Frasier Park, Cascade, Same Time

The Girl Scout Fundraiser was already in full swing by the time Rafe and David arrived at the park. Rhonda was rushing around, harried but in her element, barking orders at random people. A dozen tables had been set up in a semi-circle with posters advertising their wares. Twenty young girls decked out in Scout uniforms sat behind folding tables with one or more adults. Two tables were loaded with boxes of cookies. One table was covered with face paints. Megan was already there, letting a ten-year old give her whiskers and a black nose. A dunking booth was set up at the far end, selling three shots for a buck. At the open end of the semi-circle, a small pen full of goats, sheep, a pony and a pot-bellied pig was set up, courtesy of the local chapter of 4-H.

Rhonda finished giving a cookie seller information, then dashed over to Rafe and David.

"I'm so glad you guys made it," she said. "Rafe, you'll be helping at the Sand Art table with my niece Elisa. David, I've got you at the Dunking Booth."

David's eyebrows shot up. "The what?"

"Don't worry," Rhonda said with a bright smile. "You won't be in it. Just hand out the balls and take money."

"How did you get all this stuff?" Rafe asked. "I mean, a petting zoo?"

Rhonda grinned. "It's nice to date important people."

Rafe laughed, watching David wander down the rows of tables. "So who's the dupe in the dunking booth?"

"Dupe?" a deep voice said from behind.

Rafe colored. "I've got to, um, later." He hurried off.

Simon stepped closer to Rhonda, dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this, Rhonda," he said.

She just smiled brightly.

Louisiana Swamp, Noon

Jim stumbled along behind MacGeorge, flanked on both sides by men with automatic rifles. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, making it easier to balance as he fought his way through the muck and mud. A bullet from one of the rifles had passed through the fleshy part of his right calf, sending darts of pain through his body. Already the heat and stagnation of the swamp had merged with the pain, settling a deep fog over his senses. He found it hard to concentrate on where he was going. If he tried to run, he would either fall in five steps or be shot down by one of MacGeorge's men.

The worst part was, he didn't know for sure if Blair was alive or dead. He'd seen a man approach Sandburg, but he had been unable to focus his hearing as MacGeorge's accomplice dragged him into the swamp.

"This is ironic, isn't it?" MacGeorge said as he picked his way across a bed of moss. "You come all the way out here to take my sorry ass to Cascade and here I am, dragging your sorrier ass through the backwaters of Louisiana."

Jim tried to come up with a thorny reply, but the pounding in his head prevented logical thought. So he said the only thing he could muster.

"Go to hell, MacGeorge," Jim muttered.

MacGeorge paused. "Now is that nice? I don't think that's nice."

Jim remained silent.

"Well, boys, I hate to do this, but I don't like the uncooperative nature of our hostage," MacGeorge said.

He opened his mouth to speak again, then froze. His eyes were glued to a spot just below Jim's kneecap. The men on either side of Jim also came to a sudden standstill.

"Guess I won't have to shoot you," MacGeorge said.

Jim's stomach sank. He heard the soft hiss. Before he could move, he felt a stinging pain in his right calf, just above the bullet wound. Jim lost his balance and fell face-first to the soft ground. From the corner of his eye, a brown snake slithered into the water and away. The pounding in his head became more insistent.

MacGeorge was suddenly towering over him, smiling. "Watch out for snakes, Jimbo," he sneered. "And the crocodiles."

MacGeorge laughed loudly, inviting his companions to do the same. They laughed as they walked on. Jim watched them go, trying desperately to stand and finding himself unable. Their laughter faded and the silence of the swamp settled in around him.

Louisiana Back Road, Late Afternoon

Three hours had passed since Blair had regained consciousness.

It had taken several minutes to reach someone on the radio frequency and almost thirty more to get any kind of vehicular response. Deputy Donnelly had been rushed to an emergency medical center just inside the county.

Blair had refused to go along and paused only long enough to get a bandage put on his forehead. Sheriff Gabelle had arrived as his deputy was spirited away, and now he and Blair were organizing search parties to go into the swamp.

"We've got five boats coming in," Gabelle said. "We'll have a helicopter tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Blair repeated. "Why not today?"

