Dance by Brenda Antrim.

Rated NC17, no copyright infringement intended.

Based on the movie "The Watcher" (cast : James Spader as Joel Campbell; Keanu Reeves as David Griffin; Marisa Tomei as Dr. Polly Beilman).

She was pretty, he supposed. But she was too old for Joel. Too married. Taking up much too much of Joel's time.

Taking Joel's attention away from him, where it belonged.

The man currently known as David Allen Griffin stared through the telephoto lens of his camera. Joel was a natural redhead. David wondered if he'd been a carrot top as a kid. He had a nice back, broad shoulders, strong arms. His profile was fascinating. Good legs, and an outstanding ass. Which was currently flexing and releasing as he fucked another man's wife.

Lisa. Bitch.

There'd been a pretty girl tonight, and she'd been fun, but it hadn't been enough. The thrill was gone, the music was flat, the dance was out of step. Because Joel had Lisa.

He wasn't watching David.

A trickle of sweat ran down Joel's spine, interrupted in its trail by bright red fingernails clawing gently at his back. Lisa even got in the way of watching. Watching Joel.

As Joel should be watching David. And wasn't.

Time to change that. Time for another pretty girl, and he already had the perfect one. Time for Joel to make a choice.

Planning was everything. Always. He watched Lisa, as he watched Joel, until her routine was imprinted in his mind. It was fun. Her husband worked nights.

Joel fucked her often.

Her routine became his routine. Her life became his. Joel fucked her, and David felt it. It was good, better than it had been in months, and it would only get better.

The night he picked was perfect. Lisa's husband was on a stake-out and wouldn't be home until it was all over. Joel had the night off; not much to do while David was stalking and recording, he knew. It was one of the things he loved, the fact that their activities were wedded. Controlled by David, with Joel following.

As it should be.

She gave very little resistance. Slut, of course, didn't know the meaning of resist. Well, she wouldn't, fucking around on her husband with his Joel like that. Of course, he did backhand her hard enough to make her ricochet off the back wall, which took any starch she might have had right out of her.

A little duct tape, several candles, everything placed precisely right. He put some music on the disk player -- Tal Bachman singing that no one knew what it was like to be like him, and David could relate so well. One kiss to the top of her head, and the doorbell rang.

Right on time! That was his Joel.

He slapped her once more, sound effects, and Joel responded to his cue with perfect reflexes, kicking in the door, gun in hand. God, but David loved this part. Almost as much as the way the bodies felt as they shuddered through their final death throes. Maybe even a little more, because after all, it was Joel, and that made it all so much better.

They had a merry little chase through the side yard, then the back alley, then over the curb and fuck! Goddamned car. Nearly hurt Joel, running into him like that. Couldn't they see there was a chase going on? Certainly broke Joel's concentration, destroyed the beautiful rhythm of his footsteps running after David. After David.

Joel was limned in headlights, eyes huge, hair falling around his face like a red-brown halo, showing off his bone structure. Snapshot; angel in flight. Then he made a choice.

The wrong one.

David followed, out of sight, and judging from the single minded concentration with which Joel ran back to the house, out of mind. He went back for the bitch. Of course, it was much too late for Lisa.

The candles had fallen over. And poor Joel hadn't taken the time to untie her hands and feet before taking out in pursuit of David. The flames had engulfed most of the house, and he could have told Joel there was no chance, no chance at all that Lisa could still be saved.

Joel tried. He kicked at the burning wood. He screamed her name. He was driven back by the flames. He tried to go in again. Wood cracked, flames licked, Joel screamed. It was beautiful. Even if he had made the wrong choice.

Eventually, the heat and smoke overcame him. David slipped forward when he knew that Joel was unconscious, and pulled him from the wreckage before the fire claimed another victim. After all, this was for Lisa; Joel was for David. He wasn't ready for the dance to be over quite yet.

David let him rest. The hospital was a good place for that. Under the pretext of visiting the old dear lying in the room three doors down, David kept a close eye on Joel. No one noticed, of course. When David wanted it that way, no one ever noticed him.

No one but Joel. That was why Joel was so important. Joel noticed him.

A week after Lisa went up in flames, Joel finally went home. Along with a bag of drugs that made David frankly envious. Especially the Seconal. Joel drugged himself into oblivion every night, and woke screaming out of that oblivion before dawn broke every morning. David watched him and shivered. God, that had to be hurting. It was ... delicious.

On the fourth night, David waited until the drugs took effect. He knew from the past few nights' experience that he had a good two hours to play before Joel came screaming awake. Not that that, in itself, wasn't a treat, but it made it tough to get close and not be recognized. He wasn't ready to give Joel up yet.

He'd save that until the dance was over. They could go together.

Joel sprawled over the bed. He looked relaxed, but there were lines between his eyebrows and his mouth was tight. He had a pretty mouth. Looked much better when it was relaxed. Ah, well. Give him some time, and enough distance, and a few more drugs, and it would be soft again. David bent over the bed, eyes intent as he drank in every detail of Joel's suffering. For he was suffering.

He really shouldn't have started fucking Lisa. He'd been David's, and now he was David's again. One black-gloved hand stretched out and brushed the stray hair away from Joel's brow. The skin was wet with sweat. The leather dragged against it, and the lines between his eyebrows deepened. His mouth pursed, as if he was going to speak, or scream, and David moved his hand from brow to the bow of Joel's upper lip. He traced it, feather-light, with the tip of his finger.

"You should have chosen me," he whispered. The fingertip traced over the line of jaw, along the side of his throat, to the hollow of the collar bone before drawing a line precisely where the wire would eventually pull. David smiled, then leaned further over until he could touch his mouth to Joel's. The lips were as soft as they looked.

An hour later he was watching from his car as the screams began again.

Six months later

Joel stared at Dr. Beilman and wondered if she knew what she was asking. Chicago hadn't been any worse than he expected, but the waiting list for psychiatrists was ridiculous, and he'd ended up with one who was still wet behind the ears. Still, it was better than putting his head through the wall -- barely -- and that seemed to be his only other viable option, so he'd stick with it.

Wasn't like he had legions of friends breaking down the door to listen to him. He would make the best of her questions and try to figure out how to put the pieces of his mind back together the best he could.

"It's never quite that easy. You go through the door, they're never just sitting there, waiting for you with a welcoming smile on their face. Best you can do is hope they fuck up and do what you can to be there when they do." Serial killers. He'd spent the last ten years of his life figuring out how their minds worked.

No fucking wonder his own didn't, any more.

Chicago. Jesus. David could understand Joel getting away from it all. But Chicago? A far cry from LA and not the better choice as far as he could see. It didn't take long to find Joel again. It threw David off his track for a month or so, being on disability so Joel didn't go into the local field office, but he did have a pattern of behavior, and once David knew where he lived, the rest was easy.

Too easy.

Boring.

Joel looked tired. He still wasn't sleeping, which was ridiculous after so many months. She couldn't have been that special. He was screaming a lot less, but now he was puking, and that couldn't be much fun. David did some digging and found out Joel had migraines. That explained the puking, but didn't make it any more fun to watch. And since they'd moved to fucking cold Chicago the man never stripped off any more. That made it way less fun to watch him.

Although he did get a few glimpses of skin when Joel would run for the syringe and inject himself with whatever he took to knock himself out when the migraines hit. "Nasty bruise there," David muttered, grimacing as the air steamed in the car and clouded his lens. He was disappointed. He hadn't chased Joel halfway across the country for this. It was time to start dancing again.

He sent the first photo. That night, he played with the pretty blonde in the pink angora sweater. The blood made abstract designs in the furry material. It looked good against her skin, pale as it was, it being winter and all. He waited. Police swarmed, led by a big, burly man with an accent straight out of a movie about Texas Rangers. It was amusing, for a moment. Then it was boring again.

Where was Joel?

Still staying in his apartment all the time. Drugging himself, not sleeping, sitting on the couch forever and boring David half to death. The only time he got out was twice a week to go to a professional building for some kind of doctor's appointment and every night about seven to eat at a truly appalling Vietnamese restaurant that had the single virtue of being directly across the street from his apartment.

It was time to get his attention. David was bored with being bored.

She lived directly below Joel in the same building. She was a pretty brunette with almost as boring a social life as Joel, although David was of the opinion the only people with duller lives than Joel were already dead. It did make it easy, which wasn't exactly what David was looking for, but if it got Joel's attention it was worth it. David waited until Joel headed off for his evening's portion of inedible noodles and bad beer, then took himself up to her apartment.

Her eyes were large and wet. Her mouth was defined by duct tape, but he kissed it anyway. She passed out, twice, and he waited for her to wake up before he put her to sleep permanently. Washing off the blood in her sink, he looked in the mirror but he didn't see his own face. He saw Joel's.

"Why did you turn away from me? Why is it so hard for you to accept? Don't you know I did it for you?" Always. Since the first time I saw you, looking for me. "You came so close to me that night. I remember clearly what I felt, hearing your footsteps following behind me. Pride. I thought it would keep us together forever." Not drive us apart and send us halfway across the country. "For me, it was our finest moment. I can still see the flames."

It was the only bright spot in the last several months. There had to be a way to make this more fun.

Monday passed with the dance and the Texas Ranger. Tuesday went by without a peep. David found himself laughing. What would it take? Wednesday morning he knew.

Joel took out of the apartment building like his ass was on fire, carrying a plastic grocery bag full of FedEx envelopes. About fucking time he opened his mail! David shook his head and followed along behind as Joel went directly to the local Chicago PD substation. David was reading bulletins on the wall when Joel flew through like a miniature windstorm, the Texan on his heels. David glanced over at the door. Read the name printed in block black on the glass, Lt. Hollis Mackey. Unfortunately he couldn't hear the conversation, but it didn't look like it was going well. Perhaps the Ranger didn't realize how much Joel knew about this particular case?

The door slammed open and Joel's voice, purely pissed off and carrying with it, echoed in David's ears. "C'mon. He's sending me fucking pictures. He shoved the vic up my ass in my own fucking building."

He turned away so Joel wouldn't see his grin. Let the dance begin! He waited the next day. Joel finally went to the FBI office.

Then he left again. David couldn't believe it. He wasn't going to take the bait! The frustration was starting to irritate him. Didn't Joel know David was doing all this for him? Determined to get the man back in the game, David upped the ante with his next move. He had to hear Joel's voice. Let Joel know it was still personal. Still between, and about, them.

Back in the nice office that looked like somebody's den, with the nice lady asking stupid questions Joel finally decided he might as well answer, since if he was going to glue the disparate chunks of his brain back into anything passing for whole again, she was going to have to be the one to hand him the glue. He sighed. Even his mental metaphors were too tangled to make sense. The photos weighed on his conscience.

What he'd told the locals was true. This wasn't LA, and it wasn't his job any more, and he couldn't help them. Dr. Beilman asked him a question, and he blinked, brought back to the present by her persistence.

