As was his habit, Lance emptied out his pockets onto the table just inside the door: keys, wallet, badge, spare change, pocket knife, and Ethan's and Bruenner's business cards. His gun and spare clip went into the drawer. He flipped on a couple of lights on his way back to the working bathroom, his mind still on the events of the evening. It had surprised him to run into Ethan like he had, but it had been good to catch up with his old student. It was just a shame the evening had to get shot to hell, literally. And that had him thinking about Bruenner.

Hot and cold running water had to be one of mankind's greatest innovations, he mused as he turned on the bath tap. He knew from experience that a long, hot shower was the only way to get rid of the cat dander. If he waited until morning, he'd be itchy and grouchy: two dwarves he could do without. He reached for the shampoo bottle and began working his collar-length hair into a good lather, lost in thought.

He was almost positive Bruenner was what was commonly called a pre-Immortal, meaning an Immortal who hadn't suffered a violent death effectively triggering their innate ability to heal and survive damn near anything. Lance had met a few pre-Immortals in his lifetime, but mostly in passing. As the Fates would have it, he and Bruenner were now partners for however long it took to find Sarah and bring Johnson's killer to light. He didn't necessarily want to use the word "justice" since in all reality, the guy had done the world a favor. He scrubbed at his scalp, thinking about the dilemma: to tell her, or not to tell her, such was the question.

If he didn't tell her, there was every possibility she would go through life, find a chap, settle down, and die of old age. The reverse of that coin was that if she didn't know, died violently, and woke up in a morgue somewhere, she had every right to know something like that might happen. He doubted he could find a medical ID bracelet designed for pre-Immortals: make sure I don't wake up first. Of course, there was yet another coin in that pocket. He could always tell her, and there was every possibility she'd think he was cracked, go off to lead a normal life and die of old age. Again, the flip-side was if she did die violently, she would already know what to expect. He supposed the true question wasn't so much whether or not to tell her, but whether or not it was his responsibility.

It was the old paradox of telling someone how, when and where they would die. Would they then try everything to avoid it, only to end up dead or would they accept their fate, and enjoy the time given to them? Each person was different and he supposed that was what was so tricky about the "free will" argument. Deciding he'd done enough waxing philosophical, he concentrated on the shower. It had taken the better part of an hour, four goes with the shampoo bottle, and another three with the soap before he finally felt free of any lingering cat. Feeling much better for it, Lance wandered off to bed.
* * *

The next morning started cool and sunny, perfect weather for riding his softtail to the station. If there was any canvassing to do, he would be borrowing one of the Crown Vics anyway. He blinked in surprise when he spotted Bruenner's Eclipse parked in his customary spot, third from the door against the wall of the building. His relatively good mood shot to hell, Lance parked his Harley in the next spot down and wandered inside just as roll-call was starting. That meant he was about an hour earlier than usual. After getting a cup of coffee from the breakroom, he headed to his desk.

Preliminary reports from trace, ballistics and the ME were waiting on his desk. Both sets of DNA had been processed. The perp was a complete mystery. No record, and his fingerprints weren't on file. Johnson's DNA and prints had already been run through the system, and had turned up hits on several other either open or unsolved cases involving missing girls between the ages of seven and twelve. He'd tell Bruenner about that later, after he'd gone through the other reports.

Trace had also done an analysis on a hair found at the scene, probably the perp's. From their tests, it looked like the guy had been a meth addict for at least the past six months or so. That explained the break-in. He was probably looking for something to fence for cash to buy either cooking supplies or finished product. Johnson surprised him with the knife, and the guy shot him.

The third report was from ballistics. Three casings had been found at the scene which happened to match the three bullets dug out of Johnson's torso. All three .45 slugs had the distinctive left-hand twist of a Colt, and the number of grooves was consistent with a M1911A1. Lance rubbed his face. Hell, his gun could've been used, if it hadn't been firmly tucked in his shoulder holster, and if he hadn't been sitting with Ethan at the time. With a sigh, he began digging through DMV records for any early-model Rangers that matched the description given by neighbors.