"Because we've only got a good two hours of daylight left and it would take forty-five minutes to get here. It's a big swamp, Detective."

"No kidding," Blair said. "Are there spotlights for the boats?"

Gabelle paused. "We're a tiny operation out here, Detective Sandburg. Search and Rescue will be here tomorrow with the chopper, but until then, there isn't a whole lot we can do except piddle around this area. You don't even know what direction they went in."

Blair realized the odds they were facing in finding Jim and MacGeorge. The nearest town was Backstone, twenty miles away. It was doubtful MacGeorge would head in that direction. There were several small islands of solid ground in the swamp where helicopters could land or Jeeps could drive, but those places were out of range of their small boats. To top it all off, it would be dark soon. Not good odds at all.

"I realize this, Sheriff," Blair said evenly. "We'll search as long as we can tonight, then come back with S&R in the morning."

"I know you're worried, son," Gabelle said softly. "It's a hard thing, not knowing."

Blair watched Gabelle walk towards one of the waiting boats. There had been a hint of sadness when he'd said that, and a hint of knowledge. Blair glanced down at his watch. Sooner or later, he had to call Simon with the news.

Frasier Park, Cascade

It took about three soakings for Simon Banks to get his fill of being in the dunking booth. In order to sneak away for lunch, he'd convinced one girl's father to sit in for him. Simon didn't feel too bad when he heard the first splash. He bit into his hot dog and watched the young people playing around him.

He had to admit that he was impressed. This was a first-class fundraiser. Although Commissioner Mathews was out of town for the weekend, Simon was sure he'd had a small hand in some of the day's preparations. A pair of boys with tiger-painted faces ran by, each holding helium balloons and a bag of popcorn. They paused, growled at Simon, then kept on running.

Simon laughed. It was good to be around children for a little while. And apparently, he wasn't the only one who felt that way. Simon had been watching the way David Dawson interacted with the children at the dunking booth. He was patient, helpful and caring. Simon vividly remembered a tiny girl of three who tried and tried to hit the target, but she just wasn't strong enough. David had let her come to within three feet of the target, and then he stood just behind the lever. When the child tossed her ball and barely clipped the target, David pulled back on the lever ever so slightly, sending Simon down into the cold water. But the look on the little girl's face was priceless.

David was also taking a break. He sat at one of the picnic tables, eating hot dogs and talking with Rhonda's twin nieces, Jenny and Julie. David whispered something and the identical eight- year olds dissolved into giggles.

"Captain Banks?"

Simon turned. Megan Connor was towering over him, her brow creased with worry. She handed him her cell phone.

"It's Sandy," she said. "He sounds upset."

He groaned softly and accepted the phone.

"Banks."

"Simon? It's Blair."

Simon frowned. He did sound upset. "Shouldn't you be on the plane back to Cascade by now?"

"See, sir, that's the problem. Jim's been kidnapped."

"What?" Simon shouted, leaping to his feet. Several people, Megan included, began to stare. He was suddenly aware of Rafe and Henri converging on him. "This was a routine assignment. What in God's name is going on down there?"

He was silent for several minutes while Sandburg explained himself in what seemed like two very long breaths.

"...And we're getting ready to head out right now."

"Be careful out there, Sandburg," Simon warned. "And keep me posted every hour. I want to know what's going on."

"Will do, Captain. I have to go."

Simon hung up without saying goodbye. Saying it seemed like bad luck at that particular moment in time. He handed the cell phone back to Megan and sighed.

"Bad news," Simon said. "Jim's missing."

Louisiana Swamp

A bird flapping its wings roused Jim from his stupor. His head weighed thirty pounds and was impossible to lift from the mud. His right leg ached. Something plopped into the water somewhere to his left, but he couldn't see what. The tall, dead-looking cypress trees loomed over him in a creepy canopy. Animals he couldn't see made sounds he couldn't identify.

A large, green-eyed fly landed on Jim's hand. He weakly tried to flick it away, but the fly held fast. It sat there, staring at nothing and seeing everything. Jim watched the fly until it got bored and flew away with a tiny buzzing sound.

Chief, where are you?

He tried to shout, but the words stuck in his throat. His mouth was dry, his tongue like sandpaper. He couldn't remember how to make words anymore.

