Fan Fiction

by Kitty Woldow

- 4.27   Visions of the Dark Night - 49

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What will be our last thought,
Do you think it's coming soon?
Will it be of comfort,
Or the pain of a burning wound?

All we are trying to say is
We are all we've got -
You and me just cannot fail
If we never, never stop.
Ah! Never stop. ⁽¹⁾

"Man, are you sure this is a good idea?" Sonny Crockett asked dubiously, as the long, aqua Cadillac slid into a parking spot. He glanced around, running a hand through his long hair, raking it into a semblance of order after the ride.

"Of course it's not a good idea," Rico agreed. "But we've been keeping watch on and trying to get close to Esquemeling for over two months and we don't even know how he commutes from that yacht to shore yet. This is the first time either of us has had even a nibble, so I thought, 'what the hell?'" Pulling the key from the ignition, he flashed a brilliant grin at his partner. "Had some other plans for tonight?"

Sonny smirked tightly back, then broke into a real smile. "No," he admitted, automatically scanning the back of the decrepit warehouse, indistinguishable from any of the other rotting buildings in the run-down industrial district. "But I'm sure something better than this would have shown up."

"Now what could be more fun than meeting a drug connection in the middle of the night in a deserted warehouse in the bad part of town?" Tubbs took a perverse delight in Crockett's disgusted look, then softened his approach a little. "Besides, if he can connect us with the inner circle, we can get this case moving toward a conclusion. Maybe get some evidence, make a bust for a change of pace. Then, we take some well-deserved time off. That's worth a shot, isn't it?"

"Yeah, if he's on the up and up. So why can't he call the office and make a decent daylight appointment like all the other dealers?" Crockett ran the other hand through his hair as well, then gave up and climbed out of the car, slamming the door shut a little harder than necessary.

"Hey, don't be abusing my car because you can't get enough beauty sleep, partner," Tubbs objected. His good humor seemed unshakable. "You knew the job was dangerous when you took it."

"You sure do know how to show a girl a good time, Rico," Sonny muttered, and shrugged his left shoulder to settle the holster carrying the heavy 645 more comfortably as he followed Tubbs into the building.

Martin was dozing lightly, disconnected random images that weren't yet cohesive enough to be dreams skittering across the top of his mind. Even in repose he seemed lithely dangerous, half tensed toward sudden lethal motion. The shadows that draped around him and gathered in the deep folds of the long silk robe he wore softened the shape of his face, accentuating the dark eyebrows and mustache but smoothing the lines between that spoke of too many years alone, too much power leashed in silence. A subtle, nearly imperceptible shift in the rhythm of his breathing was the only outward notice that his dreaming was uneasy.

Sonny and Rico were entering a dark warehouse, their footsteps echoing in the empty space. Their hushed voices carried clearly to the nearby ambusher.

"This feels wrong, Rico," Sonny hissed as they progressed further into the apparently deserted building. Long bars of light from the street lamp outside made the contrasting shadows impenetrably dark. "I don't like it."

"Me neither," Tubbs relied, the first hint of wariness beginning to edge his voice. "He was supposed to meet us here on the hour." Without exchanging an obvious signal between them, they spread apart, walking silently and keeping track of the area behind them as well as to their front.

"I hate these sleazy midnight rendezvous," Crockett mumbled to himself, and snaked his right hand under his jacket, nervously caressing the thumb break on his holster.

Castillo shifted slightly, his breath beginning to roughen as he slipped in and out of contact. The vision was true, he knew that much with complete confidence; the stark reality surrounding the images was easily distinguishable from the undirected flow of a fiction created by his subconscious. It took an effort to maintain the connection, and he drew on reserves that had lain dormant so long they were nearly forgotten, expanding the range of his view to locate the third presence that lurked in waiting.

The dark figure crouched lower behind the concealing pile of heaped boxes, the gun barrel gleaming with dull reflections as it lifted to track Sonny.

"What would you think about splitting up, covering this place fast, and then getting the hell out?" Rico proposed, still moving forward carefully.

A pace behind, Crockett was walking almost sideways, his senses extended into the darkness around them. It took a moment before he answered in a distracted voice. "Depends. If he just didn't show, it's great. If this is a set-up, it's the worst idea I've heard since the one to come here in the first - " Faint rustling noises from a stack of crates to the side interrupted him and he drew his .45, falling into a combat crouch, the whole action accomplished in less than a second. Behind him, he could hear the faint sound of metal on leather as Tubbs also drew, and the two waited for an eternity that lasted only another few seconds before a large, dark rat scurried out from between two stacks, ran along the base of a crate, and abruptly disappeared into a small hole. In the ensuing silence, the two detectives looked at each other, their expressions reflecting a wry humor at their own jumpiness. As Rico slid his revolver back into the holster on his belt, Sonny relaxed upward out of his stance, shrugged, and said, "Your contact, your call."

Rico considered for a moment, then decided, "It's a good, clean opening, supposed to be one of Esquemeling's minor distributors that heard about our offer on the street. I think he's just eyeballing Burnett and Cooper for the boss. I say we check it out, then go home. If he ain't here, we charge him double next time for keeping us up past our bedtimes."

"You got it, pal," Sonny replied. "And next time, get us a better class of meeting room, too, huh?" With his gun clasped in both hands and pointing upward, he sidled away from his partner and moved toward the wall, where a doorway was barely visible in the shadow. The feeble light picked wan gold highlights from his hair as he moved past one of the windows, making him look like a pale, haloed ghost as he shifted away from the better illuminated area toward the darker side room.

As he moved into the room, Crockett's light shirt was the perfect background to contrast the front sight of the blued magnum pistol against, as it came into alignment with the rear sight's notch.

His concentration broke for a fraction of a second as a personal concern for the outcome of the unfolding events overrode the detatchment necessary to maintain his view of them. As long as he only watched, he did not affect that outcome, but he could not calmly watch while his two best men were murdered. That he thought of them, Sonny especially, as friends also, was a factor in his decision which he acknowledged only to himself. There was a way to join in, to tilt the balance where another presence would make a critical difference, but he would have to do it by making direct contact with one of the participants.

Martin closed his eyes again, and deliberately began sinking himself back into trance, quickly sliding deeper with each breath. Though he had never been in link with Sonny, he had noted several occasions when the young detective had shown clear signs of latent ability. It was reasonable to believe that he would be able to affect such a light contact that Crockett would merely have another of his odd hunches, without ever knowing the source.

The distance was easier to bridge with a definite focus to aim for, and his consciousness slipped into place at his destination only seconds too late, the ringing echo of the shot still rebounding from the walls of the small room.

He felt nothing but the pressure of the blow at first, then a bone-deep weakness that spread from the entrance wound to the more ragged hole in his back, encompassing his whole body. His hand still clutched his Smith & Wesson, knuckles whitening on the grip as he fell with a soft gasp first to his knees, then slumped forward to lie on the dirty floor. Blood soaked his shirt and then through his jacket, plastering it to him and forming a wet, sticky bandage of silk and linen.

Running footsteps came closer, then slowed in caution, sounding as if they were fading in and out as his consciousness wavered and the creeping cold of oncoming shock spread through him. At the edges of his unsteady awareness the pain came seeping, slowly at first, then gathering momentum until it rocked him with its power, sweeping all other sensation away.

Completely unshielded, Crockett's pain washed through Martin, making it difficult to concentrate and threatening the tenuous link he had established. Allowing his light touch on Sonny's mind to become a firmer hold, he quickly set blocks against the agony, assessing the damage even as he banished the feeling of it. The feather light questing of Sonny's untrained mind, turned inward but not knowing what it sought, brushed the edge of his controls and without effort Castillo deflected it; still preferring to remain unrecognized, though he could not stay unnoticed. Even with his aid, Sonny was failing, his spirit beginning to fade toward the realms Martin had often seen from a distance, but never entered.

Dimly he could hear Rico's approach as he zeroed in on the sound of his partner's pain-harsh gasping breath. Within the room, the slight sound of a hammer drawing back revealed the ambusher's intent to take a second victim, and Martin knew he had to try to stop that killing, however futile his efforts might be.

Unable to exert enough sheer force over the distance separating them to raise a physical warning from the weakened Crockett, Martin reached out desperately, riding the subtle bond between Sonny and Rico to warn the latter.

The passage of power across that hidden bridge stirred a reaction in Crockett that nothing else could have, even the inexplicable surcease of pain that left him only numb and weak. He twisted his neck, eyes searching the darkness ahead of him for a sign of the killer's location.

Tubbs slid through the doorway behind him, momentarily framed in silhouette, and the .357's immediate blast gave Sonny all the information he needed.

Castillo made contact too late by the merest fraction of a second, slipping unopposed into Rico's consciousness at precisely the same instant the attacker fired.