"You're fuckin' right. I am afraid." His brain was mush. His heart was trying to stop on him. He was on Seconal to get what little sleep he got; Acebutolol for a pulse that skipped beats whenever the fuck it wanted, bands of steel tightening across his chest at odd times; he had a permanent bruise on the lower right side of his groin from constant shots for migraine; and he popped Lotensin to try to get his blood pressure lower than sky-high, not that it did much. And she wondered why he wasn't working? Maybe she needed concrete examples of just what kind of basketcase he was.

"I go places and I forget why I'm there. I miss exits on the freeway. I'm lucky to find my way home from the grocery store, and if I do, most of the time I've forgotten my groceries." Then when I get the groceries home, I can't eat them because my stomach is tied in knots and everything that goes down comes back up.

"Yet you make it here every week. Twice a week."

"Yeah." He looked at her. Didn't she get it? "What if the next picture that arrived was of your daughter? Would you really want me to be the one looking for her?"

"Yes."

The look turned into a stare. She looked like she actually meant that. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

"Yes, I would."

Jesus.

David waited until Joel was asleep before he called him. It made sense, of course. Keep Joel a little off balance. It was a more interesting dance that way. When he finally answered the telephone, he sounded groggy, like a little boy not quite up from his nap.

"H'lo?"

"Hi! It's me!" David was as cheerful as he could be, standing at a public phone freezing his nuts off.

"Me?" It took awhile for the light to dawn, but David was patient with Joel. The man was taking a lot of drugs, after all. "Me who?"

He knew by the way Joel's tone changed it was a rhetorical question, so he ignored it. "It's freaking cold here. Why'd you move here?"

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Man, Joel was grumpy when he'd been woken up!

"You hardly leave your apartment. And when you do, it's to eat at that same terrible Vietnamese restaurant night after night. You seem so bored. I was expecting a warmer welcome." Or any welcome. I'm right here, Joel, look at me! Notice me! David missed that. Missed Joel's attention, and was determined to have it back again. He could hear a pen scratching over the line and grinned, getting off on Joel taking notes of their conversation.

"I didn't fuckin' ask you here, did I." Another rhetorical question. David ignored that one, too.

"The guy they replaced you with? I tried to make it work but we just didn't see eye to eye at all. I was going to quit the game entirely, but then I thought, Chicago's not so bad. At least you didn't move to New Jersey, right?"

"Yeah. So why don't you grab a pen. I'll give you the name and number of the agent that's on your case. You can share your inner turmoil with him 'cause I don't give a shit."

David sighed with sympathy. This wasn't how the game was played. "I know your job is hard, Joel. So I'm willing to take steps to try and make things work between us."

"What are you talking about?" Joel sounded suspicious, but at least he was wide awake.

"The photos, Joel. I'll send you a picture and you can have a day to try to find them. I'll give you until nine o'clock. What do you say, Joel?" C'mon, pal, dance with me!

"I say I should have moved to New Jersey, asshole."

David chuckled. "Good night, Joel."

Sweet dreams.

Nightmares of flames and monotonal, psychotic, cheerful assholes kept the usefulness of the Seconal to a minimum. Unused to being wakened by knocking on the door, it took a few drug-slowed minutes for Joel to scrabble for his gun, fumble the safety off and ask "Who is it?" as he stumbled to the door.

The girl gave a nervous explanation of an open door and no answer to her bell-ringing before fading in the face of his gun. He told her to put them on the floor and thanked her absently as she ran back down the stairs. He didn't notice.

He was too busy opening the card that came with the flowers. With pliers. Not sure if he was protecting fingerprints he knew wouldn't be there or expecting it to be wired to explode.

Maybe hoping.

The girl in the picture was cute. Young, early twenties, with glasses and a headband and little pearl earrings. Joel's chest tightened and his eyes narrowed against the pain. He couldn't do this. Not any more. He'd fucked up too often and the wrong people kept dying. He used to be good at his job, until his job started centering on him instead of the nutcases he was supposed to be hunting. Once it had, everything had gone to hell in a hurry, and he didn't think he could do this anymore.

On the other hand, his psychiatrist did think he could do it, and nobody else was getting the fucking pictures. He carefully deposited the evidence in a plastic Ziploc bag and headed downtown. He didn't bother talking to anyone on the way in, just walked into the office of the ASAC he'd turned down two days before and told him he wanted the case. The photograph he plopped down on top the file cabinet in front of the man's face helped.

"Can you handle it?"

Fuck no, but my shrink's all for it. "I guess we'll find out."

Things moved fast from there. Hollis came over from the CPD and the guy Joel had bumped, Mitch somebody, started bickering about id modes. Joel watched, listening with half an ear while he puzzled out the picture. There was something in the background that was bugging him. A bird? A reflection? He tuned back into the conversation when the question of going to the public came up. Hollis was all heat and passion, Texas accent thickening as he bulldozed the Feds. Joel clamped down on a smirk.

"Get him in front of the camera. They're going to like him." And if they liked him, they'd play him. Hopefully on all the local news stations. Repeatedly. Of course they had to go to the public. They had less than twelve hours to find the girl. Even with a head-start, the deck was stacked against them.

Leaving the others to the paperwork and the media, Joel went back into the meeting room-turned-photo gallery and stared intently at the blow-ups of the picture. It was the only clue they had, the only one Griffin would give, and it was up to him to figure out who the hell this girl was and get to her before she wound up choking on piano wire. Like all the rest of them.

Except Lisa.

Blinking, he shook his head hard, shaking free extraneous distraction. No time. Not now. A call came through about a sighting, a restaurant where a waitress recognized the girl's headband. Joel flew out the door, Hollis and one of the local agents at his heels.

Interviews. Canvassing. Calls. Credit receipts, not that they'd help if the girl paid in cash. Reminding smartass waiters that this wasn't a game, and a girl's life was on the line, and grabbing one person after another, demanding that they look at the fucking picture before turning away.

Eight forty. Twenty minutes to deadline. He stared at the television, waiting for the news to run. A flash of the hotline number, not nearly long enough. Hollis asking, again, what time the other killings had been.

"Nine o'clock." His stomach hurt. His chest hurt worse. His head hurt worst. "It's done." Goddamned son of a bitch. "We're not going to make it." He shrugged helplessly, turning away from the dismay in Hollis' face. "We're not going to make it."

Another telephone rang, and the agent, Diane something, hustled up to Joel. They'd had a last-minute sighting. Not one to quit, when there was the ghost of a chance to find the girl, Joel led them on a desperate chase through the mall. Listening to a girl telling him she'd seen the target, seven hours earlier, Joel's eye was caught by the photo shop downstairs.

Snap.

Snap!

The reflection in her glasses, half-caught in the picture.

He left the witness mid-word, running down the up escalator, yelling for Hollis all the way. The detective was at his shoulder as he careened into the photo shop and called for the clerk.

Too slow.

They finally identified the target. The girl's name was Ellie. It took a lot of snarling and Joel losing his temper, but they got the manager on the phone, and the manager gave them Ellie's number. Joel dialed it on his cell phone, praying silently with every button he pushed. "C'mon, c'mon ... " It connected, and seemed to ring for fucking ever before a man finally answered.

"Yes?"

"I need to speak to Ellie Buckner immediately."

"Oh, she can't come to the phone right now."

Fucking idiot. Joel shook his head, saying imperatively, "No, no, please. Put her on the line, immediately. It's a life or death emergency." The man's voice when he responded was eerily merry.

"Not any more, it's not."

Joel felt his heart freeze in his chest. He waved frantically through the window, catching Hollis' attention to let him know the killer was on the line. In his ear, the morbidly happy voice chirped on.

"Wasn't that fun? It hasn't felt that good in years. Wasn't it suspenseful?"

"Oh, yeah. It was a blast. This way's much more fun." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. Useless now, he wadded up Ellie's number and threw it away. Too fucking long. It took too fucking long to find her. Griffin was still cooing in his ear.

"It's amazing, isn't it? We're all stacked on top of each other but we don't really notice each other any more, do we? You notice me, though. Don't you, Joel?"

Pain stabbed from the back of his head to between his eyes. "Yeah. I notice you." Much as I'd really like to forget your existence, asshole. Joel was waiting for Griffin to go on when he realized he was listening to the dial tone. He snapped the phone shut, stifled a curse, and went out to join Hollis. Time to go to the crime scene.

Too damned bad they hadn't gotten the address an hour earlier. Too damned bad for all of them.

Especially Ellie.

Now, that had been fun. Unfortunately, he couldn't take his time with it. She'd gotten off work so late he hadn't had a chance to really dance with her before he'd had to finish it, and Joel knew where he was, so he couldn't stay and bask in the afterglow. Griffin slipped out onto the street and drove for awhile. Frank the cat sprawled on his lap, purring loudly as he scratched behind a furry ear.

Short, but intense. More fun, closer than he'd been to Joel, closer than Joel had been to him, in too long.

He went home, but he was wired. So he put the cat in the living room and watched Frank prowl his new home for a little while. He'd never killed anyone with a cat before. He kind of liked the cat. It was ... sort of a souvenir. Of the most intensely alive he'd felt in months.

Eventually his energy overwhelmed him, and he let himself and Frank out on the streets. He felt like a junkie in need of a fix, and it amused him. He needed a Joel-fix. Escalation, they called it, but the so-called experts thought it was just the killing. Just the blood and the violence. Joel was an expert, but he knew better. He knew it was the contact high.

Not surprisingly, he ended up in another stolen car, parked outside the terrible restaurant that Joel always haunted. This time, though, Joel wasn't alone. The big detective with the stupid accent was sitting next to him. Talking. Joel looked like he was listening. Looked like he was relaxed, thoughtful, actually eating instead of simply ordering food for the show of it as he drank beer. David frowned.

Joel had a boring life, but David wasn't sure he wanted Joel to have friends. It took Joel's attention away from him. At least the cop was involved in the investigation. Maybe that was it. At least Joel wasn't sleeping with the cop. At least, David didn't think so.

David had never killed a cop before.

Joel stopped eating, said something to the cop, and patted him on the shoulder as he walked past. There was an ease about the gesture that shouldn't have been there so soon in their friendship. David frowned harder.

Could Joel be fucking the cop? That wasn't the cop's place. That was ... unacceptable.

The echo of a clatter from the alley beside him pulled David's thoughts away from Joel and the cop getting naked together. He paid closer attention to the restaurant. Joel still hadn't come back from his bathroom break. The cop was just sitting there. Eating. Very slowly.

Something was up.

His eyes darted back and forth from the restaurant to Joel's apartment building. A motor revved behind him, and he looked in the rearview mirror as a car accelerated out of an alley and shot down the street. Probably a drug deal gone bad. Glancing instinctively at the side mirror, he saw movement and froze in his seat.

Sneaky, sneaky Joel.

Joel was creeping along the line of parked cars, gun in hand, looking predatory. It gave David a shiver, and made him a little hard. Joel was coming up fast, and David was boxed in.

That's what God made gas pedals for. He rammed the cars in front and in back, unwedging himself handily, and peeled off down the street. In the mirror, he could see Joel taking off in hot pursuit.

As it should be.