Jim heard a new sound, a gentle lapping. It grew steadily closer, then stopped altogether. Jim gently turned his head to the left and found himself staring at the bow of a small wooden boat. Two bare feet stepped out, making no sound on the soft earth as they moved toward him.

Darkness began to encroach on his vision. Jim fought to stay awake. He looked up, only able to register shining red hair before his sight blurred completely.

Can't be Cassie, he thought as he lost consciousness. She's dead.

Gabelle Residence, Evening

The ancient Mr. Coffee sputtered out its last drops of brew into a cracked glass pot. A car rumbled down the driveway and the headlights of the sheriff's cruiser spotlighted the kitchen windows for several seconds before switching off. Blair placed two mugs on the stained counter and poured the coffee as Gabelle walked in, slamming the front door behind him.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway an instant later.

"Smells good," Gabelle said, tossing his hat into the corner.

"How's Deputy Donnelly?" Blair asked, handing a mug to the sheriff.

"Still in surgery," Gabelle replied. "Bullet missed his lungs, but he lost a lot of blood. The doctors are optimistic, though."

Gabelle spoke with a bitterness Blair didn't anticipate, as if the older man expected the worst to happen. Blair remembered Donnelly saying something about Gabelle being somewhat of a cynic since he'd known him. Gabelle eased himself into a chair and sipped at his black coffee.

"Thanks for letting me use your shower," Blair said, still trying for conversation.

"You smell better," Gabelle said with the slightest hint of a smile.

Blair had taken an unceremonious dunk in the swamp that evening reaching for something that looked like Jim's wallet. He'd lost balance and ended up in the muddy water. The force of his splash sent the object over to another boat, where a tracker identified that it was, indeed, a wallet. An old, rotten wallet with nothing inside. Once darkness had settled over the swamp, Gabelle had left Blair at his house with a change of baggy clothes and driven up to check on his deputy.

"I feel better," Blair said. "The water out there is kind of slimy."

"Thanks for the coffee," Gabelle said, finishing off his mug. "There's no hotel for thirty miles. My couch is comfortable if you don't mind a couple of springs in your back."

"Sounds great."

Gabelle stood up. "I'll get you a spare blanket. The S&R team will be here at the crack of dawn, so early to bed..."

He walked to the kitchen door and paused. "I'm real sorry about your partner," he said before walking out of the room.

Blair frowned. He had faith that Jim was out there alive, so why was Gabelle so negative about it? It was starting to get on his nerves, writing the rescue effort off before it really got started. He walked into the living room and waited until Gabelle emerged from his bedroom with a white wool blanket.

"We're going to find Jim," Blair said.

"Of course we are, son," Gabelle said evenly.

"You know, Sheriff--"

"Harry."

"You know, Harry, your tone of voice is not upping my confidence any. Do you really believe we'll find him?"

Gabelle held eye contact for several seconds, then sat down in an over-stuffed armchair. He tossed the blanket onto the couch and stared at the fireplace.

"I don't think so," Gabelle said without raising his gaze. "We found your partner's blood at the scene and if MacGeorge had the sense God gave ants, he'd make sure he was dead or dying in the swamp before taking off. If Detective Ellison is already injured, he'll have a hard time fighting off snakes. I won't give a false sense of hope where I don't see any."

Blair felt an overwhelming sense of pity for this man. Sometimes hope was all a person had and if you weren't willing to give that...

"Jim's strong," Blair said firmly. "I won't think him dead until I see it with my own eyes, do you understand? Maybe I don't know these swamps like you do, but I know my partner."

Gabelle finally looked at him, his eyes filled with a mix of amusement and sadness. "You remind me a bit of my partner," he said.

"Deputy Donnelly?" Blair asked.

Gabelle shook his head. "Jesse Bartlet, my old partner from St. Louis. We both worked out of Precinct 23 for thirteen years."

Blair sat gently on the edge of the couch. "Were you partners the whole time?"

"The last nine years. We didn't agree on anything, politics, women, anything."

"How did he take your moving out here?" Blair asked cautiously.

Gabelle didn't blink. "Better than expected," he replied, standing up. "Goodnight, Detective."

"It's Blair."

