Part One: The Past Returns

Frantic footsteps echoed against concrete as legs too young to outrun the night struggled on. He ran behind them, urging them, determined that none would be lost. Then there was a sudden whoosh! Suffocating darkness closed in, pressing down like malevolent waters, blocking out all sound except the staccato thudding of his heart. Time dragged, pulling them backward, slowing their steps.

Every slow motion movement out toward the dim light was a step away from that terrifying place. Every heart beat was a hope at finding freedom.

Sound came, rushing and indistinct and then he was outside. It was like breaking the surface of water. They were all around him, a dozen sets of eyes looking up. Tiny souls pleading that he tell them what to do, that they didn't have to be afraid. That should the bad man return, he would stand between them and the darkness.

He didn't know what words he spoke, but he felt them spill out, taking pieces of him with them. But they found their targets and the young faces brightened with renewed life and a return of peace. But his heart held on to the terror and magnified it. The darkness had never left. It was calling for them.

He turned back and looked at its face. It was a hulking monstrosity of a building. Dark and foreboding, it belched smoke which seemed to take on a living for. It taunted him, holding the sweet sounding voices in its noxious grip.

He knew that he had to go back.

A haze washed over him and time passed. Almost too much time, and then his partner was there, begging him not to leave, not to go back. But the other voice, the one that called to his pounding heart, begging with him to save them from the darkness, was louder. He tore away.

"Sloan!" Fred Mancini's voice was raised, and angry now. "You can't go back in there! Back up is on the way!"

The words faded behind him and then he was back inside with that living smoke. The smoke that cursed him and pleaded with him at the same time. It wafted ahead of him like a siren's call. The wailing seeming almost distinct, crying for his help. He knew exactly where to go. Down the hall, and into the bowels of the building. To the place where he'd first seen them.

They were there. Pale and sleeping. Like angels. Angels that he needed to save from the smoke. And then they were in his arms, one on each side. Their bodies as cool as night. It sent a chill straight through to his heart, but he had to keep moving.

The smoke pulled at him, stealing his breath and slowing him down. The tunnel was back, the darkness washing in and out. His heart pounded and his lungs begged for breath. And the smoke called, bidding him to stay and rest in its deadly embrace. But he ran on. For them. And then he was outside. He'd made it. He could breathe again. But before he could rejoice in that small victory, everything ignited and the world was on fire. The smoke, the voices and the stars all screamed. And there was no air at all.

No! The word was a scream in Steve's mind as he sat bolt upright in bed. Though his eyes were wide, they were unfocused, and for several heart stopping moments he didn't see the light of day filtering in through the balcony doors; couldn't draw breath into oxygen starved lungs. Nor did he recognize the gentle wafting aroma of his father's coffee or feel the soft, though slightly damp sheets beneath him. There was only darkness and smoke and pain.

The smoke cleared from his mind and his vision as he gradually came back to himself. His chest rose and fell erratically and his heart thudded in his chest. He leaned forward and rested his damp brow in his hands. It had been a long time since he'd had that dream. He'd hoped that it was gone for good. Last night had changed all that.

Throwing back the covers that remained over his legs, he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweat pants. It was his day off, but there seemed little chance that he would be sleeping in. Studiously avoiding the framed certificate and plaque that he'd left laying on his dresser, he set off upstairs toward the smell of coffee.

~*~

Mark turned at the sound of footsteps entering the kitchen. "Congratulations," he said, pausing in his cooking long enough to hand over a copy of the morning news, folded over to a page which showed a black and white departmental photograph of his son.  Beneath the picture was a short article regarding the award that he had been given as a part of a ceremony the night before, as well as highlights of Steve's long career with the Los Angeles Police Department.

Though Steve accepted the paper, he barely glanced down at the page before setting it aside on the counter. Mark pretended not to notice that he placed it face down. An expression that Mark labeled as half between embarrassment and something else crossed his face.

"I was just doing my job," he said. "I don't think it was necessarily worthy of a citation from the mayor, or this."

Mark's brow furrowed briefly in mild concern before he chuckled at his son's modesty. He tucked away the other reaction to be revisited later if necessary. He was hoping that it didn't become necessary. "Steve, you went above and beyond the call of duty. If it wasn't for your bravery, a dozen children wouldn't be alive and well and at home with their parents now. That is what you're being recognized for."

Steve's expression shifted slightly. "I wasn't able to save all of them, Dad. At least two young girls won't have a chance to grow up."

Mark turned away from his cooking and focused all of his attention on his son. Though the situation surrounding the kidnapping of 14 boys and girls from a local school had been short and intense, it had lasting repercussions on the community, and those officers who had been closely involved in the case. Especially Steve. Despite the fact that he wasn't the officer officially working with the FBI, quite by chance, Jose Guano had chosen him to communicate his demands to the families.

"That wasn't your fault. You're the one who figured out it was the janitor, and you risked your own life to save the others. You did the best you could, more than anyone would have expected. And you made it possible for those two girls to have a burial, to provide their families at least with a little closure."

"Yeah, maybe." Steve nodded, accepting his words on some level, but it was clear that he was still troubled. Plastering a smile on his face, he moved closer to the counter and peered into the bowls nearer the stove.

"What are you making?" he asked, deftly changing the subject.