The cop was running along behind Joel, making good time, but David was busy trying to get the morons in the traffic lanes out of his way so he could escape. Wouldn't do for Joel to catch him now. They still had so much dancing to do before he could let it be over. The tires squealed as he went around the corner, and Joel skidded to a stop behind him, firing a couple rounds into the side and roof of his stolen car. David watched him in the rearview mirror until he was too far away to make out details.

God, that had been fun.

David didn't want to wait. He wanted another hit. Walking through the late-night Chicago street life, he felt free, loose, wild. No need to watch another girl. No need to map it all out. He would wing it. It had worked with little Ellie. It would work with someone else.

Now.

A girl asked him for money. She was pretty, in a throwaway sort of way, all sharp angles and lank hair and hard eyes. She was wearing a choker and had a heart tattooed on the side of her neck, an inch above where he would tighten the wire. He told her he'd give her money if she'd dance with him. He really needed to dance. She was a poor substitute for Joel. She told him he was crazy. He said he'd lead, she would follow.

They always did.

She was no exception to the rule. She smiled, a shy, surprised expression a lot like Ellie's had been, and the angles melted into something much more appealing. She was pretty. She was his. She would be Joel's.

That night, he waited until she'd packed in her begging and he followed her to the rat's nest in the abandoned building she called home. So easy. Almost too easy. The next morning, he followed her to her daytime hangout and took a picture. He went home, developed it, dropped it off at FedEx for the morning delivery, and slept deeply.

He didn't dream.

By seven o'clock the next morning, he was outside Joel's apartment again, in a different stolen car. Joel came flying out the door looking like he'd slept in his clothes, heading for the professional building he visited twice a week every week like clockwork. David followed, skin tingling. Time to get close.

Real close.

The elevator doors were closing when he stuck his gloved hand between them. Joel was alone in the elevator, slumped over a little. His profile looked clean, sharp, as if backlit for a camera. His skin was a little pale, almost translucent, and a few scattered freckles stood out. David made certain his glances appeared casual, but Joel didn't seem to notice.

Too intent on other things. The thought made David angry.

He watched Joel covertly up to the ninth floor. Joel only looked at him twice. Each time was short, perfunctory, but David reveled in it. Joel had blue eyes. Long sandy lashes. There were lines around his mouth that hadn't been there before. He wasn't sleeping enough. He looked edible. Fuckable. Distracted.

David got out first, deliberately getting in Joel's way so that their bodies bumped. "Excuse me." Joel nodded absently. He was a little shorter than David, a little less broad, but solid. David followed as Joel went directly into one of the offices. A psychiatrist.

Oh, Joel. That was just so ... perfect.

There was a name on the door. Polly Beilman. David kept walking briskly, giving no sign that he'd found his next target. Polly. Pretty Polly. Want a cracker? Want to dance? Want to talk?

Want to die?

He was watching twenty minutes later when Joel flew back out the office door, but Joel didn't see him. In too much of a hurry. David grinned, glanced up at the clock on the wall and knew precisely why Joel was in such a hurry. FedEx had deposited the day's morsel on the FBI's doorstep. The grin fell away.

Time to go meet pretty Polly.

She was, too. She was between patients, so he asked her receptionist, "Does she have time to see me? Just for a moment. I won't take much time."

"Your name, sir?" The receptionist gave him her flirtiest look. She was cute, but she wasn't on the menu. Her name tag said 'Lois.'

He widened his eyes and looked as harmless as a fly. "Abraham. George Abraham."

Lois took him in to see Polly, and David went to work. He noticed the mini-cassette recorder she played with the whole time she was talking and discovered that she taped her sessions.

Tapes.

Of Joel.

This just kept getting better. David eyed the cabinets, scoping out the ones where the tapes and the files were kept. She blathered on for a little while about what sort of help she could give him, and he wondered what pop psych magazines she'd been reading. He knew more about the abnormal mind than she did, that was for certain, and not simply because he had one. She sounded about as well-qualified as a television talk show host. He wandered around her office, reading the titles of books, looking for the back door, checking out the alarm system. She was starting to sound a trifle suspicious when he turned back to her, giving her his most charming smile.

"Do you think some people might pay to come and talk to you because you're very pretty?"

Her eyes turned speculative. "Let's keep this centered on you, Mr. Abraham."

Of course.

Not.

Joel stared at the new pictures. There were clues, more than Griffin usually gave him. She was even younger than Ellie, but she looked liked she'd lived a harder life. She was dressed for the streets, looked a little ragged, cold and underfed. There was a heart tattooed on her neck.

There were other clues besides the girl herself and he spent time absorbing them as well. The bench she was sitting on. The clarity of the details of the outdoor location. This one, Griffin had processed himself, and it gave much more away. It was early morning, probably yesterday. There were seven people in it. Three were drinking coffee from cups with the same brand name on them. All looked busy except for the girl sitting serenely in the middle of the bustle, smoking her cigarette, the focus of the picture. The target of the madman.

Mitch got busy with the tattoo parlors. Hollis got busy with the media. Assorted agents and police officers got busy on the telephone, setting up liaison with the city, trying to track down the area, the bystanders, the elusive name and location of the girl in the picture. Somebody somewhere was watching, because by early afternoon, they had an id.

From her mother.

The girl's name was Jessica. Unfortunately, while they had her mother's address, Jessie didn't live there any more. She was on the streets. Joel felt his migraine ratchet up another notch and managed not to vomit through sheer force of will. After a fruitless search of the premises, they went back to headquarters. He locked himself in a restroom stall, yanked down his pants and injected himself. The pain dulled, and he could see again without the light killing him. He didn't have time for it.

He had a girl to save.

As usual, people didn't want to hear. Didn't want to look. Joel watched the policemen being way too fucking polite until he had to step in. Grab a fat businessman by the tie and hold him still until the bastard actually looked at the fucking picture, then told the cop that was how it was done. The cold made his headache worse, and shortened what little patience he had left. He could almost feel the seconds ticking down.

His shrink might think he could do this, but Joel had his doubts.

A kid on a skateboard whizzed past, or tried, and Joel stopped him. He knew as soon as the kid's eyes landed on the picture that he'd hit pay dirt. Then the stupid shit took off.

Joel chased him two city blocks before Hollis came out of nowhere and pinned the kid to the side of a car. Joel dove in, grabbed the punk, and dragged him over to pin him to a wall, banging the kid's head against it for emphasis. Three times. Partly to get the kid to stop running and listen, and partly because his chest was hurting so damned much he couldn't do anything but pant for a few moments.

"If you don't help us find her, your friend Jessica will be dead within the hour!" he finally snarled up into the kid's face.

That got his attention.

Once he realized they weren't trying to get anyone in trouble, were in fact trying like hell to keep her from terminal trouble, the kid headed off into the jungle of the derelict part of the city where the homeless slept. He also ran full-tilt, which Joel appreciated because time was of the essence, but the kid was a good six inches taller than Joel, all of it in the legs, and by the time they made it into the building where Jessica holed up for the night, his chest was on fire.

He, the kid and Hollis rounded a corner, and Joel saw a shadow move. "Get him out of here," he hissed, and Hollis complied immediately. Joel drew his gun and his flashlight, and headed off into the bowels of the building.

The ensuing chase was a nightmare. Griffin ran down the stairs, through the basement, up the stairs; Joel followed. He almost got him on the stairs to the roof. Griffin actually flinched away from the shots ricocheting around the stairwell. Once on the roof, the night air cold in his lungs and the darkness pierced by the searchlight from the helicopter following the chase, Joel did his damnedest to catch up to Griffin.

Over the roofs, down the walls, leaping over breaks between the building, rappelling down cable to the street below, Joel ignored everything in his urgency to stop Griffin. His legs started to shake and so did his hands, and his vision was blurring, but he still managed to get three more shots off as Griffin dodged down an alley.

Missed. Fuck. Barely, but still, the bastard ran a zigzag pattern and got away.

Joel commandeered a cruiser and took out after Griffin, siren blaring and lights flashing. As usual, drivers paid no goddamned attention and he nearly went up the tailpipe of an idiot in a pickup truck, but eventually he got close enough to Griffin's car to ram it. Twice.

Unfortunately, they went through a concrete barrier and another cruiser clipped the back of his, sending him out of control. The chase ended, for Joel, standing next to the wreck of the patrol car, waving the others on. Hollis came tearing up too late to join the rest on the chase, and Joel flagged him down.

"What do you have?"

"Jessie," Hollis told him. Joel didn't say another word all the way back to the abandoned building.

She looked tiny and heartbreakingly young, lying on the cement floor in a pool of her life's blood. Joel went through the motions, but he could barely concentrate through the white noise of pain buzzing in his head. A few minutes later he heard radio static, and he got up from the broken doll that had once been a girl and joined Hollis. He heard every word of the report on the way it went down. Griffin led his pursuers into a trap at a gas station, knocking over a pump and flooding the place then tossing a match when the patrol cars converged on him. Three policemen died in the resulting fireball.

Griffin escaped.

Hollis looked at Joel. He took a deep breath, but it didn't do anything for the tightness in his chest. Hollis opened his mouth to say something, but Joel couldn't take the pain in his eyes, or the sympathy, and didn't wait to see what he had to say. He turned and walked away.

This time, he didn't bother turning on the news. The Jane Doe murders, as the local press had dubbed them, would be the headline story. They'd give them more air time than they'd ever give a hotline. Corpses were hot news. Much hotter than before they were dead; what was a manhunt when they could have a murder spree? He threw his coat in the general direction of the couch and tossed his tie after it. He was still having trouble breathing, and he headed for the refrigerator.

A can of coke, some barbiturates, a couple hours of nightmare-infested sleep, and he'd be as fine as he ever got. Ready for the next photo. Ready for the next chase. He was reaching for the can on the shelf when his arm went numb. The band around his chest tightened, squeezing his lungs until there was no air left in the world, and the room was spinning. The air was cold on his face but he couldn't move.

David had to walk further than he usually did, but that was okay. The flames had been exciting. Roast pig. The thought amused him, but he was distracted by the need to see Joel. They'd come so close tonight. He had a hole in his jacket where one of the slugs had nearly caught him in the alley.

The light was still on in Joel's window. David frowned and looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. Joel should have been drugged into oblivion by that time. He licked his lips. He could feel his heart beat in his ears as he entered the building and ran up the stairs. He was still working on a lie when he reached the third floor, then thought to hell with it and knocked. He'd improvise. He was good at that.

No one answered.

Maybe Joel was drugged, and had forgotten to turn out the lights? David grinned suddenly. He could play a little mind game. Go in, tuck Joel in, turn out the lights, and leave Joel to wonder who was looking out for him. Working quickly, David picked the lock and let himself in.

His immediate reaction was that the place was a pit. There was mail scattered on the floor, the smell of oranges and stale coffee in the air, and the floor needed a good mopping. He peered into the bedroom.

No Joel.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he sang softly. No answer. He peered into the living room. Still no Joel.

Turning the corner, he glanced over at the tiny square table covered with papers and shook his head. Joel was a terrible housekeeper. Then he saw Joel. Sprawled on his belly in front of the open refrigerator.