Next to hot and cold running water and electricity, computers and electronic databases were the best things mankind had ever invented. What would've taken days, or even weeks, a few decades ago, now only took a few hours. The printer next to his desk hummed as it printed a sheet and a half of search results. Lance grabbed a pen out of his desk and quickly struck through any that were white, silver or red. That left about seven to actually interview. Noting the addresses, it would probably take the rest of the afternoon. Realizing he'd put off talking to Bruenner long enough, he went to go find her.

Lance found her in the smallest of the conference rooms, surrounded by stacks of CDs, laptop, LAN-line phone, Styrofoam cups, and wrappers from various vending machine snacks. Lance grabbed a trashcan from a nearby unoccupied desk and set it inside the door.

"Thanks," she replied, without looking up from the computer.

"Find anything?"

"Other than Johnson was a sick, sad, sadistic son of a bitch?" she asked, sarcastically. "This guy was wanted in four other states in cases just like Sarah's, only in those, they never found the little girls until it was too late. Johnson's DNA matches at least six other unsolved cases. Each one involves a young girl, no much older than ten, kidnapped, raped, held for months on end until he was tired of them, then for his finale, he'd strangle them while giving them one last ride."

"Bloody hell," Lance whispered softly. "All those CDs?"

"They're all crammed with photographs and videos of him and at least twelve other girls. We've already identified Sarah on the more recent ones, and a few of the girls from the open cases..."

"But not all of them," he finished bluntly. "So this guy was a pedophile, serial kidnapper, rapist and murderer. This just keeps getting better."

"And we're still no closer to finding Sarah," Bruenner added, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "And I have no idea where to start looking. The only one who might know that is your killer."

There was no mistaking the subtle hint in her voice. They needed to find the perp pronto. Lance held up his sheaf of DMV reports. "Seven early-model Rangers that are either green, dark gray or black."

"Let's go," Bruenner replied, standing up and pulling on a black leather motorcycle jacket.

"Bruenner," Lance growled in warning.

"Do I need to remind you, Detective, that this is not just a kidnapping case, but an international kidnapping case?"

"A guy is dead, in my city. He ran a kiddie porn outfit in my city, Agent Bruenner. I think that trumps kidnapping."

She crossed her long arms over her chest, refusing to give an inch. "If that little girl turns up dead because we stood here bickering over lead like a couple of two-year-olds, I'll have your badge."

"This threatening me with the Uncle AJ thing is getting old, Bruenner, and it won't work."

"Fuck this up, and AJ will be the worst of your problems," she warned, her own voice a husky, sexy growl. "Not only will the Feds be investigating, but so will Interpol, and you can just bet you won't be handing out so much as a parking ticket when they're done with you. And I think that trumps murder."

"Are you pulling rank on me?" Lance drew himself up to his full 6'4" height and glared at her.

"You're damn right I am," she retorted, still not giving a quarter.

Lance continued to glare at her. Infuriatingly, Bruenner refused to back down. The tension that ebbed and flowed around them could've dulled a chainsaw. The last thing he wanted, or needed, was Interpol digging into his life. Even the best of backstories could be nitpicked to death, no matter how airtight they appeared to be, and being outed as a two-thousand-year-old Roman who had a problem staying dead wasn't high on his priority list.

"Do you know what you are?" he growled, leaning over her until they were practically nose-to-nose.

"What's that?" Bruenner shot back.

"A pain in my ass," Lance retorted.

"Speaking of which, I'm going to be sticking close to you, and your ass, making sure that this investigation goes by the book," she hissed back.

Stifling a growl, Lance stormed off back to his desk.

"Just where do you think you're going?" Bruenner snapped, joining him.

"Off to grab a bite to eat and then I have a truck to find."

"Not without me, you're not."

Lance couldn't hide a cheeky smile as he leaned over her. "Oh, that's right," he said softly. "You want my ass."