Crockett's hand twitched, then shifted as the ambusher fired a second time, pulling the dead weight of his gun into line and squeezing the trigger twice. It bucked in his hand, throwing brass and lighting the room with its muzzle flash, the double roar momentarily deafening what hearing he had left after the other shots.

Acrid smoke swirled in the air, faintly visible in the bar of light from the main warehouse. A box toppled from on top of a pile in front of Crockett, pushed forward as the dying sniper slumped across his weapon.

Both hands pressed to his stomach, blood from the pair of closely spaced hits leaking between his fingers, Rico managed the three steps into the room that brought him to Sonny's side before he fell, coming to rest sprawled next to his partner.

The shock of experiencing a second mortal wounding so soon, even vicariously, combined with the strain of initiating a double contact without touch, left Castillo briefly floundering in the floods of pain and remorse that cascaded through both detectives' minds.

Rico slowly pulled one hand from beneath himself, panting harder with the exertion it took, and wrapped his bloodied fingers around Crockett's outstretched hand. Loosening the stainless steel weapon from his friend's grasp, he wordlessly twined his fingers through Sonny's pale, trembling ones, tightening his hold as initial shock wore thin and the heat of his own wounds began to flare.

Sonny's eyes shifted to him, and the personal regret Crockett felt at his own incipient death doubled and trebled its order of magnitude, until the anguish was a crueler hurt than the physical pain had been. His eyes closed, but not before he saw the perfect reflection of his feeling in his partner's green eyes.

Too much incoming stress shredded what remained of the shields Martin was trying to cast around himself. Even as he strove to snap the three-way link before it was discovered, the unexpected surge of power suddenly evoked by Sonny and Rico's emotions laid the pathways between the three of them wide open.

Crockett and Tubbs both took it for delusion at first, attributing it to shock. As their emotions entwined and their thoughts questioned and then answered each other, they meshed together in a psychic embrace too close to deny, and began to accept it as a reality. Their blossoming of delight at this unexpected first, true meeting rocked Castillo's remaining control, and he could not suppress the bitterness of knowledge that this was also their last such meeting.

While they had no practice in the normal sensations of full telepathic union, the poignancy of his feeling passed so sharply through them both that they could not help but notice. Drawn from the discovery of each other to question the source of the sweeping grief they both sensed, but neither had originated, it took Sonny's intuitive abilities only a few seconds to comprehend the existence, and then the identity, of the third party. This time, caught in the center of the bridge he had opened between them, Martin could not avoid contact any longer.

Crockett's aura was like cool silver moonlight, enveloping him while he travelled with Tubbs, who radiated the warmth of a golden ray of sunlight. Auras intermingling and surrounding each other in an inextricable closeness that left them separate minds, but their aspect that of one laughing, brightly shining entity, they slid together through the fallen bastions of Castillo's shields. Sonny had often suspected that the Lieutenant's basilisk glare and somber mannerisms cloaked a vulnerable soul, but he had only rarely glimpsed it unarmored. They came upon, but could not unravel, complexities of power and compassion, felt themselves encompassed by courage that had been tested many times and a wealth of knowledge that had been found wanting only once. Guiding them though now damped, the sense of impending loss that went hand-in-hand with the familiar ease by which he wordlessly greeted them.

"I know you," Sonny said wonderingly.

"Yes," Martin replied gently, "we have met."

As he allowed them both to explore further, the cascading emotions gathered intensity, tapping the deepest reservoirs of his mind, and the last onyx pillars supporting his shields collapsed. The power flowing subtly from Castillo faltered for the briefest moment, and it was enough to disintegrate the controls he had placed earlier, set upon someone he had known only partially, and thus weaker than the bond now formed. The racing black tide of pain rose from Sonny, echoed in Rico with redoubled strength, and ripped at his own self, open and unguarded. He recoiled instinctively, dredging for the power to generate a shield and trying to spread it wide enough to include the other two.

His breathing deepened as his body fought to provide the physical support necessary to sustain the extended effort of the link. Backlashes of agony whipped through the supine frame and it trembled, losing the long battle with exhaustion. Pushed to its limit, his heart strained, pumping slow heavy strokes until his life could be measured in the space of silence between each beat.

"You can't support us both, can you?" Tubbs asked with sudden insight. "Sonny, look. He's killing himself to hold on to us." He carefully tested the steady pull on his soul, and it trembled, weakening rapidly.

Crockett's aura expanded, delicately seeking, and reached the same conclusion. "You're right," he concurred. "Marty, you have to let us go." A spark of his usual cynical humor flared. "We've been killed fair and square, but you don't have to go along on the ride with us this time."

"No," he answered, but in the total empathy of the bond he could not leave the rest in tactful silence. He had tested the boundaries of his ability, and surveyed the extent of the task, and could do nothing else but state his intention. "I have the strength to sustain one of you long enough for help to arrive."

"Only one?" Sonny asked quietly. The reason for Martin's earlier projection of sorrow was becoming very clear.

"Yes." Castillo's soft answer held both shame and determination.

"Then let me go," Crockett said instantly. His aura fluctuated, as if he had shrugged, trying to deny any heroic motivations. "Tubbs has saved my butt so often I lost count, it's about time I had a chance to return the favor."

"Now wait a minute!" Tubbs interjected. "I got us into this mess, so I'm going to get at least you back out. I feel like I might as well have shot you myself as brought you to this meet and let you go off alone. Besides, we can both tell that it's putting more strain on him to hold onto me than you." Ricardo's mental voice lowered, exercising all the persuasive ability he possessed, "Let me do this, Sonny. I owe you."

"You owe me the same thing I do you - presence in that car seat, partner," Sonny started heatedly. He would have said more, but Rico forestalled further protest by the simple expedient of shifting his awareness closer to Crockett's, so that they seemed to fuse briefly into a single mind. Their communion was brief, but Castillo could perceive, even from beside it, the love within that sharing. Momentarily subdued by what he had been shown, Sonny was silent when Tubbs moved away from him and then deliberately distanced himself from the link, and the energy within it.

"Por favor, MartÍn," Rico said, the quiet plea clear and honest.

"Until we meet again," Martin acquiesced, and released his hold on Tubbs.

Rico's touch on Sonny's mind evaporated away, seeming to gather entirely to itself and then float beyond reach. The collection of memories and feelings that Crockett had been able to access as his own only seconds ago faded and left behind a void that ached unbearably. "Goodbye," he whispered, and listened to it echo through the empty places inside himself.

His musing was interrupted by a compassionate touch. Turning toward it blindly, he asked, "Will I remember this?" The hollow feeling of loss settling over his entire being was mitigated only by what he and Rico had shared before parting. If those memories were taken away, all he would have would be the emptiness.

"No. In dreams, perhaps." Castillo's intonation conveyed regret, and an apology.

"Why?" The question was a ragged cry of pain, as if raspy with the tears his physical self had already begun silently shedding. "Martin, promise me, you gotta promise me you'll tell me when we're back."

"Sonny...."

"I know you'll remember, I know that. Damn it, Marty, what could it hurt? Promise me!"

It was the only solace Crockett would accept, and so he gave it. "I will remind you, when you need to remember." He expected that Sonny would object to his appended condition, but the promise was accepted as he gave it. They both knew it would be kept.

Silk sighed against skin as he rose, bracing himself with one arm when the mere act of sitting up brought on a wave of dizziness. He could still feel reverberations of Crockett's pain echoing through his body, and devoted his attention briefly to binding it to him, reforging the link to Sonny and tapping off as much of his own remaining power as he could afford in order to continue sustaining the life on the other end. Silently cursing himself for allowing the years to weaken him so, he forced himself upright and reached for the phone. The familiar number took little time to punch in, and the terse commands for an ambulance and coroner's team to meet him at the warehouse were automatic as well.

Once the necessary procedures had been initiated, he compelled himself to dress quickly, stopping only for a moment in the center of the room before leaving the house. He stood quietly, swaying slightly with exhaustion and trying to attain at least a semblance of his normal exterior calm. Faintly, sounding deep within his own soul and vibrating along the link between them, he could still feel the echoes of Crockett's grief. But if the light that filtered through the blinds from outside glittered very brightly in his lashes, there was no one there to see it.

Crockett didn't want to be alive, because it hurt. Pain, of either body or mind, wasn't new to him, but the two combined in such degree were more than he had ever imagined he could bear, and not die from the agony.

But somewhere deep in his mind a stubborn bright flame of life still burned, shackling him mercilessly to the torment of consciousness, and he could not free himself of either life or anguish. Unable to move or even to draw breath deeply enough to sob, he lay on his side, silent tears gathering continuously and streaming from his eyes. The salt water stung and blurred his otherwise unobstructed view of Ricardo's body, lying motionless in a darkening pool of blood only a few feet away.

