����������� Blood ran in thin, yet steady trickles down the slick, foggy window, unreachable despite the desperate scratches against the smooth glass.� Another burst of steam further fogged the inner surface, and an anguished cry sounded from the other side, where the raindrops fell fat and heavy onto the man�s bent figure, which still clutched vainly at the twisted fiberglass of the door.� A handprint marred the layer of steam, creating faint squeaks that he could hear all too well even against the rushing traffic and the sirens, the frightened gasps and cries of the inquisitive crowd around the car.� He saw the delicate hand slip down from the glass and out of sight, and the soft puffs of steam faded, allowing the light fog to clear.

����������� She was limp against the seat, her face permanently contorted in pain and fear as those once loving blue eyes stared blankly forward through the cracked windshield.� The blood that ran down the window had come from the holes in her temple, splattering the thick red against the clear glass.� He could see straight through to the passenger�s side window, where spider web cracks had burst from small holes that obviously came from bullets.�

����������� He could feel the tears slipping hot and fast down his cheeks, contrasting sharply with the icy raindrops.� His hands tightened into fists that quickly drew blood from his palms, and he found his entire frame trembling.� He let out one silent sob, which turned into a shout of anger towards the sky.� When he collapsed to his knees, he looked up once again into the window, reddened eyes narrowed with tears, and he resisted the pull of the paramedics who attempted to wrench him free from the vehicle.� But just as they managed to pull him to his feet, he swore he could see her head move ever so slightly, pale blue eyes turning to him, begging him, crying out silently�

����������� Elijah Barhan sat up with a start, gasps wracking his bare torso as one hand moved up to cover his sweaty face, wiping at the saline drops on his forehead.� Spitting out a mild curse, he pulled himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to lean against the sink.� Tired green eyes stared blearily out at their face�s reflection, and slightly chapped lips were slowly wetted with a pink tongue.� The same memories, night after night, torturing his mind and fueling his hatred.� But he had sworn when it happened five years ago that he would never forget.� He would never forget, and he would never give up.� Not until he had traced the murder back to its source, and eradicated it.

����������� He had so far been able to trace the source only to a time of mild unrest in the underworld.� But the term �underworld� as he knew it could refer to anything and everything from a street pickpocket to the leader of a drug cartel.� Damn the incompetence of the London Police.

The only other clue he had was really no clue at all.� It was in the form of a locked metal box, tucked away on a top shelf of the walk-in closet he had once shared with the love of his life.� He had never found a key with which to open it, and none had been returned with the woman�s personal effects upon her death.� Of course, he could have called a locksmith or picked it himself, but something stopped him every time.� Sometimes it was a phone call or a knock at the door, or sometimes just a horrible sense of foreboding.� But he had never been able to open it.� Perhaps he was afraid to.

Elijah sighed, and ran a large hand through his thick, slightly longish chocolate hair, then let the back of that hand idly rub against the scruffy facial hair of his cheek.� He hadn�t exactly had the time to bother shaving the past few days.� Or the energy.� Or the inclination.� After all, what reason other than hygiene did he have to keep looking nice?� He certainly didn�t care who he impressed anymore.

The sun had barely brought itself to full light, but he decided to prepare for the day.� It was about time for the annual irritation of his friends down at the police station anyway.� He showered and brushed his teeth, but again didn�t bother to shave before dressing himself in simple black pants, and a slightly tight long sleeved grey shirt covered by a black coat that brushed the back of his knees.

A hand run quickly through his hair was the extent of his grooming, using his fingers as a makeshift comb.� He paused, glancing to the small cupboard beneath his bedside table, where a gun was hidden.� Weapons like that one had been banned in the UK for a few years now, but he wasn�t exactly in the best position to care.� Better not to take it with him to a police station in any case.� He stepped outside, and locked the door to his small flat before making his way down the street toward the nearest underground.� He reached into his coat pocket as he walked, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and pulling one from the box with his lips. �The stick of tobacco was lit within moments, and Elijah took a deep, relaxing drag from it.

He chuckled softly under his breath, holding the cigarette lightly between his fingers and pushing his free hand into his pocket.� She had always hated it when he smoked.� She would spray him down with canned potpourri until he reeked of �Ocean Breeze,� and tell him she�d have no sympathy when his lungs shriveled up and dropped down into his gut.� And she would always have a breath mint ready to pop into his mouth if he wanted a kiss.

The man tossed down the cigarette and crushed it under his boot before heading down the stairs into the underground.� He stepped up to the turnstile, slipped his yearlong ticket through, and pushed his way by, picking up his ticket on the way out the other side.