"Joel?" David stepped closer. Joel's eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. "Don't tell me you're dead, Joel. That would ruin everything." He knelt down beside Joel and touched two fingers to the side of his neck. There was a pulse, but it was weak and thready. He leaned closer. Joel's face was even more pale than normal, and his lips were faintly blue. "Oh, Joel. This isn't good." Running his fingers through Joel's hair, David leaned down and gently kissed Joel's mouth. Joel was barely breathing. "It's not going to end this way."

Patting Joel gently, David stood up and went into the living room. He quickly searched through jacket pockets until he found the cell phone, then punched speed dial buttons until a man's voice said, "FBI." Making his voice raspy and breathy, David whispered "Help!" Then he walked back into the kitchen and placed the cell phone, line still open, on the floor next to Joel's hand.

He watched with interest from his car eighteen minutes later as two men in suits pulled up and ran into Joel's building. Fourteen minutes after that, an ambulance screamed up the street. He nodded approval. Good response time. Joel looked so helpless, strapped on the stretcher, an oxygen mask over his face. David dropped his hand into his lap, opened his fly and stroked himself. It didn't take much to bring him off.

Joel could do that. Any time, really, but especially when he was helpless. He licked his lips. Even dying, perhaps particularly when dying, Joel tasted good. David tucked himself in and followed the FBI agents who were following the ambulance. Once he knew to which hospital they'd taken Joel, he ditched the car and took the El home.

He slept in the next morning. It had been a busy night, and he needed the rest. By mid-afternoon, he was walking down the corridor toward Joel's room when he saw a familiar figure. He ducked his head and pretty Polly walked right past him, not noticing him as she went in Joel's room. David heard her say something about dinner, and headed for the stairs. He was never one to waste an opportunity.

It was easy enough to get in her office. The security was minimal, and once inside the perimeter, nonexistent. It was the work of a moment to steal Joel's files, and another moment to get the tapes. He walked out the door, no one noticing him at all, just another face in the crowd. He stopped by his apartment, picked up the mini-cassette player he'd bought for this specific purpose, and picked Frank up as well. The cat was a warm weight on his lap as he sat in the darkness along the waterfront and listened to Joel open his heart.

Or at least his psychoses. Not a few of which, it sounded like, David was responsible for. The thought made him happy. Joel's voice made him happy. What Joel's voice was saying didn't make him so happy.

Joel's thoughtful way of speaking intrigued David. It was obvious the man was trying, hard, to figure out how to work through his problems. He didn't have the best guide in pretty Polly, though. If Joel got any benefit from the sessions, it had to be the benefit of putting his own thoughts in words. Maybe the benefit of time with a pretty woman, too.

That would have to stop.

"How's work?" She sounded like his wife. Or wife wannabe.

"It's great. I'm building an excellent fan base with the homicidal set." David grinned. That was his Joel.

"How do you feel about that? About this man following you to Chicago? Is it a vendetta?"

"That's a strange question. No, I don't think vengeance has anything to do with it." Of course it didn't. David shook his head. "I think there's a story, a ritual that he follows, and over the years I became part of the story. It probably didn't make sense without me."

Oh, God, Joel. You do understand me. David closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"In other words, he missed you." Yes. Even pretty Polly could figure out that much.

"Odd, isn't it?" David's eyes opened slowly. Odd? Joel thought it was odd that David had followed him?

"Did you miss him?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

That was an answer? David rewound the tape and listened to it again. What the hell kind of answer was that? Of course Joel had missed him. He had to have missed him. They completed one another. Joel was a mess without him. He hit the rewind button and listened a third time, then a fourth. Didn't Joel understand what it meant?

It was time Joel figured out what was going on. Even if David had to explain it himself.

Joel didn't know what they put in the IV, but it worked better than Seconal. He slept a whole six hours, longer than he had in longer than he could remember. The nightmares were there, but there was a wall of drugs between them and him, and he woke up feeling stronger than he had in months. He glanced at the television, some stupid talk show, and wondered idly when lunch would come. Since breakfast had only been an hour or so before, it would probably be too long. A familiar voice brought his attention back to the television.

Hollis. Press conference. Crap. Another picture, and he was stuck in a hospital bed. Not that he'd done all that much with the last two -- his thoughts froze as a picture flashed across the screen.

Lisa.

Not a new target, but an old one. A message specifically for Joel. There was only one possible meaning to Griffin sending that particular picture. Only one place Griffin could be. Where Lisa was. Where Joel was going.

He ripped out the IV, barely wincing as hair came off with tape and a thin rivulet of blood trickled down his arm. He dressed hurriedly, shaking off momentary dizziness, and headed for the desk. His doctor wasn't around, and he didn't bother paging, simply checked himself out of the hospital AMA and called a taxi. A quick stop at his apartment for his gun, and he was on his way to the graveyard. To Lisa, and to Griffin.

Paying off the cab, he walked toward her grave, eyes sweeping the area for threats. There was a man standing against one of the family headstones behind Lisa's grave. He looked familiar. Joel had a flash of memory -- a hand, a leather glove, stopping the elevator doors from closing two days before on his way up to see Doctor Beilman. A man, broad-shouldered, army jacket, jeans, dark hair and eyes, a few inches taller than himself.

The son of a bitch had balls. On the same fucking elevator with him. Playing with him. Joel brought his gun up and aimed it steadily at the center of mass, waiting for the bastard to give him an excuse. Griffin held up a bottle.

"Hi, Joel. How's the heart, pal? Here, want a beer? Make ya feel better."

He was smiling. Joel wasn't. He held the gun steady in one hand and put the other up, palm out. "Stop."

Griffin slowed, then came halfway between his initial position and where Joel stood. "Here." He put the open bottle of beer on the grass. Joel ignored it. Then he strolled over and knelt beside Lisa's headstone. "Tell me something. Did you move 2000 miles to live near this woman's grave?" Joel stared silently at him. Griffin shook his head. "You did, didn't you. Oh, man. You gotta get out more. I mean, is this a satisfying relationship?" Griffin mimed picking petals off a flower. Joel gritted his teeth, but didn't respond to the deliberate provocation. "She loves me; she's decomposing. She loves me; she's decomposing." The asshole actually started to laugh.

"What are we doing here? What is this? You here to give yourself up?" Hope sprang eternal. Besides, if he got Griffin to talk, he'd have a better chance of figuring out what the fuck the crazy son of a bitch was up to.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you were fucking her? Just because she was married?"

Not what Joel wanted to hear. It was time to get specific. He wagged his gun, a tiny motion that drew Griffin's eye to it. "We don't seem to be communicating. Let me be clear with you. I have no problem with shooting you dead where you sit." In fact, it would be a pure pleasure.

"Oh, you do have one problem. If I'm dead your friend Polly is going to meet a rather gruesome fate. Involving candlelight and quite a large pool of kerosene."

Joel felt his chest tighten again and took a deep, slow breath, trying to ease the pressure. Griffin stood up and walked over to him, stopping a few feet away. He dug in his pocket and Joel tensed, waiting for a weapon. Instead, Griffin pulled out a business card. Even from where he was standing, Joel could read 'Polly Beilman' on it. He could also see bloodstains.

"And you know something about attractive women burning, don't you? Tell me. What was it like? Could you smell her flesh burning?"

He dropped card at Joel's feet and went back for his beer. Joel refused to be drawn into the past. The present took all his concentration. He couldn't help the dead, only the living, if that. If she still lived. He took a stab in the dark.

"You've already killed her."

"C'mon! You know me better than that. It's not even her blood." Griffin sounded slightly disappointed in him, but Joel had his starting point. Now he had to take a chance.

"Take me to see her then." He lowered his gun and took a step forward. Griffin watched him intently.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Can't we just sit here for a little while and talk, Joel?"

"We'll talk once I see her." In other words, no. He walked cautiously toward Griffin. "I just need to know if there's anything to talk about." Keeping his eyes steady on the nutcase he did one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He offered his gun to Griffin. "Go on. Take it. I just need to know that she's all right. Then we'll talk."

Griffin stared at him for a moment before taking the gun. Their fingers brushed. Griffin continued to stare into Joel's eyes for a long moment. His capitulation was soft and sudden. "All right. Let's go." He turned and stared walking away, and Joel followed a short distance behind him. Griffin glanced over at him. "It's good to see you, Joel. It really is." He actually sounded like he meant it. A step later, he squeezed the trigger, firing a round into the ground. "Wow. It's loaded."

He sounded surprised and delighted. Joel stared back at him.

Sick fucker.

The afternoon got more surreal from there.

Griffin led him to a nondescript, no doubt stolen Chevy and gestured for him to get in the driver's seat. He watched Joel the entire time with a peculiarly intense look, but Joel's mind was on survival, both his own and his shrink's, and he chalked it up to Griffin's standard psych-out m.o.

"Turn left here." They drove for half an hour, taking progressively less busy side streets, until they reached a culvert in the middle of nowhere. No people, no traffic, not so much as a fucking stray dog. "Get out."

Joel kept a wary eye on Griffin as he climbed out of the car and walked toward the opening to the culvert. "I don't think this is where you have Doctor Beilman," he said softly.

"Everything in time, Joel. Are you always this impatient? You didn't used to be." Griffin put Joel's gun on the floor of the car, closed the door and turned to Joel. "We're going to have to work on that."

He didn't see it coming, for all his watchfulness. One moment Griffin was six feet away, making small talk, the next he had Joel pinned to the rough concrete wall. Joel's head banged against the scratchy surface so hard he grayed out for a moment. Shaking it off, he found himself trapped by Griffin's weight, his hands pinned over his head at the wrist held in one of Griffin's hands, Griffin's thigh wedged between his own.

"What the hell are you doing?" He stayed calm, but the words would have been more forceful if he wasn't gasping for breath.

"It's been a long time, has it, Joel?" Griffin sounded like he was laughing under his breath again.

Joel bucked against him, trying to throw him off, but all that did was drive their bodies together. He froze when he felt Griffin's hard-on digging into his stomach. Great. Just what he didn't need. A psycho with a thing for piano wire escalating from targeting him to getting horny for him.

Although it did explain a few things.

"This the only way you can get off, asshole?" Joel snarled. "Killing girls doesn't do it for you any more?"

Griffin smiled at him. Joel was irresistibly reminded of a phrase he'd read somewhere about the banality of evil. Griffin looked so fucking normal it was scary.

"It never did, Joel," Griffin told him softly. "Not without you."

His free hand clamped in Joel's hair, pulling his head back. Griffin leaned down and forced Joel's mouth open with his own. He spent a long time kissing Joel, if it could be called a kiss. The way he went at it, tongue stabbing down his throat, it was more of a mouth fuck. Joel was light-headed from lack of oxygen and his mouth hurt from the pressure before Griffin finally came up for air.

"You taste even better when you're conscious," Griffin informed him gleefully. Joel looked up at him in horror, unaware his mouth was hanging open.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he finally managed to gasp.

"You were so sweet, lying there, dead to the world," Griffin mused. "Or nearly so, anyway."

His fingers untangled from Joel's hair and slid around to his throat, then up under his jaw as he dove in for another sloppy kiss. Joel had to fight not to gag. The way Griffin was going at it, he'd probably let Joel suffocate on his own vomit and keep at it even after Joel was dead. Probably get off on it, too. When the hell had Griffin kissed him? As much shit as he was taking to fight insomnia and hypertension and nightmares and heart problems, it could've been any time in the last six months. Maybe more than once. The thought made him feel sick.