Quiet footsteps sounded in the distant reaches of the warehouse, approaching steadily until they came to the doorway. He heard the quiet hiss of indrawn breath, then movement closer, until suddenly his universe of pain contracted to a single point and faded like the spot on an old tv screen. Its removal left him confused, awake, and feeling slightly stronger. Though the memories of white-hot pain and the searing grief that matched its intensity lingered, all he felt now was the warmth of a hand on his forehead, and long fingers that combed softly through his hair as he turned his head to see who had found him. The light was bad and his eyes still hazed with saltwater, but he saw with preternatural clarity the form of Castillo bending over him. Those deep brown eyes that he had grown used to seeing cold and distant seemed to be shining with an ineffable sadness and deep affection, for a time so fleeting he might have imagined it, before they were again shuttered and unrevealing.

"Marty?" he breathed weakly. "How... ?"

"Shhh. Rest."

The familiar voice held irresistible persuasion, and he obediently relaxed. Trailing fingers grazed his cheek, the last thing he felt before sinking into sleep and the one sensation he carried into his dreams. The lights and noise of the arriving medical and forensic teams failed to wake him, and he slept all the way to the hospital, ensconced in dreams of friendship and undisturbed peace.

He swam back to consciousness slowly, and the shapes that materialized out of the mist in front of him were white. They were either angels, or nurses. His memories were so fragmentary that he wasn't sure which theory was more reasonable. With some effort, he could remember entering the warehouse, and walking straight into the bullet that may or may not have killed him. Wary of speculating along that line, he asked them who they were.

"Mmrgghll?" This was good. Next he'd question them about what had happened to him.

"Easy, Mr. Crockett. You're doing very well, considering your injury." The angel hypothesis was losing ground. The blur that had spoken resolved into a young, dark-haired nurse and offered him a chip of ice. Accepting it, he rolled the cold wetness around his mouth gratefully. "There's a Lieutenant Castillo here, he's been waiting to see you. Are you up to a short visit?"

"Yeah," he managed to mumble, his voice cracking twice on the single word. That was strange, he could remember Castillo finding him at the warehouse, but he couldn't place Tubbs anywhere in the picture. Where had Rico been?

"Detective," the low voice greeted him, more concern in it than that form of address usually carried. "Do you think you can tell me what happened?"

Rico's hand touching his, he suddenly remembered that. Looking into those startling green eyes, and knowing.... Sonny's eyes filled and he turned his head away, ashamed, unable to trust his voice to ask for confirmation. After a moment, he felt his hand enfolded in a warm grasp and, lacing his fingers through Martin's, he held on with all the strength of a half-drowned kitten. Despite the soreness in his throat he swallowed convulsively, knowing with an awful clarity what would be said next and wanting desperately not to hear it.

"Detective Tubbs was found dead, killed by the same man who shot you. The assassin was also dead, apparently killed by two shots from your gun. Do you remember firing?"

Crockett nodded once, sharply, in response to the question, still looking away. The hands holding his moved slightly, in what was almost a caress, belying the impartial tone of voice that continued to probe at his memories.

"The circumstances indicate it was self defense. Is that right?"

Another silently nodded reply. Despite his rapid blinking, his eyes had refused to cooperate with his intentions and were leaking slow tears. His sinuses, in sympathetic rebellion, were also closing down, and he opened his mouth slightly, breathing in a low hiss.

"Were you at that warehouse to make a meet related to your assigned case regarding Alexander Esquemeling?"

Crockett nodded again. He tried very hard to be concerned that these were the questions IAD would be asking as they investigated, and considered whether to suspend, indict, or exonerate him. No matter how hard he concentrated, it didn't begin to matter at all. The soft touch on his hand, speaking wordless volumes with gentle strokes, was a hell of a lot more real.

"Did you have any reason to suspect that your cover may have been compromised prior to that meeting?"

This time he had to shake his head to answer, and he found the energy to be grateful that it was his own sympathetic superior asking the initial barrage of questions, rather than some eager bloodhound from IAD. Even with the support he could draw from the hands entwined with his, his semblance of composure was rapidly falling apart.

Castillo sighed to himself, and let Sonny rest for a minute. He didn't like having to interrogate his friend under these conditions, but the formalities had to be observed. Rather than put the detective through this, Martin had considered filling out the report on his own with the answers he already knew quite well, but he could hardly quote the source as "unwitnessed telepathic contact". And in a case like this one, he knew that every deposition would be double-checked and reconfirmed. Closing his eyes, he used his touch on Sonny's hand to ease the channeling of most of the energy reserve he had accumulated over the past 24 hours into Crockett's body. After a few moments he spoke again, weariness making his own voice hoarse now. "Was the meeting set up by you, or someone else?"

Sonny couldn't answer, it would have required speaking and he knew he couldn't accomplish that. Instead, he squeezed Martin's hand tighter, hoping the lieutenant would somehow understand.

Crockett's distress was clear. Returning the pressure before withdrawing his hand and rising, Castillo said softly. "I'll be back tomorrow. Rest well, Sonny."

The next day, he was back again, and their conversation picked up from the precise point it had left off the day before. Sonny had come to an equilibrium, acknowledging without completely accepting Rico's death, and he answered the rest of the questions coolly, as if his only participation had been as an impartial observer. His calm gave no invitation to touch, and Martin moved the infusion of power across the distance without showing any indication that he was not merely pausing briefly to allow Crockett to rest. In his own interpretation, Rico's death and Sonny's injury were both on his head, for he had failed his duty as their commander and as their friend. Augmenting Sonny's recovery at the probable cost of pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion was only part of what he owed.

With the questions, he brought information. The killer had carried no paper, but was identified from the operational method as the mechanic who had been making hits in a string of local cheapie contract assassinations. Because he had been smart enough to launder his money through a Bahamian account, his bank deposits could not be traced with accuracy or completeness, so the records were left to show the conclusion that the man had been hired by parties unknown for the purpose of murdering Cooper and Burnett.

Sonny was convinced that Esquemeling was the buyer for the hit, but he had no sound theory for why, nor evidence to prove it. Tubbs and he hadn't even gotten close enough for a vice bust, much less to uncover business contacts on the level of hired killing. "So he's going to get away with it," Crockett remarked bitterly, "and there's nothing we can do."

"If he's guilty, he'll go down for it," Castillo said quietly. There was something chilling in his voice that made Sonny believe it.

Over the following couple weeks, the rest of the vice squad came to visit, bringing bits of news and gossip, including what they heard around the hospital corridors. The paramedics had talked to the emergency room staff, and they had talked to the surgeons, and the nurses had overheard it all, and they were all discussing the detective with the amazingly tenacious hold on life. Absolutely everyone agreed he should have died from that wound, and long before the ambulance crew got to him. His phenomenally rapid recovery fed the rumor mill, and earned him a lot of attempted cheering from his friends in the form of jokes about his sublimated sex drive.

Once more I've loved, I've laughed, and I've lost,
Now I'm alone, left counting the cost;
Once more, sweet child of middling years
Basted again in bitter-sweet tears....

Despite his daily increasing health, he missed Rico's funeral, but he didn't ask for a detailed report from anyone and he gave his rather sizable donation to Lieutenant Castillo for quiet addition to the group fund for flowers and a stone better than the state-issue. All the psychobabble about refusal to deal immediately with the event carried no weight at all with him, because he knew that he could handle it. Death and loss were far from new experiences and by now he knew what he needed: to keep working, stay busy most of the time, and be allowed to integrate the pain into being a part of him a little bit at a time. It was like accustoming yourself to arsenic poisoning. You took a little bit more every day until you were taking great quantities on a regular basis, and a single large dose that would kill an unprepared person would not be fatal to you. Never mind that it was a cumulative poison as well, and that your slow saturation method led just as certainly to death.... For years he had been absorbing the pain, and sometimes he wondered if it wouldn't be less painful to swallow the whole cup at once than to take it in slow sips.

Daylight will come and steal the night sights,
Starlight on black replaced with gray light.
Now I must go and set my best pace,
Running all day in the human race;
But now I know the good news -
Before you win, you have to lose.... ⁽²⁾

By the time he was released, days earlier than the doctors had expected he would even be back on his feet - much less fully mobile - the IAD investigation had concluded that it had been a righteous shoot and he could return to work as soon as his physical condition allowed it. What he feared more than anything else right then was being put on the beach for a month to finish his recovery, and so he followed his doctors' orders religiously, pushing to be allowed back on duty, even just to do paperwork for a while. When pressed, the doctors had to admit that he was fit enough for that, so he went to work on the quiet stuff, but still far sooner than he should have been able to. Even Sonny didn't notice at first that as he was getting stronger every day, Castillo's usual effortless grace had been slowly deteriorating into a perpetual tired slump.