Gabelle nodded and walked down the short hall to his bedroom. Blair heard the door shut softly, wondering if that was a can of worms he should have left alone. Harry Gabelle didn't really seem like the type to discuss his personal life with a stranger. But Blair was curious about the man and his evasive statements.

At this moment, Blair was anything but tired. He crept outside and stood on the front porch. To his immediate right was a dirt road that led to Backstone. To his left was the swamp, dark and uninviting. Crickets chirped their song in a magical cadence that made the backwater seem almost alive. A soft mist had settled over the standing water at the edge of the property.

"So beautiful," Blair whispered. "And so deadly."

He thought about the woman Donnelly had told him about, the woman that practiced black magic in the bowels of the bayou. There were hundreds of stories like that, but Blair found himself hoping they were true. That there was someone out in that bog that could protect Jim until he got there.

"Take care of him," he said to no one.

Rafe's Apartment, Cascade

"Right. See you Monday. Bye, Rhonda."

Rafe hung up the phone in the living room and walked down the hall to David's room. He knocked softly on the door.

"Yeah," came the muffled voice within.

Rafe opened the door slowly. David was sitting at his desk, typing something on his computer. His head was at a slight angle -- the pixels always gave his returning vision a workout. He was smiling.

"You look pleased with yourself," Rafe said.

David looked up. "I was emailing Lewis, telling him about today."

"Should I take it you enjoyed yourself, then?"

"Yeah, sure," David replied, concentrating on the computer again.

"Rhonda said they raised over five hundred dollars, a record for the troop."

"That's great."

"Jenny and Julie are quite taken with you, she said," Rafe added with an evil grin. "And you know about eight-year olds and crushes."

David smiled, but didn't look up. Rafe sighed and turned to leave when David's voice stopped him.

"Do you think Detective Ellison will be okay?" he asked.

"They've gotten out of worse than this," Rafe said.

David nodded thoughtfully. "G'night, L.T.," he said.

"Night," Rafe said, as he shut the door behind him.

Louisiana Swamp--A Cabin, Early Sunday Morning

Heat, dry heat. A crackling fire. And something cooking that smelled so good. These first few impressions were what greeted Jim as he struggled back to consciousness. He tried to move and groaned. That was a bad idea.

"Don't move," a soft voice said. "You're still too weak."

Jim cracked his eyelids, peering into a semi-lit cabin. A girl, young and beautiful, moved into his line of sight. Her pale face was framed by long, red hair. Her green eyes, almost too big for her small face, glowed with the sorrow of someone ten times her age. She placed a cool hand on his forehead and Jim felt the dull headache fade away.

"Who... are...?" Jim struggled to find words. His tongue felt swollen to the roof of his mouth.

"Merry," she said. Her voice seemed to dance around the room. "You'll be fine, Jim. You just need to rest. Let the poultice work."

"The...what?"

Merry smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes. "The poultice. It will heal your wounds and cleanse your blood from infection."

Jim struggled to look down, but his body was covered with a thin, brown blanket. He saw a large lump where his right leg should be.

"Alone?" Jim asked.

"Daddy's gone hunting," Merry said in a hollow tone. "He'll be back in the morning."

"Call...help?"

"We can't call anyone from out here. Don't worry, Jim. Your friends will come for you."

He believed her and he didn't know why. Maybe he was still too delirious not to. Jim wanted to ask a dozen more question -- Who was her father? Had she seen MacGeorge? How do you know my name? -- but didn't. Sleep was fighting for his attention and he began to lose that battle.

"Sleep, Jim," Merry said, stroking his forehead. "You'll feel better in the morning, I promise."

"Promise," he muttered as he closed his eyes.

Louisiana Swamp--East of Backstone, Morning

Blair hoped he was doing his best suppressing his fear of heights as the helicopter circled the swampland twenty miles out. Gabelle had stayed on the ground, coordinating the search effort with the State Police and their Search and Rescue team. An officer named Marco had gone up with Blair and both men had their eyes glued to the land below, seeking out any sign of Jim and their fugitives.

"Bird One, this is Base One. Over," Gabelle's voice said over the radio.

The co-pilot picked up his handset. "Base One, this is Bird One. Come in."

"We had a report of lights over by Potter's Bog late last night. That's five miles west of you. Over."