Mark sighed, but let the change pass for the moment, and pointed to one of the bowls. "How do omelets sound to you?"

"Sounds good. Do I have time for a run?"

"Uh. . sure," Mark glanced around at his preparations. He could easily adjust his timing so that things would be hot when Steve returned. He felt certain that a run would help his son clear his head and shake off the resurfacing of past anxieties. If not, maybe at the very least he would be ready to talk.

Flipping on the radio, he began to sing along as he began to add blueberry muffins to the breakfast menu in an attempt to extend his cooking time.

~*~

Steve stepped out of the balcony doors and headed out toward the beach. It was a little later than his usual time for running, and there were more people out and about. As he set off, he passed a group of girls with blonde pigtails playing in the sand. His mind flashed to the scene in the boiler room of that old building where the two girls had been found. After managing to get away from their kidnapper, they had been overcome by carbon monoxide poisoning. They had looked like pale sleeping dolls surrounded by darkness and dinginess.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he pushed the thought away. He had gotten past this months ago. Why was it coming back now? He knew that the ceremony probably had something to do with it. But there had to be more than that. Maybe it was the fact that in his mind things seemed one-sided.

So much emphasis had been placed on the heroism and bravery of the team and on the appreciativeness of those who had survived. There had even been a monetary reward that came with the citation for his part in saving them. It had felt as if it burned his skin when he took it. He was happy for the other children. But who was remembering Myra Blankenship and Lucy Carson?

As he continued along the beach, lost in thought, he gradually became aware of a prickling at the back of his neck. Unsure of whether he should label it intuition or paranoia brought on by years of being a cop, he kept running while surreptitiously taking in his surroundings more carefully.

He was running along a portion of the beach that ran behind a string of condominiums. People could be seen in parking lots, on the beach, in back yards, going through normal Saturday morning activities. He didn't spot any thing that appeared unusual. He was about to settle on paranoia when, upon glancing over his shoulder, he caught a flash from the direction of his home.

He was too far away to catch much in the glance, but his senses moved into high alert. Nonchalantly, he changed direction and headed for home, eyes focused on the form. Now that he was looking head-on in that direction, he was fairly certain that there was a man standing on the beach, just in the shadow of the far corner of the gates of the beach house with something up to his face. Maybe binoculars, he decided.

There was another quick flash as the man removed the item and turned away, heading quickly toward the Flemlin's backyard. Steve knew that there was no way the slim form that appeared briefly from behind the gate belonged to Mr. Flemlin. Besides, they were away on a 2 week anniversary cruise.

Steve put on a burst of speed, increasing from a mere jog to a sprint. But still nearly a minute passed before he reached the Flemlin's home. Several sun bathers looked at him oddly as he passed, but he kept going, not slowing until he reached the brick gate that separated the beach from his neighbor's patio.

Breathing harshly, he leaned over to examine the sand, while simultaneously working on catching his breath. Foot prints were everywhere, leading right up to the squarish plot of grass at the end of the sand. There was nothing he could learn there. Moving to a standing position, he continued onto the patio and checked the outside of the house. It appeared to be locked up and secure. There was no man and no sign that he had been there.

Resigned to the fact that the mystery would remain unsolved for the time being, he took a few minutes to pace, allowing his muscles to cool down, then headed for home.

~*~

Mark was surprised when he heard the faint sounds of Steve's private entrance being used. It was far too early for Steve to be back yet. He glanced at the clock, checking to be sure that more time hadn't passed than he'd thought. Frowning at the confirmation of his suspicions, he moved toward the steps and headed down toward Steve's apartment. It bothered him that Steve had come back early, especially considering how troubled he had been when he'd left. He knew his son well enough to know that a troubled Steve would spend twice as long than he usually did on his run.

Mark's mind replayed another occasion where Steve had returned early from a run. Having taken a miss step in uneven sand, he had gotten a bad sprain in his left ankle. Of course, Steve's verbal displeasure concerning the injury had been more than adequate to alert Mark to what had happened.

Mark noted no unusual sounds at all as he stepped into Steve's living area. Just the normal movements about his bedroom. Still, intuition urged him on. Something wasn't quite right. He was halfway across the living area when he heard the phone ringing in Steve's bedroom. He reached the door just as Steve picked up.

Steve glanced at him, acknowledging his presence before speaking into the receiver. "Hi Amanda. It's my day off, remember?"

A deep frown settled across his face as he listened to Amanda's response. "What?! Where?"  The frown quickly transformed into shock as he turned a worried gaze in Mark's direction, before refocusing on the conversation.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes. Bye, Amanda, and thanks."

"What is it, Steve?" Marked moved to his side, deeply concerned about whatever Amanda had imparted as it had left Steve looking more troubled than when he had left to go running.

"Dad, do you remember the woman I was seeing a few weeks ago? The one who was married to a friend of Amanda's? Maeve Michaels?"

"Oh, yeah." Mark remembered Steve's reaction to the relationship. "I remember her. She had an open marriage."

"Yeah, one she didn't bother to tell me about. I had to hear the news that she was married from Amanda."

Mark thought he sensed a touch of bitterness there. "Yeah." He nodded, willing him to continue.

"Well, someone killed both him and the woman he was with. Maeve is the prime suspect."