shining jewelry in the palm of her hand. "Thank you. I didn't care about the money, but all these things are very important to me. Thank you!"

Mike keeps his gaze on the stranger, lifting an eyebrow. "That's what I call a good citizen," he says, smiling a little. "Although it doesn't sound like you're from around here. Too bad, we could use one of you on every street corner. So you mind telling us your name?"

The curtain pulls back further, revealing yet another visitor. Martina inhales sharply and pushes herself off the bed. "Clark! How are you feeling?"

Still looking a little dazed, Clark lifts his hand to clasp hers. "I've been better. I'm not seeing double anymore, at least. Which is why I'm here, I wanted to see you and make sure you're okay."

"Yes." She hugs him. "I am, and I'm so glad you're all right too."

Clark looks over Martina's head to catch Mike's gaze. "Hello there."

"Like Martina says, I'm glad you're all right. We'll have to get a statement from all three of you."

"All I saw were blurs."

"Well, our friend here will have to do most of the talking."

Not having noticed the stranger's presence, Clark laughs dryly as he turns to face him. "At least I can finally get a look at our rescuer so I can thank-- oh my God, you?"

Mike frowns at the obvious shock in Clark's tone, and stares at the dark golden-haired man. "At least you two know each other. So you mind sharing your name with the rest of us?"

The other man meets Clark's gaze, then swivels towards Mike again. "Of course not," he says with an off-center smile, and holds out a hand. "Noah Morgan."

Cameron Nichols' Residence

East Cornwall, New York

Inside the wood-paneled hallway, Adele Nichols pauses briefly as the butler slips her cashmere coat off her shoulders. The cold from the outside is only a memory now in her son's warm, well-insulated home, but Adele's ivory cheeks are still flushed from the wind and snow. One hand absently touches the white-gold waves in her hair, fluffing it a little, but her mind is focusing on more important things than maintaining her appearance.

"Who's at home, Randall?"

The gray-haired servant folds her coat carefully over his arm, turning to her on his way to the closet. "Mrs. Nichols, madam," he replies, referring to Danielle. "Only Mr. Nichols and Mister Ian are expected at table for dinner."

"The twins are enjoying their holidays, I see. Were there any calls while I was out?"

"Yes, madam. A Mr. Bishop called less than fifteen minutes ago. He said he would be unable to be reached by phone, and dictated a message for you." Randall hands her a folded slip of notepaper, heavy cream stock with a stylized "N" embossed on top.

"Thank you -- particularly for your discretion, Randall."

With a slight nod, understanding her instruction, the butler disappears down the hall. Adele makes her way into the study, where she sits in a rust-colored leather chair beside the fireplace. At last she flips open the note to read the words in Randall's firm, neat hand.

"I must regretfully relay the unfortunate news that the package will not be delivered after all, as the courier was unavoidably detained before he could complete the order. Our contact assures me that the courier will be terminated by his supervisor as soon as possible, but I nonetheless informed them of my deep dissatisfaction with and lack of confidence in the company's shoddy performance. I will hold off on arranging a second attempted delivery pending your further instructions."

Adele's mouth tightens into a line. Finesse didn't work, she thinks as she slowly rips the thick paper into small pieces. And now force fails as well. What will it take to get that damnable necklace in my hands?

Leaning over, she scatters the remains of the card into the fireplace, watching the flames devour it and leave behind only ashes.