Bruenner's cheeks flushed a guilty shade of peach as she opened her mouth in protest. "That isn't what I meant."

He grabbed his aviator-style sunglasses off his desk before turning to leave. He was waiting for a walk light just outside the precinct when Bruenner caught up with him.

"So, tell me, Arturo, are you always this charming, or am I just lucky?"

"I'm always charming," he retorted. "Except around FBI Special Agents who butt in on my investigation and pull rank."

Without another word, Lance started across the street and down the block with Bruenner having to use every square inch of her long legs just to keep up with him.

This part of downtown Brimerston was a charming enclave of shops, mostly antique dealers, storefronts dating back to the Fifties, a few restaurants, an art gallery or two, an old-timey soda fountain/coffee shop, and a few bars. It was a beautiful mid-spring day, and he was glad to get out of the office for a bit, even if his company was less than enthusiastic. Lance frowned as he opened the door to Sam's. Marla looked up from wiping down one of the tables.

"Buon giorno, Marla," he greeted the plump waitress.

"Detective Arturo, back so soon? Your friend, il professore, isn't here. And who is this?" Marla teased, giving Bruenner an approving look.

"Natalie Bruenner, FBI, ma'am."

"Natale?" Marla repeated, pronouncing it "nah-TAL-lee."

Bruenner tried correcting Marla on pronouncing her name NAT-ah-lee, but wasn't having much success. She finally gave up and let Marla take their orders. Lance couldn't help smirking as he slid into a booth.

"What's so funny?" Bruenner grouched when Marla wandered off to the back to get their drinks.

"Your name," Lance replied bluntly, still smirking. "In Italian, Natale means 'Christmas.' It's the Italian equivalent of Noël."

"So, you know Italian as well as French," she remarked sarcastically. "Trying to show off?"

"I studied French in high school and Italian in college."

Thankfully, Marla returned with their drinks (sweet tea for him and Coke for her) and to take their orders before Bruenner could start interrogating him about his school days. Lance ordered a meatball calzone while Bruenner ordered a big greasy cheeseburger with fries.

"Look, Bruenner," he said, trying to play peacemaker. "I want to find Sarah as much as you do."

"No, you don't," she retorted sharply. "I've spent the last two years of my life working on this. Two years of following leads, hitting dead ends, having to tell her parents, 'no, I haven't found her, yet.' Now, I'm practically back to square one. I have nothing to go on except whoever shot Johnson."

Lance rubbed the back of his neck, trying to brush away the persistent pre-Immortal tickle. He kept trying to tell himself it wasn't his place to tell her about her fate, besides it wasn't exactly the right time, anyway.

"Tell you what, after lunch we'll go back to the station, and see if anything's turned up with that APB I put out last night."

Bruenner looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you being so agreeable all of a sudden?"

Lance mumbled something as he took a drink from his glass.

"What was that?"

"You're right," he grumbled. Bruenner blinked in surprise. "Fighting isn't going to find Sarah."

Bruenner narrowed her eyes at him warily. "It was Interpol wasn't it? You're hiding something."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why would a law-abiding detective be afraid of Interpol?"

"Bruenner," he growled warningly.

"What could Detective Michael Lance Arturo possibly be hiding?"

"I said drop it."

Again, Marla saved the day by depositing their food on the table. Maybe he should tell Bruenner the truth about herself. Maybe then she'd quit being such a pain in the ass about finding out about him. It was just on the tip of his tongue to say something when Bruenner spoke first.

"How do you want to work on these trucks? Split up, cover more ground?"

As appealing as a Bruenner-free afternoon sounded, he shook his head. If one of those owners knew anything about Sarah, she needed to be there. He'd never hear the end of it if she wasn't.

"We'll talk to six," Lance answered after washing down a bite of calzone.

"Weren't there seven?"

"Yeah, but it'll take the rest of the afternoon tracking down those six," he replied. "Seven is way the hell up in the hills. Best to drive out there in the morning."

Bruenner nodded, popping a french fry into her mouth.