Crockett had bad feelings from the start about their second operation to snare Alexander Esquemeling, but there was never anything tangible he could point to that would explain the slowly increasing dread he felt. He sure as hell wasn't going to try to explain it to anyone in the unit, it took no psychic ability at all to know that his misgivings would be labeled as residual trauma and grief-induced fear.

So he sat through the briefings and scrutinized the plans with even more than his usual care, and kept his fear to himself. There had been talk of assigning him another partner, but since he was still supposedly less than fully recovered, he had ended up sitting through a lot of surveillance jobs with Stan Switek. The complete understanding that Stan offered should have been helpful, but Switek's sympathetic overtures had struck some strange inner chord, the empathy so weirdly familiar but upsettingly off-center that Sonny had remained aloof in the end, preferring light conversation or silence to any real discussions. After a few uncharacteristically polite rebuffs, Stan had given up, as had the rest of the vice squad. Even Gina had been unable to draw Crockett out, and so they left him alone, all certain that it was only a matter of time until he would be willing to open up to them again. It hadn't happened yet.

Sonny slouched lower in the briefing room chair, radiating a silent but distinct warning that he was feeling unapproachable right now. He looked up only when Castillo entered the room, his uneasiness flaring. Their second attempt to get close to the mysterious entrepreneur was a plan to introduce the lieutenant as Burnett's new partner, and Sonny harbored a deep-rooted suspicion that this operation was going to end as badly as the last one. Though it had been over a month since he had been released from the hospital, there was still a gap in his recollection of that night at the warehouse, and he was bothered by the perpetual feeling that there was something quite important involved in the missing memories. Since there was little he could do about it, the question just became another of the things he was not going to go volunteer to tell the shrinks.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Castillo opened the meeting, and continued in his usual low-key, terse style. Response to the rumors started by Sonny and propagated through the street network had been good, and he'd been offered a tentative exchange. It was standard procedure for him by now, and he almost didn't need to think to dance with the cautious dealer, wave the money and assurances of his own good faith and reputation, and then demand to deal with the boss instead of the hired help. Piece of cake. He had a tougher time snapping to attention in time to avoid a caustic reprimand from the lieutenant.

"Detective Crockett and I will make the preliminary meet. Since this organization is highly cautious, they'll check for wires or tracers so the surveillance will have to be discrete. Switek, you and Gina will be in the van. Trudy, cover the rear entrance. Clear?" At the set of nods around the table, Castillo stood. "Tonight, eight o'clock. Dismissed."

Eyes slitted in sudden thought, Sonny watched him leave the room. For the first time he noticed the comparatively sluggish way Castillo was moving, and it occurred to him that lately he had seen Martin rub his temples in tired pain several times when he thought he was unobserved. If the lieutenant wasn't up to par, the evening could get dangerous. Unwilling to take that chance, Sonny abruptly launched himself from his chair and followed Castillo to his office, shutting the door behind them.

Martin turned, his expression inquiring.

Running one hand through his hair in a nervous gesture he wasn't completely aware of, Crockett said, "It's about the gig tonight."

When Sonny didn't continue, despite his obvious need to say something further, Castillo prompted, "You have a problem with it?"

"I don't, but you don't look so good," he blurted. Tired or not, Martin's eyes still flashed with power, and Sonny hastened to clarify his meaning. "You've been pushing yourself lately, and we have to be on top of these guys tonight. If you're not up to it, I can cancel the meet, we'll do it in a couple days, that's better than getting hung out to dry because one of us isn't all there."

A ghost of a smile flickered under the mustache. "I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern."

Crockett moved nearer, not liking the fatigued look that he could see on closer inspection. "You're sure?" Without knowing why, he was tempted to tell Castillo about the bad feelings he'd been having, the premonitions that something was going to go wrong. Instead, he reached out, laying his hand on Martin's arm, staring into those deepset, brown eyes. "Marty, level with me. I can't lose another partner, not you, not to this same slime." Rico, laying in his own blood, the life fading from his eyes, telling him something. Something important.... Sonny's own eyes hazed with the memory, and the frustration of not being able to remember what Tubbs had said to him at that last moment made him clench his hand tighter. When Martin's hand covered his, he snapped out of his reverie and released the lieutenant, turning away to press the heels of his hands against the incipient tears. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Sometimes it still gets to me."

"It should," Castillo said quietly. Even though several months had passed, he still could feel Crockett's grief as keenly as his own emotions, like an acid that ate slowly away inside him. His continual transfusions of energy to the detective had only reinforced the link between them, until now he feared he would not be able to break it without Sonny's willing help. The time to ask for that had not presented itself yet.

Straightening, Sonny turned back, a rueful half-smile on his face. "Look who's wondering if you'll fall apart tonight."

Inwardly, Martin sighed, and stiffened his back, forcing a look of total readiness he was far from feeling. The uneasiness he could sense radiating from Crockett worried him as well, but if Sonny wasn't willing to talk, he had little choice but to pretend he didn't know about it. "Can you handle your end of it?" he asked directly, but without any accusation in his voice.

"Yeah. You?"

He nodded silently, then turned toward his desk. By the time he had seated himself, the door had shut behind Crockett's departing form. Worn out already, Martin let his head droop slightly as he ran his fingertips over his eyebrows, pressing on the nerves at the acupressure points for headache. It was going to be a long night, that much he knew for certain.

The operation went bad from the start. It was another abandoned warehouse location, leading Sonny to complain quietly that all they had to do to put this guy out of business was pass some urban renewal bonds. His flippancy was a short-lived attempt to keep an optimistic outlook, and it died fast when they were met inside by a group of at least twenty armed Columbians. Surrounded and disarmed immediately, despite Crockett's vocal protests and Castillo's cutting glares, they were pushed to the roof access stairs and told that their party awaited them on the roof.

Crouched on the roof was a sleek, black, converted UH-1B helicopter, running lights taped over, no N number on its side or tail. Hands tied behind them, Sonny and Martin were crammed into the back deck boxed by four alert thugs and flown through the night sky of Miami, inland toward the trackless swamps. It would have been a beautiful ride, skimming low enough to nearly graze the tops of the higher buildings, but the guards blocked the view and the ropes were very tight.

The airship had been fitted with an anti-torque thruster in the tail boom, making it quieter than normal, but the familiar, distinctive sound of the two-bladed rotor still sent chills down Sonny's spine. He glanced over at Martin and tried to imitate the impassive calm of his superior, hoping it wasn't simply exhaustion that made Castillo look so disinterested. Maintaining his facade of control was difficult with one of the Columbians leering at him while idly playing with the gun he had taken away from Sonny. That he was worried about losing the gun and the money invested in it on the way to his own execution seemed only slightly incongruous.

When they finally landed, it was after at least ten minutes of flying over ground that was as black as the sky and the helicopter. Miles from the lights of any habitations the chopper circled a low, flare-lit rise and landed, propwash beating the grass and scrubby bushes flat around the edges of the burned-out clearing. Once they were down, the four guards pulled back the door panels and exited, motioning Crockett and Castillo to climb out also. Stiff from his position on the deck, Sonny moved awkwardly with his hands tied and wondered enviously how Castillo managed to come through the same circumstances with his pantherine grace still intact.

Once upright on the ground they were hustled around the front of the helicopter toward the edge of the lighted area. Beyond the circle of flares, they could see red highlights gleaming on enamel, outlining the shape of another black UH-1B.

"Untie them, so that we may conduct our business like men," an imperious voice ordered from the shadows. As the ropes binding them were cut from their wrists, the speaker emerged into the light.

Recognizing their captor from blurred surveillance photos, Sonny hissed, "Esquemeling," under his breath. Pulling away from the guards behind him, he demanded, "Just what the hell is going on here?" He shrugged his jacket into place, keenly aware of the empty holster under it, and glared around himself, counting the opposition as he played indignant dealer to the hilt. "You've given new meaning to the word 'paranoia'."

"Ricardo Tubbs? Sound familiar?"

"No," Castillo deadpanned, moving up to flank Crockett. "Why should that name be important to our business?"

All the creeping premonitions of the last month coalesced in Sonny, knotting his stomach with fear. Too good at the game to show it, he waved an angry hand and bluffed, "Do you want to talk business, or start a phone book, pal? Love the scenery, but are we gonna do this, or can I go home now?"

Esquemeling merely smiled, and relaxed against the smooth side of the helicopter. He drew a flat gold case from inside his coat, opened it, and considered briefly before choosing a long, thin, brown cigarette from it. Lighting it, he sucked in a deep draught of smoke, letting it linger in his lungs and enjoying the effect of the stall on his prisoners' nerves as much as the tobacco. Finally, he waved the cigarette expansively, and his voice took on an oily tone. "Who was Ricardo Tubbs? That's what the headstone over your ex-partner reads, Mr. Burnett. Do you think I'm stupid enough to have a man killed, and not make sure he is buried? And when I find that he is not buried under the name he gave my friends, but one that turns out to belong to a cop, what do you think the obvious conclusion is?"