Then Griffin's other hand clenched around his balls and he screamed. The tongue stuffed in his mouth muffled the sound, and with Griffin's weight pinning him down all he could do was writhe against him, trying to get away from the pain. The grip softened, turned to stroking, and he whimpered, fighting the sensation. Another hard squeeze, another shock of pain through his body, followed by more soft stroking, and to his helpless anger he found himself getting hard. Griffin had a point; it had been a long time, and the bastard knew what he was doing.

Joel concentrated on blood, on innocent dead girls, on fire, on Lisa, and fought his body's reaction. It worked, and he softened, but Griffin didn't seem to care. He kept up the cycle of pain and petting until Joel was hyperventilating. Only when his chest was hurting so badly that he stopped responding, even to the pain, did Griffin finally stop.

"Oh, babe, don't die on me now. We still have so much fun to have before it's over."

The hand left his crotch and came up to pat his face. Joel opened his eyes, staring dazedly up at Griffin. He couldn't see very well through the pain in his head and the pain in his chest, and when Griffin let go of him, he would have fallen if the other man hadn't caught him. He tried to pull away, but Griffin embraced him and wouldn't let go. Giving in for the moment, Joel dropped his forehead to Griffin's shoulder and concentrated on breathing. Eventually the band around his chest eased, and the stabbing pain in his head calmed down enough for him to think again.

He raised his head and glowered at Griffin. "This is getting us nowhere," he growled.

"On the contrary." Griffin bit the side of his neck, and Joel gasped, jerking involuntarily against him. Griffin chuckled against his skin and licked it. "We're finally getting somewhere." His hand dipped down Joel's back and rubbed hard down the center seam of his jeans. Joel squirmed, trying to get a knee up, trying to push Griffin away, but he couldn't get a good angle, and the recent wear on his body weakened him too much to fight effectively without actually killing Griffin.

The fact that he still hadn't gotten Polly out of trouble kept him from using lethal force. Regardless of how damned good it sounded.

"Stop it, goddamn it!" As a weapon, words were weak, but they were all he could afford to use. Griffin ignored him and kept rubbing. Joel flinched away, but that just rubbed his groin against Griffin's dick, and Griffin enjoyed that a hell of a lot more than Joel did. Left with no choice, Joel kept his body as still as he could.

He couldn't do anything about the shuddering. Or the panting. Or the fists he clenched against Griffin's shoulders. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Not that Griffin would let him get away with that for long.

"It's no fun if only one of us is playing, Joel," Griffin rebuked him.

"I don't want to play," Joel responded wearily. "I just want to get this over with. Where's Doctor Beilman?"

"You don't want to talk, you don't want to play, you only want to work. No wonder your life is so boring!"

Joel stopped shaking in that instant as his temper frayed past the breaking point. "Listen, you fucking asshole, where the hell is Polly? What have you done with her? And why the fuck are you doing this? Get off me!" He screamed it directly into Griffin's ear. There was no way the bastard couldn't get his point. Griffin let go of him and stepped back a pace.

Then he backhanded Joel across the face with all his strength.

The force of the blow exploded in Joel's head and the world whited out for a moment. When he could see again, Joel found he'd been pulled to his knees in front of Griffin.

"All in good time, Joel," Griffin told him softly. "We don't want to jump the gun. You do what I want, or pretty Polly dies." He dropped a hand to his pants and unzipped his fly. "You are going to do what I want, aren't you, Joel?" He wasn't wearing any underpants. He released his dick and grabbed hold of Joel's hair, pulling him off-balance so that Joel had to rest his hands on Griffin's thighs or he'd've landed face-first on Griffin's dick. "Suck me," Griffin commanded him.

Looked like he was going to end up there, after all. Joel glared up at him. "Why?"

Stupid question, obviously, but one thing he'd learned early. Keep the perp talking until a way could be found to resolve the situation. Unfortunately, Griffin hadn't read the same books Joel had. He simply pushed the end of his dick against Joel's mouth and said, "Now."

Joel opened his mouth to say he had no idea how to give a blow-job, and Griffin fed him his dick. The impulse to gag was nearly overpowering now, but Griffin didn't give him time to do anything but kneel there and take it. He buried both hands in Joel's hair, using it as a handle to move Joel's head back and forth, and fucked Joel's face. It was like the kisses, only deeper, bigger, and harder. Joel's fingers tightened around Griffin's thighs, holding on desperately, trying to breathe, knowing if he passed out Griffin would just keep going until he finished, and he really didn't want to die of suffocation from that pervert's dick down his throat.

Griffin didn't make any sound when he came, just shoved hard until Joel could feel balls against his chin, and shot. He didn't even have to say, "Swallow it all," although of course he did, because Joel had no choice. He couldn't move, could only hang on and try not to choke. When Griffin pulled out, Joel nearly threw up. Griffin clamped one hand around his throat and pulled him to his feet, and Joel's attention shifted swiftly from his heaving stomach to his imminent death.

Hell of a way to go, strangled for giving a bad blow-job.

"Not bad for a beginner," Griffin told him, then kissed him again. He took his time, swabbing his tongue around Joel's mouth, cutting off Joel's air again, and this time Joel couldn't stop it. He blacked out before Griffin finally finished.

When he came to, he was stretched out in the back seat of the Chevy. Naked. He was lying across Griffin's lap, his head propped on the edge of the window. Griffin had his gun and was using the barrel to trace invisible lines around Joel's balls. Joel froze.

"Ever been fucked with one of these, Joel?" Griffin asked the question like he was asking Joel if he'd ever been to a ball game. Joel shook his head. He couldn't have forced a word past his lips at that moment to save his life. "Hm, maybe later. We really don't have the time now for all the things I'd like to do to you."

Thank God.

"Polly?" Joel rasped out.

"Polly, Polly, Polly!" Griffin snapped back. "Is she all you ever thing about?" The gun had come to a stop and was pressing dangerously into the base of his dick. Joel tried not to think about the instability of the asshole with his finger on the trigger.

"Until I know she's safe, she's all I can think about," he answered gently. Griffin glared at him.

"Fine. Put your clothes on." He took the gun away and shoved Joel off his lap onto the other side of the car seat.

Thank you again, God. Joel scrabbled into his clothes, noticing marks on his abdomen, legs and genitals as he did. He didn't want to think about what Griffin had been doing to him while he was unconscious. He could still move, and that was the only thing that mattered. He could figure out the rest of it later. Or not. Probably better not to.

Griffin prodded him out the door with the gun, shoving him back behind the steering wheel. Dusk had fallen while Joel had been busy getting molested in the sewers, and it seemed obscenely peaceful driving through the quiet streets toward the docks. They drove for several minutes in silence before Griffin turned to him.

"We're going to make it through this, aren't we, Joel?"

"I think that's more up to you than it is to me." You're the one with the gun and the fixation. He kept his eyes on the road, wondering what Griffin would come up with next. Whatever it was, he would work with it. He was a fucking professional and it was about time he started acting like one.

Not that Quantico covered rape by the subject of one's serial killer profiles, but still. He did have a job to do, and a woman's life depended on it.

"You look older since you were in LA." Griffin took a deep breath. "You're a good friend. You're like a brother to me, did you know that?"

Brother? Did he often force his brothers to perform oral sex on him? That also might explain a few things. "Do you have any real brothers or sisters?" Maybe if he kept Griffin talking he could find something, get a handle on him. Regain control of a situation he'd totally lost control over months ago.

Griffin didn't like the question. "What the f-- What is that?" He sounded upset. Shit. Not what Joel had been going for. "I'm trying to have a real conversation, and you're psychoanalyzing me. What, are you Doctor Polly now?"

"I was just curious." He kept his eyes away, kept his voice calm, all the things he'd been trained to do when dealing with dangerous psychotics.

It didn't help Griffin poked him in the ribs. "Look at me when I talk to you! You're trying to control the situation. Stop trying to control the situation. Can't you just leave your job out of it just this once? I'm telling you, I think you're spending too much time with that Polly bitch."

The hatred in the last two words chilled Joel. It was time to take a different tack. "What do you need?" He didn't have to look over to feel how intently Griffin was staring at him, but he did. Throw the nutcase a bone. He continued, keeping his voice as calm and even as possible. "I want you to think about what you need. It's up to me to try to get that and make an exchange. Anything you need for Miss Beilman's safety." He stressed the honorific, trying to get Griffin's attention off Joel's relationship with the doctor. The jealousy was an unexpected factor.

"What I need ... is you."

Shit. He was fucked. Literally.

He glanced over at Griffin. The man was staring at him like a starving beggar at a king's banquet. Joel swallowed. He was out of options. No chance at all of negotiating out of this one. He moved his left hand surreptitiously in his coat pocket, pressing first the mute button then the rapid dial button for Hollis. He turned the telephone flat on its back at the bottom of his pocket so when Hollis picked up, he could hear every word being said in the car, figure out the situation and trace them. It was the only chance Joel, and Polly, had left.

Joel had nothing to trade because Griffin held all the cards.

"I knew if I came here and explained to you in person that you'd understand better, Joel. You were the only one who thought about me. Who really knew me."

He carefully didn't say anything. Know Griffin? He'd only scratched the surface, and he'd been digging in the wrong direction half the fucking time.

"For a long time, I was the only one you had. Then you met Lisa. Pull in here."

God. Lisa. Joel pushed the thought away and parked in front of an abandoned warehouse right on the water. There was nobody around for blocks. He hoped like hell Hollis had the trace going, kept his face impassive, and followed Griffin into the building. The elevator ride to the top floor was a fun-house mirror replay of the elevator ride in Polly's building. Griffin stared at him openly, showing off a little. Joel stood as far from him as possible.

He had a sneaking suspicion if he got too close he'd end up on his knees again, and he didn't think Polly had the time for them to waste.

They stepped off the elevator, and Griffin stopped at a heavy door, fiddling with something at the top before opening it. Joel's mind supplied 'booby trap' and he stepped through at Griffin's sweeping invitation. "C'mon in."

The first thing he saw was the shotgun rigged to fire that Griffin had unhooked. The second was Polly Beilman, duct-taped to a chair, eyes huge and frightened. The third were candles, everywhere, snug against tanks and barrels of everything from kerosene to gasoline. Holy fuck. If one of those candles fell over, the entire building would explode. Griffin continued his parody of playing host.

"Polly, Joel. Joel, Polly."

Before Joel could open his mouth, Griffin cracked him over the skull with his own damned gun. For the second time that day, the world went gray on him. This time, the migraine that had been threatening made good on its promise, and for the next few very long minutes all Joel's concentration was on not moving, not fainting, and not vomiting. Griffin started a boombox playing loud, pounding music that didn't help the headache any, and Joel looked up blearily to see Griffin putting on a weird, stylistic dance. He didn't know if it was for Polly or himself, but he had a feeling it was more for his benefit than hers.