It was only about a ten-minute ride form his flat to the police station, so he took his seat at the end of the car and satisfied himself with watching the usual inhabitants of the train.

There was the old woman, who always sat on the left side three rows down from the rear door, with her large pleather purse in the seat to her right if there was room.� Sometimes she would hold it in her lap, but never on the left.� She could have quite fervent arguments with herself sometimes, and it was amusing to listen to her complain to herself, wondering who ate the last of the marmalade, only to discover that it was her �other self� after all, and begin to chastise herself for it.

A man appearing to be just a bit younger than his observer came on two stops after him, always carrying an attach� case and looking quite paranoid about general life.� He wore a nice suit every day, but occasionally, usually on Thursdays, he would wear a pink from Cambridge on his lapel.� He assumed the boy was either newly graduated, or an intern of some kind.� Either way he was far too spastic for his own good.

Elijah himself had attended Trinity College in his birthplace of Dublin, and earned a Bachelor's in Information and Communications Technology, and a Language and Communication Studies minor.� He had also studied German in the first two years of his major, his other option being French, and he despised the French in general.� So German it was.� He had done well, but he never did anything with his degree.� He had used the school as an escape in the years following Samantha�s death.� The long hours of lectures and essays and studying and exams had been the only thing to keep him sane, he suspected.� Conversely, it was quite possible that his wish to escape was the only way he managed to pay much attention to his classes.� He had always had a knack for mathematics, and the courses had fascinated him, but frankly, his lover was quite a successful distraction.� He would frequently be dragged away from his studies for a trip to the theatre, a new American film, a game because she was bored, or, most often, sex.� Which was also the most convincing ploy.� When she had died, it was his first year at the University, and he was away quite a bit.� He was forced to stay in Dublin for weeks at a time, but every time he could, he would return to her in London.� It had been the break between his winter and spring terms when he had found her in that car, wrapped around a lamppost.� He knew she was on her way home, but he had suddenly remembered that they were out of wine, and decided to walk up to the nearby grocery shop to pick up a bottle.� She hit the post on the corner just as he was coming out.

But now there was no one to distract him, no one to encourage him, and he had given up on trying to escape the truth.

Shrugging off the thoughts, he stood, and left the car when it stopped, taking the steps up to the street two at a time.� He turned a corner and quickly arrived at Kennington police station.� The older woman behind the front counter greeted him with a faked kindness inside a practiced smile and a forced hello.� She may have fooled anyone else, but he knew her well enough to realise exactly what she thought of him�which wasn�t much.� To her, he was nothing more than a jobless bum who had nothing better to do than torture their poor Lieutenant about some crime that took place five years ago.

Elijah stepped up to the counter, leaning his elbows on it and giving the woman his most charming smile.� �Well now Penny, how are you this fine morning?� His nicely accented Irish voice was neither unintelligible nor unnoticeable, a nice blend of his heritage and his residence�s influences, and just deep enough to be soothing.

The woman looked up at him with suspicion in her tired grey eyes, one eyebrow ticking almost instinctively, and she clacked a small group of papers into a neater stack before placing them in a folder.� �He�s in his office Elijah, but I doubt he wants to see you right now.�

�And why�s that?�

�There�s been a murder this morning in Regent�s Park.�

�Oh goody, it just so happens that sort of thing is what I came to talk to him about.�

�He won�t help you this morning.�

�We�ll see.�

The woman sighed, shrugged, and waved her hand dismissively at him.

Elijah grinned, pushing away from the desk, and he winked as he kissed the air in her direction.� �Love you Pen.�� He then pushed through the waist-high swinging door at the end of the desk, heading down the familiar hallway and knocking on the door marked �Dove.�� He was answered with a barking �Come in!� and opened the door, poking his head in.

Roger Dove was a man only about a month or so older than Elijah himself, but he tried to prove the intellectual advantage he thought he had over the other man by gaining tiny wrinkles between his eyebrows far before his time.� Elijah supposed he thought that made him look smarter.� But in reality, the creases were from hours upon days upon weeks of incessant worrying, bouts of which Roger was prone to.� His hair was a pale tan, clipped short, with slightly longish bangs that stayed put when he ran a hand through them, giving his hair a naturally slick appearance.� He paused to straighten his ever-loosening tie, setting down his pen to rub large, calloused hands over his slim face.� He looked up to the other man with tired brown eyes, and almost instantly stood, not to greet him but more for effect.