Leaning forward, he lost his phony congeniality and jabbed a finger at the two vice cops, eyes narrowed. "You are going to die this time, Burnett, or whoever you really are, and your friend here with you. Another narc, or worse, someone stupid enough to buy your stories. It doesn't matter, because in either case you are not people I want to deal with." He blew a cloud of smoke at them, and snapped his fingers to bring his troops to full attention. "Do them."

Esquemeling flipped the cigarette away with a contemptuous gesture and turned his back, reaching for the cockpit door. Inside, the pilot hit the ignition and the starter whined, the long rotor blades beginning to sweep in slow circles.

The momentary distraction was the only chance he was going to have, and Crockett took it, knowing without looking that Castillo would be moving in perfect, deadly concert with him. Lashing out at the thug standing near him, he slugged the man with his left hand and made a simultaneous grab for the butt of his stainless .45, less than securely held in the guard's belt. It drew easily and Sonny dropped to one knee, firing rapid paired shots that dropped first the guard he had attacked, and then the closest Columbians as they drew down on him. Behind him, the whine of the helicopter they'd come in starting back up was barely audible underneath the sound of Martin's retrieved .44 firing in single deep coughs.

As his employees dove for cover and the glow of the flares was drowned by the flickering lightening of automatic weapons fire, Esquemeling piled into the chopper and yelled at the pilot to get him out. Grabbing air, shaky at first and then smoothing out as it gained power, the lean black helicopter lifted and tacked sideways out of immediate range before straightening and picking up speed, disappearing into the night in seconds.

With their commander fled, the firefight quickly became a rout for the Columbian forces. They ran for the second chopper, fanning their Uzis to cover themselves, counting on the sheer volume of flying lead to keep the two targets intimidated. Panicked with the rest of his compatriots, the pilot hauled the helicopter into the air too rapidly where it hung, wallowing, as the last two guards raced for the open side door. One made it, scrambling onto the back deck with help from the men already inside. The second grounded man was slightly slower and the helicopter had gained enough altitude that he couldn't make the jump, even after tossing his machine pistol away. Nose pointed low, the Huey melted into the darkness behind its predecessor, the muffled whop-whop-whop fading quickly.

Pale light from the three-quarter moon lit the scene with a surreal beauty, and in the quiet that had settled after the chopper's departure, the sounds of the glades were already coming alive around them. The three men left standing in the clearing threw stark black shadows.

"Give it up," Sonny called to the remaining guard, rising to his feet and shoving the now empty Smith & Wesson into its holster. Idly he noted his hands were trembling, and he stuffed them into his pockets. Beside him, Martin also rose, scanning the area around them for signs of any other stragglers.

Desperate and unwilling to surrender, the enforcer ducked into a crouch and pulled a small Beretta automatic from an ankle holster. Martin saw the threat and stepped in front of Sonny, his heavier revolver coming up into line. Its roar overlaid the three sharp cracks from the smaller gun, and Esquemeling's last hope fell heavily.

Shaken, Sonny tried to cover his reaction to the close call by inquiring conversationally, "Where'd you hide the speed loaders?"

Castillo turned his head to give Sonny one of his enigmatic, unexplanatory looks, and then his knees buckled slowly. He would have fallen if Sonny hadn't been close enough to reach him before he collapsed all the way, catching and then supporting the lieutenant's weight.

"Marty?" he asked anxiously, "What's wrong?" The near dead-weight in his arms frightened him far more than the hard-fought battle they had just been through. As he lowered Castillo gently to the ground, Martin's jacket fell open, revealing a small, spreading red stain low on his left side. "Son of a bitch," Crockett cursed to himself, kneeling to inspect the wound, but then glancing up, puzzled when he found that it was from the entry of a very small caliber bullet. He'd seen the punishment Castillo could take and still keep fighting, and this was a comparatively minor injury.

Sliding one hand carefully underneath Castillo's side, he found the sticky patch of blood first, then his fingertips grazed the exit wound and Martin controlled a gasp in response, breath whistling with pain. Even the exit wound was not very large, and Crockett turned from Martin to busy himself with tearing the shirt off the nearest Columbian and folding it into a compress to slow the bleeding. Once he had placed the pad so that Martin's weight held it in place beneath him, he stood again, frowning, still confused as to why a hit from what looked to be no more than a .25, striking a non-vital area, had taken Castillo down so fast and hard.

No answers were forthcoming from Castillo, and Crockett decided that his best hope for an answer was probably to find out exactly what had hit the lieutenant. Muttering, "I'll be right back," to the dark, supine form, he headed off across the clearing toward the last guard. The man was spreadeagled on his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the stars overhead. A few feet away, its blued steel nearly invisible on the blackened ground, lay the small back-up gun he had used last. Sonny picked it up carefully and eased the cocked hammer back down to rest before slipping the gun into his pocket.

Circumnavigating the open area on his return to Castillo, he checked each of Esquemeling's fallen men. They were all dead, some from multiple wounds and Crockett smiled grimly to himself, certain that some internal feuds had been settled that night and glad for the help it had been to his own survival. Either that, or Alexander hired men who were woefully incompetent with their automatic weapons. When he had circled back to the spot where Martin lay, he was certain that there would be no unpleasant surprises that night from the other human occupants of the clearing.

Castillo's half-lidded eyes glittered in the moonlight, and Sonny sat down next to him, relieved to note that he did not appear to be going into shock. The blood loss had been minimal and a quick check on the bandage applied earlier showed that it was under control. Reassured briefly, Crockett reached into his pocket and pulled out the Beretta he had recovered, noting idly that it was, as he had guessed, a .25.

The magazine release was close to the trigger guard and he pressed the scored button, catching the clip as it dropped from the butt. Laying the small gun carefully aside, he thumbed the top cartridge off the magazine and inspected the bullet. The tip of it looked odd, and he rubbed a finger over it, surprised to find it covered with sealing wax. Closer examination revealed that the coppper jacketing folded inward underneath the colored tip, indicating the bullet had been cast as a hollowpoint and then filled and capped as an after-market modification. Curiosity piqued, he dug his pocket knife out in order to pry the wax cap off the slug.

"Don't!" Martin's voice startled him in its vehemence, and Sonny nearly dropped the knife. "Poisoned, probably ricin." His breathing was labored and speech was becoming difficult for him, but at the detective's questioning look he made the effort it took to explain, "Derived from castor bean pulp. To you, it's lethal at one hundredth of a cc."

"And to you?" Sonny asked quietly, hoping the answer would be different and not caring what it would mean if it were.

"Normally, not deadly," Martin reluctantly admitted, knowing that stories about previous exposure or mysteries learned in the Golden Triangle weren't necessary this time. Without elaborating he merely said, "Now, fatal."

Carefully, Sonny reloaded the tiny cartridge into the magazine, using the activity to give himself time to think. He knew better than to ask if there was an antidote - when a poison worked in such small doses, it also worked so rapidly that no one ever lived long enough to get to an antidote. Sea snake venoms were that way. His throat spasmed, and although he coughed to clear it before speaking, his voice still cracked as he inquired, "How long?"

Martin concentrated briefly, guaging the speed of the creeping fire that was spreading slowly inward from his side. "A few hours," he concluded. Less, if he was lucky.

Biting his lip to still its trembling, Sonny leapt to his feet and turned away, then suddenly flung the magazine to the ground in rage. "No!" he shouted, "God damn it, not again! I can't...." As quickly as the fury had come, it died, and left him shaking in its aftermath. "I can't lose you, too," he said brokenly. His breath whistled through clenched teeth as he tilted his head back, staring blindly at the moon-washed infinity of stars overhead and trying to control the urge to scream in inarticulate agony. Finally, he merely whispered, "I never even got to say goodbye to Rico."

"Yes, you did."

Castillo's quiet, firm statement went past Sonny at first, then his head snapped around to face the lieutenant. "What did you say?" The feeling he'd had since he'd awakened in the hospital, that there was something very important about Rico's death that he had forgotten, returned full force.

"You said goodbye," Castillo reiterated with unusual kindness, then sighed, "I was there."

"How? I don't remember much of what happened, but I know you didn't even know where we'd gone. How could you know what we said?" Anger was so much easier to deal with than the other emotions that seethed and clashed within him, and he gave in to it, needing an outlet for the tension that made his whole body shake. "It wasn't in your report, Lieutenant, I know that. I read every damn paper filed on that incident, and I still don't know how you found us. And now you're telling me you were there the whole time? What the hell have you been keeping from me?" Shouting now, he paced in short bursts of frantic energy, until at last he stood over Castillo and demanded, "If you were there, how come you didn't show up until Rico was dead? That meet was bogus from the start! Why didn't you do something in time to make a difference?"