The song ended and Griffin stopped dancing around and shut off the disk. Then he came over and hauled Joel bodily into a chair, set up off to the side where he could have a clear view of everything Griffin did to Polly. Joel fought off the waves of pain threatening to crush his skull and tried to focus on the job.

"Wakey, wakey!" Griffin chirped. He took up a bright work light and flashed it over and over in Joel's face.

Unable to move or strike out, Joel did the only thing he could to protect his vulnerable eyes. He cowered, threw one arm over his face and waved his other hand in Griffin's general direction. Weak, but about all he was up to at the moment. Migraines made self defense problematic.

"That hurts, doesn't it?" No shit, Sherlock, Joel thought fiercely at Griffin, who kept right on babbling. "I've heard that flashing lights and migraines don't go together at all."

So of course he had to try it out. Joel refused to rise to the bait, saving his strength for more important things, like figuring out how to get himself and the hostage the hell out of the situation in one piece. Getting no response, Griffin finally put the damned light away.

"You're no fun."

Try me on a good day. Joel cracked one eye open and watched Griffin pick up the gun and point it at Joel's head. Even through the tape covering her mouth, Polly's shriek of protest was clear. Griffin ignored her to concentrate on Joel.

"Oh, no, Polly. I'm not going to kill him. We need each other." He leaned in closer to Joel. "We define each other. We're Yin and Yang." Close enough to kiss. Joel glared at him. "Black and white. Isn't that true, Polly?" She didn't even squeak. Griffin broke off looming over Joel and turned toward her. "Polly?" He stood up, walked over and ripped the tape off her face. She gasped but didn't protest. "Isn't that right?"

Her voice was almost too soft to hear, but it was reassuringly steady. "I don't understand the question."

Griffin leaned in close, within an inch of her face, and demanded, "Did you or did you not in your professional opinion reach the conclusion that Joel and I need one another in order to give meaning to our lives?"

What? Where the hell had she come up with that? Joel stopped staring at Griffin long enough to cast Polly an incredulous glance. She returned his look, an apologetic expression on her face. Her voice was even softer when she answered, "yes."

No! Joel made a supreme effort and bit the word back. How had she gotten him so totally wrong?

"See?" Griffin addressed the triumphant word to Joel, and Joel shook off his disbelief. He could deal with that later. He still had a job to do.

Griffin pulled Polly out of the chair and began to fondle her, in much the same way he'd pawed Joel in the culvert. Joel felt himself getting completely pissed off again. The good thing was that the anger pushed the pain down so he could function again. On the flip side, it also meant playing the game by Griffin's rules, and people got killed that way. Joel took a deep breath and put every ounce of command he had into his next words.

"Take your fuckin' hands off her." Griffin ignored him. So much for command. Joel raised his voice a notch. "I said, take your fuckin' hands off her!"

Instead of dropping her, Griffin put the barrel of the gun under her chin. "Sit down, Joel. Sit."

"I'll sit down and listen to you talk all night, just take your hands off her." Since words weren't working, Joel snapped his fingers, trying to get Griffin's attention back on himself and away from Polly. "C'mon. Put the fuckin' gun down. We both know you're not going to do it." He tried scorn instead of command. Griffin looked over at him, mildly amused and interested.

"And why do we know that?"

"Because you can only kill her once."

That finally got Griffin's attention. He looked down at Polly. "He's right." Joel was giving a small sigh of relief when Griffin turned and shot him in the left thigh. The shock and the burn sent him crashing to the floor, both hands wrapped around his leg, blood dripping over his fingers.

"God damn it!" He was fighting the shock when Griffin came back over to him, picked him up and slung him back in the chair.

"Upsy-daisy." He kept his arm around Joel, his hand at the nape of Joel's neck, bringing their bodies close together, bumping the sides of their heads together gently. "How's this for deja vu? We got the fire, we've got the pretty girl. Only instead of bringing us together, you moved to Chicago. The guilt must have been unbearable."

The initial jolt from the gunshot was passing, and adrenaline was racing through Joel's body. Griffin let go of him and sauntered back toward Polly.

"Or something like that."

Joel glared at him, hatred and frustration in his eyes. "Is that what you want me to say? I feel guilty. A woman is dead because I made a terrible mistake." I didn't untie her. I went after you, instead.

"No. No, no. That wasn't the mistake." Griffin came back to him, putting his face very close to Joel's. "The mistake was turning back, instead of pouring all you had into us. What do I want you to say? I want you to say thank you. I want you to say thank you for coming here and saving your pathetic life."

Thank him? Joel couldn't believe his ears. He knew the asshole was a nutcase, but that was ridiculous. Thank him for leaving Lisa helpless in the face of that fucking fire? Just how deluded was the madman? "David, do you know how many serial killers are active in Chicago right now? Five. In the mid-West, at least a dozen. I could work on any one of them without ever packing a bag. You get hit by a bus on a Thursday, I'm working on a new guy on Monday. You're my job. You're paperwork." What would it take to make him see that?

Griffin smiled at him and backhanded him again. Joel felt the jolt all the way through his spine, setting his thigh to throbbing just when it was starting to get numb.

"I can't believe you still don't know who you're talking to." He turned his back on Joel and returned to Polly, picking up a length of piano wire on his way over to her. She screamed 'no!' as he wrapped it around her throat, the force of his grip lifting her body a few inches from the seat of the chair. Her voice choked off as the wire tightened. Griffin sounded remarkably reasonable as he told her, "I have to do this. He's not going to understand anything else. You heard him."

Joel couldn't let it happen. "Thank you," he rasped.

Griffin kept his choke hold on Polly as he looked over at Joel. "What did you say?"

"I said thank you." The words were stronger this time, and Joel kept his eyes glued to Griffin's. Play on his delusions, play for time, play the game, dance the dance until one of them died. Pray God it wouldn't be Polly. He slipped his hand into his pocket. If Hollis hadn't traced them by now, he never would.

The words made it through the madness, and Griffin stopped garroting Polly, dropped her back in the chair and walked back over to Joel. He peered into Joel's face, looking pleased with himself. "Tell me again."

Asshole. "I said thank you!" Griffin was within range, and Joel slashed him across the throat with his cell phone then kicked him in the groin, sending him flying across the room. It wasn't as effective as a knife, but it gave Joel an opening, and he took it. Griffin knocked into the table, spilling CD player, rope, tape, gun and candles everywhere.

It took only seconds for the fire to spread.

Joel scrambled for the shotgun, unhooking it from the harness as Griffin grabbed up the pistol and aimed it at him. Griffin hesitated. Joel didn't. His shot caught Griffin in the shoulder, knocking him down. Joel left him lie and ran to Polly, determined not to make the same mistake twice. He hauled Polly over his shoulder and hustled her to the relative safety of the far corner. The first thing he did once she was out of the direct path of the fire was to rip the tape off her wrists and ankles.

She wouldn't die like Lisa had. She would have a chance.

He stared frantically around the room. The fire had caught Griffin along his back, but the maniac was still trying to fight his way over to them. Fire blocked the doors and closed in on the high-pressure gas tanks along the near wall. They had no time. The only escape route was the window; their only chance, the lake.

Grabbing Polly's arm, he screamed, "Run!" and pulled her through the fire as fast as they could go, flames licking at their feet. Behind him, he heard Griffin's voice screaming "Joel!" He sounded tormented. They hit the glass running, legs pumping air as they windmilled six stories down into the water below. He could feel the fire billowing out behind them as they fell.

He'd never been so thankful for water, disgustingly filthy as it was, in his life.

Joel surfaced, spotted Polly spitting and dog-paddling a few feet from him, and blinked away water to see the wharf was crawling with police. Ignoring the heavy drag of his right leg, he swam over to Polly and boosted her into the outstretched hands of two police officers. Once she was lifted to safety, he swam back out to where he could see Griffin floating face-down in the water.

He had to be sure.

He rolled the heavy body over far enough to see the side of his face. The flesh had bubbled, raw slag from the force of the fire. Joel's stomach heaved and he quickly dropped the shoulder he'd gripped, not bothering to try for a pulse. He wasn't even sure where the face stopped and the neck began, and he couldn't bring himself to touch the ruined flesh. So much like Lisa, in those last few moments he'd seen her before the roof of the house caved in. Certain the fire had killed Griffin, Joel swam wearily, clumsily away from the body back toward the dock. The police fished him out and he leaned against them, fighting not to fall over, wincing at the pain in his leg, head and chest.

Forcing his mind away from the past once again, he concentrated on the present. "There's a girl. She all right?"

"Yeah," the officer assured him. "She's over there."

Joel gave one last order before allowing the paramedics to see to him. "Get the fuckin' body out."

It was over. Time was up.

They ended up keeping him in the hospital for seven weeks, but he wasn't aware of the first few. Infection developed in his gunshot wound from the polluted water getting in it, and his already weakened heart nearly gave out on him twice. The best part about it was the IV drugs were the good ones, and he actually got a lot of sleep. When they weren't waking him up to see if he was sleeping, of course.

By the time he came back to the world, some things had changed. Polly had relocated to St. Louis. He was put on permanent disability. The Bureau appreciated all his fine work, but with a crippled leg, a bad heart and a fragile psyche, they couldn't afford to take the chance on him.

Some things hadn't changed. He stared at Hollis in disbelief. "You got to be fuckin' kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding, cowboy? I'm tellin' ya. There was a manhunt. Went on for weeks while you were lyin' here trying to make up your mind if you were gonna live or die or go on doin' your best impression of a turnip."

"No body," Joel repeated numbly. How could there be no body? He'd seen Griffin's face. The man had been melted down to a puddle.

"No trace, nada, not a damned sign of him."

"He's probably at the bottom of the harbor," Joel suggested hopefully. Hollis grimaced.

"Dragged it. Came up with a shitload of crap, couple dead fish, one of 'em with three eyes -- gotta do somethin' about that toxic waste dumpin', I'm tellin' ya -- but no Griffin."

"Shit," Joel sighed.

"Yeah," Hollis sighed back at him. "Upshot of it is, he's probably out in the middle of the lake by now and the fishies'll be feastin'. On the downside, kinda hard to get closure when the last chapter of the book's been ripped out. On the upside, the vision of radiant loveliness that is Diane agreed to come out on a date with me, and it went so well we're seein' each other on a relatively regular schedule." Hollis beamed at him. Joel shook his head.

"Well, at least you got something out of the deal." Beat the shit-all Joel got. Although he had to believe that Griffin was dead. And this time, he hadn't finished the dance. This time, the pretty girl had lived through it.

This time, Joel had done his fucking job right.

When they finally released him, Joel went back to his apartment. To his surprise, there was a Persian cat waiting on the couch for him. The name tag on the collar read 'Frank.' How the fuck had the cat ended up with him? He glanced over at the kitchen and saw the bowls and litterbox there. Wandering over, he caught sight of a note taped to the front of the refrigerator.

"Somebody had to take him. You need to go grocery shopping. Don't mention it. H."

Joel grinned. Leave it to Hollis to tie up the loose ends. He walked slowly back out into the living room and sank down on the couch, absently stroking the soft furry head. Frank purred. Joel rested his head against the cushions and thought.