"Copy, Base One. Changing course to Potter's Bog. Bird One, over."

Blair held on as the helicopter made a sharp turn to the left.

Potter's Bog

"Get your ass into the chopper," MacGeorge ordered.

His pilot, Marty, glared at him, but climbed inside. MacGeorge returned the glare, not in a good mood at all. They had arrived at the bog in the early morning and found the engine invaded by a nest of swamp rats. Several wires had been eaten through and needed to be replaced before they could take off.

Three hours later, their escape vehicle was ready to fly.

His other accomplice, a hefty man named Sam, slammed the engine hood down and opened the back door. MacGeorge climbed in, hoping the ancient hunk of metal was air-worthy. Sam jumped into the front passenger seat and shut the door. Marty started up the engine. It choked, then whirred to life.

If we get out of this, I am definitely reconsidering their share of the loot, MacGeorge thought, watching the ground move away.

The loot in question was the bag of jewelry he had heisted and hidden just before his arrest in Backshit, or whatever the town was called.

His recent escape had only been a mild surprise. Only he knew where the jewels were, and Sam and Marty were greedy sons of bitches. They wanted their cut no matter the risk. Of course, leaving Ellison to rot in the swamp had been an unexpected bonus.

The chopper rose steadily and Marty turned it towards Alabama.

"Uh oh," Marty muttered. "We've got company."

"What?" MacGeorge screeched, leaning forward.

A dark shape loomed in the east, moving steadily closer.

Blair saw the helicopter through his binoculars. "There!" he said, pointing out the pilot's side of the chopper.

The co-pilot nodded and grabbed the handset. "Base One, this is Bird One. We have a possible visual on suspects. Stand by."

"Bird One, report your position. Over."

"We are directly one-quarter mile east of Potter's Bog and closing."

"Copy."

Blair squinted into the binoculars, hoping the helicopter ahead was not armed. If they had to shoot the chopper down, Jim could be hurt. Conversely, Blair's helicopter could be shot down. Neither prospect was exactly thrilling.

The co-pilot switched on the speaker and handed Officer Marco the handset.

"This is the Louisiana State Police," he said, his voice echoing out into the swamp. "Land your helicopter and exit with your hands above your head. Repeat, this is the police. Land your helicopter."

The rogue chopper responded by swerving wildly to the south and picking up speed.

"Hold on," the pilot said.

Blair gripped the seat in front of him as their helicopter changed course to follow. In a stomach-lurching move, they rose high into the sky and zoomed forward. Blair watched the other chopper move below and finally behind them. Without warning they dropped back down to their previous altitude, now less than thirty feet in front of the rogue.

Marco depressed the handset and repeated his order for surrender.

"Get us out of here!" MacGeorge said, his hands gripping the back of Marty's seat.

"I'm trying, dammit," Marty returned.

In the passenger seat, Sam was searching through his backpack. He grunted and pulled out a semi-automatic rifle.

"What do you think you're doing?" MacGeorge bellowed.

Sam glared at him. "What do you think? I'm getting rid of our little pest problem, you moron."

"Do not fire that weapon!"

"Or what?" Sam scoffed. "I won't get my cut? Screw you, man. I ain't going to jail for a couple thousand in jewels."

"Damn you--"

Sam whipped around, bringing the butt of his rifle over the back of his seat and down on MacGeorge's nose, producing a jet of crimson blood. MacGeorge fell back against the seat, howling in pain and clutching his broken nose. Sam turned his icy glare to Marty.

"Get closer," Sam said.

Blair was twisted backwards, trying to get a better view of the other helicopter. He peered through the binoculars.

"I don't see Jim," he announced. Blair turned to Marco, his eyes wide. "Jim Ellison isn't with them."

The rat-tat of gunfire cut off Marco's reply. The pilot cut sharply to the left and rose up. Marco pulled out his pistol and leaned out the side of the chopper. They angled slightly, giving Marco a clean shot.

Marco took his shot. Fuel sprayed from the puncture in the rogue chopper's tank.

The co-pilot took the handset. "Base One, target is going down. Repeat, target helicopter is going down."

Blair watched the rogue chopper lose altitude.

Please don't let Jim be in that thing, he pleaded as the rogue disappeared into the Louisiana swamp.