"I see you drove down," Lance remarked, trying to make small talk, and at least attempt to be civil.

Bruenner's eyes practically glowed. "Yeah, I did. Couldn't resist."

He raised an eyebrow in question.

"Let's see, my choices were either go through the hassle that is airport security, baggage claim and sitting next to some schmuck who won't shut up about something or other, or drive, see something of the countryside whilst driving down some pretty fun back-roads. Gee, I wonder."

He had to admit, she had a point. He'd ridden some of those same roads on either his Harley or in his Jeep.

"If you like back-roads, just wait until tomorrow," Lance replied.

"Why?"

"Number seven. I know the guy. Lives up an old logging trail. We'll have to take my Jeep. A Crown Vic wouldn't get two miles down that road."

"Sounds like fun. Why not just go see him first?"

"It'd be dark by the time we got back out of there, and I'd rather drive that trail with as much sunlight as possible."

The truth of the matter was that he and Zeb "Mooney" Wainwright went way back, back to when they both worked with Elliot Ness. He couldn't believe that the old man had anything to do with Sarah or killing Johnson. Lance couldn't be sure, but the last time he'd seen Mooney, Wainwright still had his Colt M1911A1 that had been his sidearm of choice when they went after Capone. Between that and the truck, it wasn't looking good for him. Throw in the fact that Mooney was a mortal who knew Lance's secret, and he was pretty far down the list of people he wanted Bruenner to know about, at least not for awhile yet.

"Where to first?" she asked after a moment, absently swirling a fry in a pool of ketchup.

"Back to the station," Lance answered, wiping his mouth on a napkin and digging out his wallet. "See if that APB's turned up anything —"

"I meant the trucks," Bruenner interrupted. "Who's first?"

"Thought we'd start on the outskirts first, then work our way in. That way we'll be closer to town at the end of the day."

"Makes sense," she answered.

Lance set a glass on top of the bills and the check Marla had left. Bruenner raised her eyebrow at the rather generous tip.

"For putting up with me," he replied with a sardonic grin. "I eat here more than at the house."

Bruenner gave him a once-over out of the corner of her eye. "I can tell."

Lance squared his shoulders indignantly. Alright, so he wasn't in the best of shape anymore, but gone were the days of horseback riding in full armor, being on the march for days, and less-than-nutritional camp rations.

Getting back to the station, he and Bruenner filled in Hauldren on what they knew so far. Hauldren nodded and they discussed the two Rangers that had been discovered the night before. One had been pulled over for DUI and the other had out-of-town plates. Neither matched the description Mrs. Beasley had given them. They then spent the rest of the day combing the greater Brimerston area.

Of the six, one was in an impound lot for parking violations and had been since March. A second had found a more-or-less permanent home on blocks in its owner's side yard. Truck Number 3's owner had a broken right leg, and could barely walk, much less drive. Four was out of town looking in on an elderly mother. Five had been totaled three days before the murder. Which left six, who had been at a block party. That had been corroborated by at least ten witnesses. That left Mooney's truck.

"What time do you want to head out tomorrow?" Bruenner asked as he pulled the tank of a Crown Vic back into the precinct lot.

"Probably around eight," Lance answered. "I'll pick you up at the hotel and we'll go from there. Should get out to Mooney's place around eleven or so."

"Three hours?"

"It isn't the distance that's the problem. The trail's time consuming if nothing else."

Bruenner nodded as she dug her own keys out of her pocket. "Don't be late," was all she said before heading to her car and driving off.

It was just past dinnertime when Lance pulled into his driveway. The next day promised to be clear and warm, perfect weather for leaving the top off the Jeep. It was a struggle, but he finally managed to get the heavy vinyl top tucked away into the detached garage. Lance stood back a few paces, debating on whether or not to take off the doors. In the end, he decided to leave them on since there was every possibility they might hit some muddy spots on the trail.