"I tried, but I was too slow." Explaining the precise nature and extent of his presence in words was going to be hard enough, but it would be impossible if Crockett did not calm down enough to accept what he was trying to say. "I was there in your mind," he said, and plucked the cord between them, letting it resonate like a guitar string, a low, vibrating, internal note that Crockett could sense deep in his mind, tugging at his innermost feelings. "Let me show you."

Dazed, his rage evaporated and Sonny sank back to the ground next to Martin. The detective's haunted eyes held a silent prayer for answers and Castillo responded, lifting the hand from his side, damp with his own blood, to Sonny. When the offered contact was taken, Martin closed his eyes and extended his soul along the bridge crossing the distance that separated their minds. It was far easier this time, their psyches meshing together as comfortably as their fingers were interwoven.

Memories Sonny didn't recognize flashed at the edge of his consciousness and he reeled slightly, leaning forward over Martin to steady himself. Rico and he, exchanging jokes and walking into ambush, and the knowledge that he had to do something about it. The overlay of viewpoints was disorienting at first, like the doubled images in a badly focused 3-D movie. The effect faded as he found that he could shift from one set of memories to the other at will, and he chose to explore Martin's first.

As he made the contact, the first bullet hit, and the physical pain he shared was still less than the mental punishment he accorded himself for failing. Overextended already, his second attempt was also too slow, and initiated the accidental opening of pathways he had not intended to lay bare. Rico and Sonny met, and found his presence out, and though he strained himself to the limits of his own life it was not enough to bring them both back from the edge. Rico's sacrifice was not a choice that should have had to be made.

"Rico," Sonny moaned, caught up in Martin's regret. From outside, he saw the fusion between himself and Tubbs, and felt the power of the exchange that took place within it. Shielded doors he hadn't been aware of appeared and opened, allowing him to find his own memory of the experience.

It was nothing less than a total melding of his thoughts and deepest feelings with his partner's. He did not need to hear the words again, because he was surrounded with the love that Rico had for him. At the same time, he knew that the strength of the affection he felt in return was clear between them as it filled to overflowing the single heart they shared. Their memories entangled and bright points flared where the things they had done together resonated in both souls like the harmonics of matched tuning forks. Time had no meaning within that union, and it left each of them forever a piece of the other.

"No..." He knew what was coming next, and was afraid of it.

When Rico died, the empty, echoing places that had been filled with light and laughter for the first time only that night were left as hollow reminders that he had lost the most precious thing he had ever had. Beside him a comforting presence offered itself; he turned toward it seeking help, and extracted a promise.

Locked in contact with Castillo, Sonny did not pull away when his first questions were answered. Beyond the sorrow for Rico he sensed another thread somehow connecting him to the lieutenant and he expanded his awareness, trying to follow it.

The first things he encountered were the dark, crumbling shields holding the pain of his poisoning at bay, but they were weak, barely sufficient to protect Crockett from contact with the slowly advancing fire. Sliding unopposed past that barrier, he found the other end of the tie that bound him to Castillo. Tugging on it experimentally, he noted the flux of emotions it carried and the burned pathways left by the passage of power across it. Suddenly suspicious, he checked again, digging deeper until he understood Martin's debilitated condition.

Castillo's lack of energy now was due to having channeled it outward, healing and supporting Sonny over the past couple months. Entwined with that gift was his fear that the ricin would drive him so far into madness that he took his life back by force, and the hope that he would die before he was tempted.

"Take it back, Marty," Sonny whispered. What desire could he have for an existence that cost not one, but two beloved friends? His eyes slitted open briefly, and saw the indications of pain and failing strength on Castillo's face, and the single shake of his head refusing to reverse the process that killed him. Not knowing how to change the situation but determined not to pay another blood price for his life, Sonny tried to drive vitality across the link, to force Martin accept it and live. "Please..." Sonny hissed, pushing the word through his teeth as he tried to press power from his mind to Martin's.

The rejection was like an armored panel slamming down, cutting off access, but the door could not close all the way. At the base it jammed on the ethereal chain linking them, and left showing a crack of light that glowed red from the flames of agony within. "Snap the connection," Martin ordered, the effort control cost sounding clearly in his tone.

Crockett's reaction was an instant denial, pulling away from the idea as if it burned him. "I'm not leaving you to die," he said.

"You have no choice," Castillo explained patiently, then mercilessly used the one argument he knew would sway Sonny's resolve. "I am dying. Nothing can change that. If you leave the link intact and cannot stop me drawing energy from you, it will drag out my death." He paused, hating the need for such emotional blackmail, and softened it with an honest plea. "You must help me destroy it."

"There is no other way?" Sonny demanded.

"No." None that he had the power left to work, and leave whoever helped him alive. That was not a choice.

Watching carefully, Sonny felt that there was something being left unsaid, but he could not fathom it, and finally had to accept Castillo's statement at face value. If breaking the bridge between them was the only way he could help now, then he would have to do it. "How?" he asked defeatedly.

"Grasp it, and pull," Martin instructed him, and when he felt Sonny's mind beginning to exert a halting tension that slowly strengthened on the bond, he marshalled the last of his scant resources and pulled in the opposite direction. The tie stretched thin, more enduring than he had thought it would be, before it suddenly broke. His shields snapped shut around himself, sealing Crockett safely outside as the backwash of contained suffering drove new spikes of pain through him with razored edges.

Castillo arched on the ground, a groan escaping him. Truly alone for the first time in months, Sonny stared blankly at his cramped hold on Martin's hand. The severed mental contact between them had not closed quite fast enough to keep him from getting a taste of what lay in wait for his friend, and the nightmare he had left the lieutenant alone to face horrified him. Releasing Martin's fingers, he leaned forward and gently lifted the shivering body into his lap, praying silently that the ordeal ahead would be brief.

With no fresh water supply, there was nothing Sonny could do when the final fever began to claim Castillo but rock in tandem with the waves of torment that shook Martin and wrung low, throttled cries from him. The poison continued to spread through his system, killing him with exquisite, unhurried deliberation until he arched in Crockett's hold, a ragged scream of total anguish torn from his throat. Collapsing against Sonny's chest, he murmured a rough "Thank you," and understood perfectly when there was no reply but a choked sob.

At last, Martin's breathing deepened and his muscles trembled, fighting to retain the fierce spirit within, and Sonny knew he was slipping away, sensed the weakening hold on life of the form he cradled in his arms. With no other way left to express his feelings adequately, Sonny bent over him, letting the soft touch of his lips on Martin's forehead say the farewell he could not put into words.

The last breath that sighed through Castillo's lips carried a barely audible, but perfectly clear, "And I, you." The words ghosted from him with his soul, leaving only an empty husk behind.

Sonny gathered the still form closer and buried his face in the sandalwood-scented silk shirt that covered Martin's breast. As pale streamers of light above began to herald the dawn, Crockett cried alone in a darkened swamp, and did not see the sunrise.

Trouble, oh, trouble, set me free,
I have seen your face and it's too much,
Too much for me.
Trouble, oh, trouble, can't you see,
You're eating my heart away
And there's nothing much left of me....

The low, rumbling sound was familiar, but it had been repeated several times as the source came closer, before he could rouse himself to care what happened outside the sphere of his own grief. When he finally raised his head to look around, he saw a large alligator heaving itself through the underbrush at one edge of the clearing. There had to be a waterway nearby; the reptile gleamed in the sunlight, still dripping. It stalked the open ground, emitting growls as it searched for the origin of the blood scent that had drawn its attention.

Scrambling to his feet, he hurriedly grabbed the small Beretta magazine from the ground, shoving it into his pocket before he bent again and with infinite tenderness lifted the body he had been keeping watch next to. As he carried Martin away toward the minimal shelter of the tall sawgrass at the edge of the barren spot furthest away from the gator's approach, the reptile found one of the dead Columbians. By the time Sonny had pushed his way into the unburned brush and carefully placed his burden on the ground, the alligator had clamped its jaws around one of the guard's legs and dragged the body back out of Crockett's sight toward the water it had come from.

Trouble, oh, trouble, move away,
I have seen your face and it's too much for me today.
Trouble, oh, trouble, can't you see,
You have made me a wreck,
Now won't you leave me in my misery?

The background noises of the swamp were interrupted again only a few minutes later by a crescendo of grunting roars that came from the direction the alligator had gone. It was not difficult to discern two separate sets of angry bellows, and Sonny sighed wearily, knowing that another of the voracious creatures had disputed ownership of the body. The sounds of their fighting would bring still others, and soon the clearing would be hip-deep in large, angry alligators, quarreling over the remaining bodies. He turned away from the clearing and focused again on the ground before him where Castillo lay, hands folded across his motionless breast, eyes closed forever. There was one body they would not tear apart, Crockett promised himself.