Griffin had been obsessed with him. Polly was off-base about the rest of it, though. Griffin hadn't obsessed Joel, he'd simply burned him out. Joel had seen that he was becoming the nexus of the attacks and removed himself in the hope of stopping them, unable to continue the hunt due to his own faltering health from the stress of continual failure. Polly had misread his laconic responses to her questions as denial.

It had taken him months to stop feeling paranoid and remind himself that it was just a job, but for Griffin, it had been an obsession. Joel's mind shied away from the events of the afternoon before they'd gone to where Griffin had stashed Polly.

Too fucking obsessed. Thank God it was over.

He reached for his bottle of Seconal, popping two tablets and washing them down with the last of the flat coke in the can on the coffee table. He shifted on the couch, putting his feet up, resting his head against the arm, settling Frank on top him. His eyes drifted closed, the lax weight of Frank draped over his belly comforting, his hand absently stroking the cat until he fell asleep.

Flames licked through his memories. A clean white house, a filthy bare warehouse. Lisa, dark eyes melting in their sockets. Polly, screaming as the fire ate at her feet. Music playing all around them, and Griffin dancing like the madman he was in the midst of the chaos. Then Griffin turned, and caught Joel, and kissed him, his face melting as he held on, flesh dripping down onto Joel's face, melding them together as Joel's skin began to melt along with Griffin's.

Frank was sleeping on the coffee table when Joel started up, a scream strangled stillborn in his throat. Joel stared at the cat, blinking several times until he knew where he was and that he was still alive. He brushed his hands over his face, ridiculously relieved to find his features intact.

It was a long time before he managed to get back to sleep.

The next year passed quickly. He worked through a few of his many trust issues and found another psychiatrist, a man this time, the spitting image of Albert Einstein, only bald. Nothing to remind him of Polly.

Or Lisa.

He went out to the graveyard, once. Placed his last bouquet of roses against the cold granite of her headstone, and whispered, one final time, "I'm sorry." Then he walked away, and he didn't go back.

The nightmares didn't go away, but the migraines got better. Doctor Havershem said it was a reduction of stress due to partial closure. He recommended a return to light duties as a profiler, and the local ASAC went with the recommendation. Joel did too, since he was bored most of the time, and at least it got him out of the apartment. Kept him from becoming a recluse. Him and Frank.

A second year passed. Hollis and Diane had a Christmas wedding. Joel was best man. His toast was the highlight of the day. He hadn't known Hollis could blush that much. Joel left the reception early, walking through the quiet late night toward his apartment. A few windows had lights up and they gave the streets a festive air he hadn't noticed before. There were traces of frost on the windows and Joel felt a sudden fierce longing for LA.

One thing Griffin had been right about. It was freakin' cold in Chicago. And the compulsion he'd had to be close to Lisa, however he could, had faded along with some of the guilt. He'd carry his responsibility for her death, both for making her the unwitting target of Griffin's hate and for leaving her tied, helpless to escape the fire that killed her while he went chasing after Griffin, for the rest of his life. But he was to the point where he wanted to have a life again, and he wasn't all that sure he wanted it to be in Chicago.

That night, for the first time in months, he dreamed of the beach and didn't dream of Lisa. The phone ringing beside his bed jolted him out of a deep sleep and he reached for it clumsily.

"H'lo?" he said groggily into the hand set.

"Did you miss me?"

The voice echoed oddly, and Joel blinked sleepily for a few seconds before answering, vaguely, "Huh?" He was reaching instinctively for a pen when a gloved hand came over his shoulder, took the receiver from his hand and cradled it. Joel reflexively tried to roll off the bed.

The arm, and a leg thrown over his hips, pinned him to the mattress. The gloved hand withdrew, then the cold press of plastic against his neck confused him. The hand reappeared, showing him an open cell phone, which was then tossed on the bedside table next to his own telephone.

"Hello, Joel."

He recognized the weight of the body against him before he recognized the voice. It was muffled, raspy, whispered against his ear.

"David," he ground out. "How the fuck did you get away? I saw you. You were dead."

"Not quite," Griffin told him. "Not enough."

Joel made an abortive try for his gun, and Griffin hit him hard along the side of his head, leaving his ears ringing and his vision blurred. "Naughty, naughty. You want to play games, Joel? Let's play games."

Griffin ripped Joel's tee shirt off, nearly strangling him with it, and used it to tie his wrists together at the small of his back. Joel tried to buck him off, but that just made it easier for Griffin to pull his sweatpants down his legs. Griffin used the bunched material as rope, tying Joel's ankles together and immobilizing him.

"Let's dance," Griffin whispered.

The only sounds Joel could hear were his own heart beating in his ear and the rasp of his breath. In the unnatural stillness, Griffin's zipper sliding open sounded like a machine gun. Joel arched and strained as hard as he could, but Griffin straddled him, sitting on his ass, riding out his struggles.

"Get the fuck off me, asshole!" he screamed. Not that it did any good. Griffin simply leaned over, plucked one of his own socks from the floor and stuffed it in his mouth. Joel choked and concentrated on breathing through his nose.

"You have a thing for assholes," Griffin told him. "Your favorite name for me. My favorite place on you." He grabbed hold of Joel's ass cheeks, squeezing them hard enough for Joel to scream around the sock, and shoved his fingers up Joel's ass.

That scream could be clearly heard, even through the sock.

Joel could feel tears streaming from his eyes, his nose clogging up, and fought to breathe through the pain as Griffin fucked him with his hand. He could barely hear Griffin's soft words through the haze in his head.

"Yeah, I like yours. Going to have fun with it. Going to have fun with you. Don't want it to end too soon. Where would be the fun in that? Want to make it last. You're going to enjoy this, Joel. Well, maybe not. But I will. I am going to enjoy this. So much."

A jolt went through Joel's body as Griffin found his prostate and started pressing it, over and over. Joel screamed with each wave of sensation, but the sock and the pillow he was pressing his face into muffled the sound completely. His mind froze as his dick woke up, and he shivered with disbelief as Griffin worked him until he came. No way, his brain babbled, no fucking way, no way at all.

Then Griffin shifted over him, took his hand out of Joel's ass and replaced it with his dick. It didn't tear his flesh, but it tore at his mind, and he kept screaming no as Griffin fucked him hard, bearing him down into the mattress. Battering his mind as much as his body. The previous deep fingering had left his prostate highly sensitive, and to his disgust he felt himself getting hard again.

"I knew you'd love this, Joel. I knew you needed it. As much as I need it. As much as I need you."

Griffin shoved harder, reaching around Joel's hip to pull on his dick, working it as hard as he'd worked Joel's ass. Joel was choking on tears, his nose clogged, no air anywhere, nearly blacking out from lack of oxygen as Griffin fisted and thrust into him mercilessly. The second time he came it felt like his heart was exploding in his chest. Griffin jerked against his back, chorusing, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah" in his ear as he came along for the ride.

When Griffin finally stopped spasming, he pulled out slowly. Joel felt his ass contract and sniffed hard, fighting for air, fighting the pain, fighting the fact that the son of a bitch had just raped him, and made him come. Twice. Griffin shifted him over onto his back, pulling the sock out of his mouth and kissing him. It was almost as bad as getting fucked.

With a supreme effort of will, Joel kept hold of consciousness long enough to get a good look at Griffin's face. Reconstruction had taken time and work, and the results were only passable. The features were very different, especially the left side of his face that was a mass of shiny skin and fine scars. The hair was white, cropped close, but the eyes were the same. Dark, hungry, intent. Joel closed his eyes and let the darkness swallow him as Griffin took his mouth again.

When he came to, Griffin was gone. His hands were numb where he was lying on them, still tied behind him. Liquid seeped from his ass, and the mattress was disgustingly wet beneath him. He kicked at the pants tangled around his ankles until he got his feet loose, then wriggled to a seat on the edge the bed, wincing at the pain in his flanks, up into his back. Taking a deep breath, he bent his knees and brought his bound wrists over his feet until his hands were in front of him. He stared blearily down at the knots.

Staggering into the kitchen, he fumbled with the drawer, nearly pulling it out before getting it far enough open to drag a knife from it. He managed to sever the knots without slitting his own wrists, a minor miracle. Once free, he stumbled into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, nearly landing on Frank, muttering a strained "Fuck!" at the shock to his abused ass.

His hands were shaking too badly to pick up the telephone. He buried his face in them, curled up on the couch, shivering, for a long time before he managed to pull himself together. Then he went into the bedroom, found a clean pair of sweat pants and the thickest sweatshirt he owned, and called Mitch.

"FBI."

"Mitch, it's Joel."

"You okay? You sound like hell."

Of course he did. His voice was shot from screaming into his own fucking sock. "Mitch. Griffin's back." There was a short pause.

"Uhm, have you been taking your medication, Joel?" Mitch sounded unsure.

Joel didn't know whether to cuss him out or laugh. He went for plan C and simply told him, "He was here. Send a crime team. This time, he left DNA."

The silence on the other end was shocked, this time. "What ... what ..." Mitch was stuttering. Joel cut him off, making himself perfectly clear.

"Mitch. Bring a rape kit."

He didn't bother waiting for confirmation. He hung up, walked back into the living room, curled up on the couch, and waited.

David watched with interest as three cars converged on the apartment building. A little while later an ambulance pulled up, too. He hoped Joel hadn't had another heart attack. His pulse had been strong when David had left, although he'd been unconscious. Must have been overwhelmed by all the activity after such a long dry spell. David reached down to rub his spent balls. It had been great. Everything he'd dreamed about, all the long months spending his parents' money reconstructing his face. Hours and hours of pain, patience, more pain, more patience, leading to this one moment.

Reconnection.

He could hear the music in his head. Feel Joel moving beneath him, heat and strength bound, captured. Held. Taken. Joel's mouth had been dry, but it still had been sweet. His ass had been as sweet as David had hoped, too, and he'd been just as wild a ride as David had expected.

Worth the wait to start the dance again. There'd never been anybody like Joel. There couldn't be. No one knew him like Joel. Nobody knew Joel like he did.

The paramedics led Joel out, not on a stretcher, and Joel looked woozy, but not blue. That was good. Two guys in suits followed behind. David recognized the shorter one from the chase last time. Joel was arguing with both the agent and the paramedic, but it didn't do him any good. They bundled him up and sent him off to the hospital anyway. David knew this time he'd left DNA, but it didn't matter. He had no record under his real name, and had never left his fingerprints anywhere, so they still wouldn't be able to find him. They would look, but they'd never see him.

He'd be watching, though. Always.

The next few weeks were fun. They kept Joel overnight but by mid-morning he came home. David watched with interest as the FBI put up surveillance all over the building. Joel had gotten a look at him, so he had to keep a low profile, but he wasn't going to be caught anyway. He wasn't going to do the same thing twice.

He wasn't ready to stop dancing yet.

Nine days after he climbed out of bed with Joel, he called. He was considerate. He waited until early evening. He didn't wake him up. Joel needed his sleep.

"Hello." His voice sounded better, too.