The next morning, Lance made a point to show up early to Bruenner's hotel. He'd even managed to call her cell phone before she was even awake. He could barely hide a smug grin as he pulled around to a parking space near her room. The Bureau had put her up in one of the nicer, long-term, franchise hotel chains. Instead of rooms, the suites were more like cottages, each with their own postage-stamp-sized garden complete with just-blooming spring flowers. All in all, the place was pretty swanky.

Lance quickly found room 4B and knocked on the front door. He waited for a couple minutes before knocking again. A couple more minutes passed, and Bruenner still didn't answer the door. Lance knocked again, a little bit louder this time. He was about to knock on the door for a fourth time when a dripping wet Bruenner flung open the door wearing a towel, a very menacing glare and not much else. Lance swallowed compulsively. She definitely wasn't hard on the eyes.

"Dammit, Arturo, how'd you get here so fast?"

Lance checked his watch. It was just past seven-thirty and he'd probably called her about fifteen minutes before. "I didn't want to be late."

Bruenner harrumphed as she walked back towards the bedroom. "I just made some coffee, and there's a breakfast bar in the lobby. My key's on the table."

He knew a dismissal when he heard one. Pocketing the key card, Lance went off to partake of the breakfast bar. Although it wasn't really all that much, he decided to take his time in order to give Bruenner a chance to change into something more substantial than a towel. He put a couple of bagels and two single-size serving containers of cream cheese into a sack and headed back to Bruenner's room. He was relatively surprised to find she had turned on one of the satellite music stations. Some classic rock song from the mid-Eighties blared out of the television speakers. Bruenner was nowhere in sight, so he just assumed she was still getting ready. He was right in the middle of spreading cheese on the second half of a bagel when Bruenner grabbed the first half.

"Help yourself," he groused.

"Thanks," she replied, sitting down at the table and propping her feet up on a chair. Aside from the lack of shoes, Bruenner looked ready for a hike in the woods. She was wearing another pair of jeans that accentuated her long, lanky legs and a light blue, long-sleeved, v-neck t-shirt layered over a white tank top. Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail. "So, where are we going?"

"Hell," Lance replied, absolutely deadpan.

Bruenner blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Mooney's place. He calls it Hell's Mountain."

"Any particular reason why?"

Lance shrugged. "Make it sound scary, I guess. Lots of battles have been fought around there: Civil War, Indian raids, even some Revolutionary War skirmishes happened up there."

"Sounds like a fun place," she remarked. "And what about Mooney?"

"What about him?"

"Do you think he has Sarah?"

Lance shook his head and took a bite of his own bagel half. "He's pushing ninety, Bruenner, and he rarely comes down out of those hills."

"Then what's the deal with his truck?"

"I think his grandson uses it more than he does."

He could see Bruenner perk up, by the way she pulled her feet to the floor. "How old is he?"

"Early twenties, I think," Lance replied.

What he didn't want to say was that Devin very probably matched the description given by Mrs. Beasley. On top of all that, he remembered how Mooney had held Devin's tennis scholarship in disdain. Old Zeb thought that if the boy was going to go to college, he should have gotten in by his smarts, not some "namby pamby" sport like tennis.

"Let me get my boots and we'll go," Bruenner said, finishing the last of her bagel.

Lance hunted around in the cabinets as she tugged on socks and rugged hiking boots. After a few tries, he found what he was looking for. Nice of the hotel to supply leak-resistant coffee cups. He poured them both a cup as Bruenner turned off the TV and its blaring rock music and grabbed a black leather motorcycle jacket. With coffee in hand, they walked out to the waiting Jeep. Bruenner smirked as she climbed in.

"Hope it doesn't rain," she remarked.

Lance looked up into the clear, bright blue sky. "Doubt it. Too dry."

A few moments later, they were on the highway headed west into the mountains. It really was a perfect day for a drive up into the mountains. The temperature was just a shade over seventy degrees and would probably drop a bit when they hit the shade of the forest on the way up to Mooney's trailer. The only thing ruining it was the fact that little Sarah Knightly was still missing and Johnson's killer might have taken her.