I've seen your eyes,
And I can see Death's disguise
Hanging on me, hanging on me...

It was only minutes before a third, and then a fourth reptilian voice joined the chorus, and not very long after that before rustling sounds alerted him to their approach in search of more food. Hefting the Beretta in one hand, Sonny idly wondered how fast ricin would kill gators. Another fight over one of the bodies began, but before it reached a conclusion, a series of loud reports startled the alligators into a momentary truce. They swung their massive heads in dull-witted confusion for a few seconds, then the larger one remembered the more immediate question and grabbed the body in front of him, making for the water dragging it. This prompted the second one to bellow a challenge as it pursued its more enterprising compatriot toward the stagnant stream.

I'm beat and torn,
Shattered and tossed and worn,
Too shocking to see, too shocking to see... ⁽³⁾

Sonny ignored the conflict, completely indifferent to the outcome. More relevant to him were the gunshots, and the hum of an airboat prowling the near vicinity. The engine noise grew louder, and another series of shots erupted, accompanied by thrashing in the water. The scavenging alligators were being mistaken for killers by some well-armed newcomer. Crockett crouched lower behind the brush when he heard the sound of somebody moving into the open area, having followed the trails of crushed grass the gators had left. Without any more armament than the .25, it seemed wise to keep his presence unknown until he had determined who the interloper was.

"Is there anyone here? This is the Park Service," a voice called, and Sonny risked a look from his concealment to verify the claim. Standing in the center of the clearing was a man in the tan uniform of a park ranger, holding a 30-06 rifle across one arm. Through the trees behind the man, Sonny could see an airboat, its sides blazoned with the national parks system seal.

There was always the chance that it was a set-up engineered by Esquemeling, but Sonny doubted that Alexander would have sent in only one man. "Yes," he called, but his voice came out weak and hoarse. Standing was an effort, but he dragged himself upright and identified himself. "Crockett, Miami Vice."

The rifle swung to cover him, and the ranger demanded, "Just what went on here? Who are these bodies?"

"Drug dealers," Sonny said, waving to encompass the fallen Columbians. "Brought us out here last night for a meet that went bad."

"'Us'?" the ranger quoted suspiciously.

Crockett dipped from sight, and the man tightened his grip on his rifle, still not completely reassured that the one he had found was what he claimed to be. When the vice cop reappeared, his hands were visible but not empty, but what he held was convincing proof of his noncombative intentions. "My partner," Sonny said, and moved forward, Castillo's weight in his arms feeling at once oddly light, and too heavy to carry. The slack drape of one arm and the loosely rolling neck with its too-pale, upturned throat spoke eloquently enough to convince the park service man.

"Al Howard," he introduced himself, giving in to the surge of sympathy he felt as the cop moved closer and he got a better look at the expression in those red-rimmed eyes. He had a sudden premonition that it was going to be a long, silent ride back to the station.

He was entirely correct.

The group gathered around the briefing room table was small, and each person present was very aware of the members who were missing. No new lieutenant had been assigned yet, but this was not an official meeting of the unit, either. Grim and determined, Sonny presided over the group he had personally asked to be there. Their reactions to his proposal were not immediately positive.

"It's homicide's case," Gina pointed out. "They have your statement, Esquemeling boasted to you about ordering the hit Rico died in; there's no question who they're looking for. We don't have any reason to get involved now, especially on some unofficial manhunt."

Sitting next to Gina, Trudy agreed, "We come out looking like a bunch of vigilantes, and we're going to hurt the case against him, not help it."

"Damn it, I just want to be there! I lost two friends to this guy, and I'm not going to sit on my ass and wait for homicide to get around to figuring out what we already know. Esquemeling can put contracts on me until one of them gets it right, and there goes the case. He's probably already destroyed anything that could link him to Rico's death, and there's no indictment to keep him from leaving the country. Then there won't be a chance in hell of ever catching him, we all know that."

There were nods around the table in grudging agreement. Stan looked more dubious than the others, and at Crockett's inquiring look, he tried to explain his misgivings. "You know I understand where you're at, Sonny. I remember what it felt like, and I also remember I came real close to doing something pretty stupid about it, too. I'm not saying you're wrong in this, but I don't want you to make the same sort of mistake I almost did. That kind of payback wasn't what Larry would have wanted, and I know the lieutenant would have felt the same way."

More nods. Gina added, "We all want Esquemeling to pay for what he's done. Sonny, we loved Rico and Castillo, too. But is this what either of them would want us to do?"

"I'm not saying we go take him down ourselves." Pleading with them, Sonny's voice rapidly developed a hoarseness they all recognized. He was on the edge, and the only two people who had always been able to bring him back in one piece were gone. They exchanged worried glances with each other, but listened to his words. "I'm asking you to help me find him, then we phone the location to homicide and pick Esquemeling up before he knows he's been found."

"The guy is like smoke," Switek complained. "He arrives without announcements, he splits on a whim, and seems to spend most of the time just outside the three mile limit. How are we gonna locate his base of operations without offical sanction on the case?" He didn't need to add what they were all thinking, that the unit had already spent months of time and two irreplaceable lives in the search - and come no closer than they had been when they started.

"Helicopters," Crockett said. Once the unspoken agreement to help him had been made, he shifted into a fully professional mode. "Two black Hueys, maybe more than that. They're not registered, so he has to keep them hidden, but they need parts all the same. I don't care if you have to stake out every single chopper dealer in Florida, I want every transaction for UH-1B parts checked out. He had those fancy new funnel-shaped tail thrusters installed on both, they run some big bucks and ought to be even easier to trace."

"And when we have his helicopters, we have one end of the string of contacts that will lead us to him," Trudy agreed.

"More than just contacts," Sonny stated. "Those helicopters are the basis of his business and his personal escape hatch. We find out where they're hangared, and it won't be long before he'll be there in person to check them out. Find those choppers, and we find him."

With the entire team working on the single problem, it only took two days to run down all the transactions likely to be of interest to their goal. Another day of checking out small airports and eliminating possibilities led them to a backwater field, little more than a dirt strip with a couple corrugated metal sheds. Inside the sheds were four black, unregistered Hueys, all sporting anti-torque thrusters in the tail booms. There was a certain amount of restrained rejoicing when Switek phoned in his discovery, and the waiting began.

Three days later, a limo visited the helicopters and by the time it left again, Crockett was on the way to intercept the surveillance van following it. When the long, low car reached a quiet residential area, Sonny was already on the phone with the dispatcher, reporting the location of a suspect in the killing of two cops. The response time was gratifying.

The building was enormous, a square pseudo-spanish fortress in off-pink stucco that crouched at the end of a short, curved driveway. The white Testarossa lead the way in, closely followed by two black and white units, and Sonny had barely knocked on the front door before the four Dade County cops were standing next to him.

The door was opened by a young hispanic house servant, who took one look at the collection of uniforms facing him and pointed nervously down the wide hall toward a well-lit living room, large enough to dwarf the scattered sectional groupings it contained. Lounging on one of the sofas with his back to them was Alexander Esquemeling.

Nodding to the houseboy, Crockett padded into the room and cleared his throat to attract attention. Rising with unhurried indolence, Esquemeling seemed to have been expecting someone else. When he turned and saw who his visitors were, he seemed to pale slightly with recognition. Still, he was cool, and raised one eyebrow as he asked, "Am I supposed to know you?"

Sonny grinned, a wolfish smile that held no humor. "Yeah, we got business." He moved further into the room, letting the uniformed men behind him spread out from the hallway entrance.

"You're under arrest, on the charge of accessory to homicide. Specifically, for personally ordering the deaths of police officers Ricardo Tubbs and Martin Castillo," explained the sergeant helpfully.

Before they could reach him to put the handcuffs on, Esquemeling ducked backward, grabbing an Uzi pistol from underneath the cushions of the sofa. Fast as he had been, he had been anticipated, and when he spun back around with the gun in his hand, he found himself facing Sonny's Smith & Wesson, backed up by a variety of firepower wielded by the other policemen.

"Go for it," Crockett urged him, knuckles whitening as he drew in the slack on his trigger. "I'd like nothing better than a good excuse to blow you away right now."

Time stretched into a tangible thing as they stared at each other, neither lowering his weapon. Finally, nervously, Esquemeling shifted his gaze, taking in the uniformed cops behind Sonny, their guns also trained at him. Wetting his lips, he spread one hand wide and slowly bent forward as if to place his gun on the floor as he had been ordered. The back-up squad relaxed fractionally, relieved that the tense confrontation had been ended without bloodshed. Only Sonny did not slip his guard, and so he was the first one to react when Esquemeling transmuted the peaceful gesture into a rolling dive, bringing the small machine pistol back up. The three .45 slugs that hit Alexander in rapid succession broke the sinuous continuity of his maneuver and he fell in an ungraceful sprawl, his gun clattering away on the marble floor.