"Hi, Joel! How are you?" Silence met his cheerful greeting. "I know you have a trace on this line, so I won't waste any of your valuable time. I just wanted to touch bases with you. Let you know I was thinking of you. Thinking of how much fun you were. How much fun we had." He had to stop and take a deep breath. Give Joel time to respond.

"Go to hell."

Not exactly the reaction he'd hoped for, but not far from what he expected. "I want you, Joel, and I'm not finished with you yet. See you soon!" He hung up with four seconds to spare before the trace could kick in.

God, that was fun. Not as much fun as fucking him, but fucking with him ... that was fun.

He called again five days later. A little later in the evening, shortly after Joel had gone to bed.

"Hello?" Joel sounded tense.

"Hi! Are you wearing those boring sweats again? No, wait, you can't. They're shredded."

"Fucking son of a bitch! Leave me the hell alone!" Very tense.

"Please, please tell me you're sleeping naked. That would make my night. Well, actually, being next to you while you're naked, lying next to you, fucking you, that would really make my night. But I'll take what I can get."

Joel hung up on him.

"Now, that wasn't very nice." David hung up and lay back in bed, slowly stroking himself. He'd be willing to bet Joel was covered from toes to neck in as many layers as he could stand. He spent the next twenty minutes visualizing stripping Joel out of each of those layers, touching him, squeezing him, leaving bruises, raising welts, before burying himself in Joel again. He came so hard he almost pulled a muscle in his back. "Good," he sighed. Not enough, but good. For the moment.

The next day Joel went back to the hospital. He was there for three hours, and David sat patiently in the parking lot, waiting until he came out again. He looked tired. He was carrying prescription bags. Four of them, one more than he normally got, and all of them a little larger than usual. David made himself wait a week before he called again. He watched through a telephoto lens from his new apartment as Joel slept progressively less and less each night. The nightmares were back. He was injecting himself again, so the migraines must be back. He looked finely drawn, like a pencil sketching on onion skin paper. David didn't think he'd ever been more beautiful. David drove home slowly, settled himself in bed and picked up the phone. Joel picked up on the second ring.

"Yes." Terse. Way past stressed.

"Are you all right, Joel? How's the ol' heart doing, babe?"

"I'm perfectly fucking fine, or I would be if you'd just drop dead." At least he was still talking. David grinned. No doubt hoping for a trace.

"But we're not finished yet, Joel. I have so much more planned for you."

"Listen, asshole --"

"God, what that word on your lips does to me," David interrupted, laughing a little and groaning a little. "Yours was so tight around me. Like a little mouth, tugging on me, swallowing me up."

Joel hung up on him again.

Beating off didn't do enough for him. David stared up at the ceiling and licked his hand, idling cleaning his fingers. He had to have Joel again. The pull was too strong.

Two days later he followed Joel to the cardiopulmonary offices of the hospital. Ditching the stolen car, David called a cab. He directed the cabby down to the waterfront. Put a bullet in the man's head and tossed the body in a dumpster behind an abandoned store. Cleaned the blood off the dashboard, pulled a hat low over his hair, and wound a scarf around his neck, ducking his chin into it.

He made sure he was the one up when Joel came out looking for a cab after his appointment. Joel looked distracted. A little haunted, and a lot hunted. It was a good look on him.

"Where to?" he asked, pitching his voice low and hoarse in his chest. Joel gave him the address, and David said, "You mind if I stop on the way? Gotta drop something off, won't take a sec."

Joel leaned his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. David couldn't take his eyes off the line of his throat. "Whatever," he answered wearily.

Perfect. He drove halfway to the apartment, then took a right into an alley behind a row of stores. Nobody used it, not even the trash trucks from the smell of it. David got out of the cab and came around to the rear door. Joel sat up just as he opened it.

"What the fuck --"

David put a knife to his throat, and Joel stopped talking. "Hi, Joel," he said cheerfully.

"Shit," Joel answered him, carefully not moving. His eyes were narrowed and he had a pinched look around his mouth.

"Give me your gun." David held his free hand out. When Joel didn't immediately comply, David pressed just enough to open a tiny slice in the skin. Joel hissed, and a drop of blood dripped down the side of his neck. He very slowly drew his gun and handed it to David, butt first. "Thank you. Now get out of the car."

It was a delicate dance, but David was an excellent dancer, and Joel followed his lead. He had to, of course, or David might slip and accidentally slit his throat. They walked toward the back door of the building, David behind Joel, the knife resting gently at an angle across both the carotid artery and jugular vein.

No one saw them enter the elevator. David kept Joel close to him with the arm holding the knife at his throat, and fingered the gun in his pocket with his free hand. The elevator stopped at the third floor and they stepped off. No one stood between them and the door to the dingy little apartment David was renting. No one noticed. David was used to that. He'd been counting on it. Once they were inside, he took the knife away and lapped at the blood spilled over the soft skin of Joel's throat.

Joel nearly dislocated his neck getting away from him. Not that there was very far to go, since David now held Joel's own gun on him. David shook his head. Joel looked like hell. His eyes were squinted until they were almost shut. He was shaking like a leaf. He was having problems breathing. David hadn't brought Joel home to give him a heart attack. That wasn't what this was about. Mirroring the movement Joel had made over two years before, he turned the gun around and held it out to Joel.

"Here. Take it. Go ahead. Kill me. It isn't any fun any more, anyway, without you."

The hand that reached out to take the gun was shaking so hard Joel couldn't wrap his fingers around it. David did it for him. Once Joel had as firm a grip as he was going to get, David stepped back a few steps and flung his arms wide.

"Go ahead. Do it, Joel. Do it."

The shaking stopped. Both hands firmed around the gun, aiming it dead center, as training kicked in. Joel squeezed the trigger firmly.

It clicked on an empty chamber.

Joel stared blankly at the gun. David shook his head again.

"Oh, Joel. Did you really think I would underestimate you that badly? I know you're tired and stressed, but you could be ninety per cent dead and you'd still be able to shoot me." Joel looked up from the gun and stared blankly at David. "Oh, babe. You're at the end of your rope, aren't you." It wasn't a question. The answer was obvious. David stepped forward again and took the gun out of Joel's hand before he could get it together enough to decide to club David with it.

Holding on to the hand, David tossed the useless gun away and pulled Joel into his arms. The cut on his throat was still seeping, and David licked it clean. Joel groaned and tried to twist away from him.

"Shh," he soothed. "Shh. It's okay. Everything's good. It's all good. Let it go, babe. Dance with me." Joel's skin was cool and a little clammy under his fingers as David slowly eased his clothes off. He drew back far enough to look into the pretty blue eyes, and saw that the pupils were contracted almost to pinpoints. Definitely shock. He tutted. "Have to get you warmed up. Best thing for someone in shock." He ran his hand the length of Joel's now-bare spine and slid his fingers along the crack of his ass. "Warm you right up," he whispered.

Joel gave him very little resistance, most of it the inertial kind, as David led him over to the bed. He only tried to get away once, and David overpowered him, pinning him to the mattress again. At that point, Joel started really struggling, and David reached back for his knife. Once he laid the blade across Joel's windpipe, the struggles stopped.

"Make it easy for once, Joel. I can fuck your corpse, but I'd just as soon do it with you while you're still breathing, not do it to you after you're not." Huge blue eyes stared up at him. "Your choice, Joel."

The tensed body beneath him relaxed, and the blue eyes closed. David dropped a kiss at the side of Joel's mouth. "Much better," he sighed, taking the knife away and dropping it to the side of the bed. "Much, much better." He cupped Joel's face in his hands and kissed him. Joel tasted as sweet as he ever had. Sweeter, now, here at the end of the dance.

David pinned Joel's wrists to the bed beside his hips, and slid down his body. Joel's dick was soft, lying against his thigh, and David ran his tongue from tip to balls, over and over until it showed signs of life. Joel was shifting under him, and David shoved with his knees until Joel parted his legs and let David get comfortable between them. David lifted Joel's half-hard dick with his tongue and sucked it in, swallowing around it until Joel was bucking up into his mouth. It didn't take long; Joel'd been on another long dry spell. He called David everything from a motherfucker to a son of a bitch, but he came in David's mouth, and he cried out when he did.

Licking his lips, David slid back up Joel's body. It was slick with sweat, trembling against him. Joel's eyes were tightly shut, his mouth drawn back in a snarl. David licked at Joel's mouth until the lips softened, then kissed him, hard, feeding him back what he'd just given David. Joel made a garbled protest, but he took it. David grabbed Joel's legs behind the knee and shifted them up, lifting his hips and spreading his ass. Joel jerked his head away from David's mouth and growled.

"No!"

David smiled down at Joel. Then he thrust his pelvis forward and forced his dick in. Joel's head fell back against the pillow and he howled. The sound made the hair on the back of David's neck stand up. That was what he lived for. That was the music he'd been looking for, the dance he'd been trying to find. Right there.

He tried to take his time, but he couldn't. Joel was tight and hot around him, having to be bludgeoned open by David's dick, and it hurt and felt incredibly good at the same time. Like most of David's pleasures. Someone had to get hurt for it to feel that great. It wasn't usually David, but when Joel was suffering with him, it was okay. It was better than okay.

It was perfect.

By the time he came, Joel was sobbing for breath, and David wasn't much better off. He leaned down to lick the salt trail running from the corner of Joel's eye down over his temple. Even his tears were sweet. Joel's arms came around him, finally, finally, and David closed his eyes, wrapped himself around Joel and held him tightly. One of Joel's hands came up and wove through his hair, tugging his head up. He didn't want to move, but the urge to see Joel's face overcame his lethargy, and he drew back, staring down at Joel.

Who looked ... pissed off. David blinked. That hadn't been what he was expecting, after such a mind-blowing bout of sex. "What?" he asked, lost.

"You know you're just a job, don't you?"

David opened his mouth to refute Joel's words, and nothing came out but a gurgle. Blood rushed down his throat, and he fell away as Joel pushed his chest. There was bright red blood everywhere, and it wasn't coming from Joel. David stared uncomprehendingly at the knife in Joel's hand, and the blood coating Joel's arm. The light in the room dimmed out, and the last thing he saw was Joel. Holding David's own knife.

He hadn't expected that, either.

Joel barely managed not to puke at the sheer volume of blood that poured down over him when he cut Griffin's throat, shoving the heavy body off him and rolling away. It took a few minutes to gather his composure as he fought the shock and the nausea rolling through him. When he could move without feeling like he was going to shake to pieces, he turned and looked at Griffin.

The corpse was staring at him. The eyes that had haunted his nightmares since the first time the bastard had attacked him were finally dulled. He reached over and closed the lids. Hoisting himself off the scene of the crime, or crimes in this case, Joel walked unsteadily away from the bed and headed for the bathroom. He stood under the hot water in the shower for a good ten minutes, until he could no longer feel Griffin's blood and semen on his skin.

Dressing quickly in the living room, he took his cell phone from his coat pocket and hit the quick dial button for the CPD. As he waited for Hollis to pick up the phone, he stared at the carnage in the bedroom and sighed. It was finally over. This time he knew it was, because this time, he could see the body. He shook his head.

"I have to get a different job." This one wasn't worth it any more.

end

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