The wild light in Sonny's eyes faded slowly, and he sagged, leaning against the wall behind him with a lost, empty look. He didn't seem to hear the thanks from the cops as they congratulated him on his speed in saving their lives, and took no part in the general relief that the case had ended on a clean, inexpensive note. When he moved at last, it was only to wander aimlessly out the door of the house to his car, where he sat for a while, gazing through the windshield with a thousand-yard stare that seemed to be looking into the bleakest of personal hells.

He never did remember starting the car and driving back to the St. Vitus' Dance, or downing what was left of the bottle of scotch stashed in the galley. His mind eventually began to function about 2 o'clock that morning and in the shadowy gloom of the unlit cabin, he considered his life quietly, sitting on his bunk next to an empty bottle and a fully loaded gun.

Darkness, darkness, be my pillow,
Take my hand, and let me sleep
In the coolness of your shadow,
In the silence of your deep...

Raising his head toward the open porthole, he closed his eyes and let the wind caress his face, feeling lines of coolness where it fanned the tear-tracks on his cheeks. Another day, another sip of arsenic, and the pain only grew deeper and stronger, it never receded. Maybe it was time to drain the cup and have done with it.

His chest felt tight and he heaved in several deep breaths, each one catching in his throat, tearing harsh, ragged cries from him. In the whole world, there was no one left who could listen to him, touch him, and make the pain go away for a while, and the desolation that certainty brought redoubled the ache constricting his breathing.

Darkness, darkness, hide the yearning
For the things that cannot be.
Keep my mind from constant turning
Toward the things I cannot see, now -
Toward the things I cannot see.

The feeble light accompanying the breeze through the porthole was too weak for him to see down the barrel to the burnished orange of the copper jacketed slug nestled in the chamber. All he could see was a dark hole, the entrance to an unlighted tunnel, and his lips twisted in brief cynical amusement at its apt similarity to his own life. The steel was smooth and slightly cool in his hands, the grip awkward when the gun was reversed.

Darkness, darkness, long and lonesome
As the day that brings me here -
I have felt the edge of silence
And I have known the depths of fear.

Staring into the black, half-inch muzzle with an unearthly calm, he cocked the hammer back, listening to it click through the positions. Sliding a thumb over the trigger, he stared into the bore, testing the emotions that surfaced and knowing, finally, that this was all he had left to want. His hands did not shake and the barrel did not waver as he began the short single action pull.

Darkness, darkness, be my blanket,
Cover me with endless night.
Take away, take away this pain of lonely,
Fill the emptiness with right, now -
Fill the emptiness with right. ⁽⁴⁾

A force that did not come from his own muscles grabbed and twisted, and the gun was wrenched from his uncomfortable hold on it. His mind readied only for death, he stared uncomprehending first at his empty hands, then into the darkness of the cabin where shadows were shifting silently in front of him. Deeper shades of black coalesced to define a lithe form, and his eyes tracked up past the faintly glowing silver-white shirtfront to the face of Martin Castillo.

The pale luminescence that emanated from him was enough to make the tears that stood in his eyes visible to Sonny as he gestured at the fallen gun and rasped in that low, familiar voice, "Why?"

"What else is left?" Sonny asked bleakly. "I've already killed everyone close to me, one way or another." He looked into the deepset eyes, noting the glistening there, and couldn't maintain the contact as he added, "Including you."

There was no sound of movement as Martin slid closer, nor any impression of weight on the bed when he sat next to Sonny, but the hand that grasped his shoulder was warm and solid. "Am I dead?" he asked gently.

"Aren't you?" Sonny asked in sudden confusion. He thought he remembered watching the life fade from those eyes, wrapping his arms around the slender body and weeping until he was hollow and dried out, then sitting numbly through a funeral watching his friends cry while he could not.... Reality tilted sharply to the left and began to slide away from him, but the firm grip on his shoulder shook him back to earth.

"Yes, if you think so," Martin said. "But don't all your friends live in your heart?"

That truth only reminded him how many friends' deaths he had presided over. "That's why it hurts so much, Marty," Crockett sobbed, giving in to the desolate loneliness all over again. "They're in my heart, but not here, not to be with for real." To listen to, to laugh with, to share his problems, to throw an arm around his shoulders in easy camaraderie and let him know he was not alone. Memories of friendship couldn't tell him he was loved now, they could only serve as a contrast to highlight his current misery. He could feel the tightness building in his chest again, crushing the breath from him.

Although he was certain he had not expressed all his thoughts aloud, they must have shown clearly in his tortured eyes. The hand on his shoulder moved to caress his back, and without knowing whether he first moved forward himself or was pulled into the embrace, Sonny reached out and held on for all he was worth. Martin's arms wrapped around him and hugged so closely that Sonny could feel warmth and a solid heartbeat pressed against his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to draw that healing touch even nearer, hoping it could thaw the cold knot of pain that had settled deep within him. "Forgive me," he choked, turning his face against Martin's neck, inhaling an evanescent hint of sandalwood.

"There is nothing to forgive." Martin's head tilted to rest against his, and on his face the silver-shot black hair was soft as the finest silk. "Sonny, I am always with you."

Deep within Crockett, the loneliness stirred and he shuddered as it uncoiled, loosening its grip on him. Slowly, the fear and its tension left him and his desperate hold on Castillo eased until he could bear to let go and lean back, gazing back into the kind eyes regarding him. "Always?" he asked tentatively, too long in pain to so quickly accept its absence now, but fervently wanting to believe it was gone.

Martin's brilliant, contagious smile flashed. "Always, my friend," he affirmed.

This time, Sonny moved first, gathering Castillo up in an embrace of joy, rather than need. "Thank you," he breathed.

I've had dreams enough for one,
And I've got love enough for three.
I have my hopes to comfort me,
I've got my new horizons out to sea...

Released at last, Martin bent to retrieve the .45 and presented it to him, butt first. Taking it, Sonny eased the hammer back down and set the gun aside. "Would have made a hell of a mess," he admitted sheepishly. "Rico always said I had no class. I guess he was right."

"He'll be happy to hear that you finally agreed with him," Castillo said dryly. At Sonny's wide-eyed look of flaring anticipation, he shook his head to forestall the inevitable request. "I do not have the power to bring him here," he said, and the regret was plain in his voice.

"But he still remembers me?"

"And cares for you. Did you truly doubt it?"

Sonny shook his head. He hadn't examined his reasoning before, but it was true that if he hadn't thought his friends awaited him elsewhere, he wouldn't have tried to join them. Now that he knew for certain, he could afford to wait, take the time to celebrate what they had been to him. His life was part of their memorial, and he realized that he did not want to cheat them of it. "No," he said, wonderingly. "No, I don't."

But I'm never gonna lose your precious gift,
It will always be that way.
And I know I'm gonna find my own peace of mind
Someday, someway....

Its purpose completed, the form so concrete in his arms only minutes ago began to lose substance, dissolving from his plane of existence back to the one it belonged in. The air still carried a hint of the subtly oriental, spicy scent that Sonny knew he would always associate with Castillo. Abruptly afraid it had all been an alcohol or depression-induced delusion, he blurted, "Was it real? Will I ever see you again?"

Where is this place that we have found?
Nobody knows where we are bound,
I long to hear, I need to see,
Cos' I've shed tears, too many for me....

Castillo's nearly transparent smile was gentle this time, and he answered, "We've met before, and we will again. Until then, go in peace, with love." The shifting shadows that were left of his outline slid forward, insubstantial enough to see through, but solid enough for Sonny to feel the velvety touch of a ghostly mustache brushing across his forehead in farewell.

Tears stung his eyes briefly, he knew the unspoken words behind that gesture. "And I, you," he whispered to the suddenly empty space in his cabin.

On the wind, soaring free,
Spread your wings, I'm beginning to see...
Out of mind, far from view,
Beyond the reach, of the nightmare come true.... ⁽⁵⁾

The faint echo that answered, "Always," soothed the torn edges of his soul. On the soft, humid breeze that crossed the marina, the familiar voice blended imperceptibly into the sound of lapping water against the hull. Sonny lay back on the bunk, and lulled by the gentle rocking of the boat, drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep. The corners of his mouth curled slightly into a faint smile as he began to dream.

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed -
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

E. A. Poe, 1827

(1) You and Me: Edge/Hayward, 1972 / Moody Blues

(2) Going Nowhere: Graeme Edge, 1983 / Moody Blues

(3) Trouble: Cat Stevens, 1970 / Cat Stevens

(4) Darkness, Darkness: J.C. Young, 1976 / Ian Matthews

(5) New Horizons: Justin Hayward, 1972 / Moody Blues