�No.� Not today Elijah.� I�m not in the mood.�

�Aw Rog, you say that every time.�� The Irishman slipped inside with a sly smile, closing the door behind him.� �You�re already working on one murder, what�s the difference?�

�The difference is this one has just happened, and the one you want me to work on was closed three years ago,� the officer pressed impatiently in a soft North London accent.

�But we�re friends, aren�t we?�

He sighed.� �Yes we�re friends, but I can�t work miracles for you.� I know how much you loved her.� But isn�t it time you let it go?� It has been five years.�

Elijah paused, and looked away from his old friend�s face.� �You wouldn�t let it go either and you know it.�

�Of course not!� Why else do you think I put up with your shyte time after time?!�

He blinked, and looked back up to him.� �That doesn�t mean you�ve got something for me, does it Rog?�� The man looked childishly hopeful for just a moment.

�No.�� Roger smiled as he watched his friend deflate.� �But I might.� I can tell you about it, if you care to come with me.�� He gestured out to the back car park.�

�Of course!�

Both men headed out the back of the building, and slipped into their respective seats, Roger being the driver.�

�Maybe I should sit in the back?� Elijah teased.� �I always feel like I�m being arrested with you.�

Roger started the small police car and pulled out of the lot.� �I continue to hope you will never do anything that will require me to arrest you, but every day I expect to be disappointed.�

�That�s cruel, Rog.� When have I ever shown criminal intentions?�

�I can tell you�re a danger to civilized society just by looking at you.�

�You�re psychic now?�

�Call it a perk of the PTC.�

Elijah chuckled and slumped back in his seat, glancing out the window at the familiar streets.� A silent sigh escaped his lips, bringing a frown and a trademark crinkle of the brow from his friend.

�Why don�t you go home, Elijah?� There�s nothing really to keep you here anymore, and it�s certainly not as if you�re staying because of the wonderful love of the Irish this country possesses.�

He shook his head.� �I can�t do that.� Not yet.�

�What, again and again with the vengeance?� What do you think that will solve?� You think it will bring her back?� You�d be caught, and arrested.� Especially after telling a police officer exactly what you plan to do.�

�You wouldn�t arrest me.�

�Well I might not be the one to find you, did you ever of that?�

�Of course you would.� Because you�d hear about it and you�d know it was me.� And then you�d be able to be able to be my alibi.� They�d believe you, being a bobby and all.�

�And then what would happen?� They�d find some other poor bloke to pin it on.� Is that what you want?�

�Murder cases don�t always get solved.� We both know that.�

Roger paused, and glanced across at him.� �Well, I suppose you�re�wait, why are we talking about this?!�� His grip tightened on the steering wheel.� �I refuse to encourage you to commit a crime, especially murder.� I can�t condone it.�

�Look I�m not asking you to condone it I�m asking you to keep me out of prison, okay?�

�If you�ve got that kind of attitude I might turn you in myself.� The older man gritted as he turned a corner.

�What are you saying, exactly?�

�Perhaps I�m saying I was nothing more to do with this.�

�Afraid of getting your hands dirty, Lieutenant Dove?� You with your perfect little life�a steady job in a fairly quiet part of town, no distractions, no worries, just a total inane devotion to the job.�

�And what about you?� Ever since we were children you�ve been shirking your responsibilities onto the next poor sap gullible enough to believe whatever sob story you laid on them.� And now what?� It took the death of a woman you barely knew to get you motivated, but event hat was temporary.� Now here you are again, jobless and near destitute.�

�You watch your mouth about Sam, limey!� Elijah snapped, glaring daggers at the side of the man�s head.� �I didn�t barely know her!� I hadn�t known her long, true, but I was closer to her than anyone.�

�You�re pitiful, Elijah.� The one thing in your life you choose to be devoted to, and you choose something like this.�

�At least I�m not just some lackey, blindly following orders!�

�No, you�re just a bum living off what his dead girlfriend left him!�

They pulled up to a traffic light, and when the car stopped, both men turned to the other with such burning glares that it seemed quite possible one of them might catch fire.

�Perhaps I should just o, then,� Elijah near snarled, �and never bother you again.�

�That would certainly be preferable to having to listen to this revenge nonsense day after day,� the driver answered with equal ice.

�Right then.� I�ll go.�

�Wonderful.� You can get out right here.�

�Fine.� I will then.�

���

Elijah didn�t move.

��Well?� Roger asked impatiently.� �I thought you were leaving?�

�I am!�

�Oh really.�

�Yes.�

�When?�

�Right now.�

���

Once again, neither man moved.

��You aren�t leaving are you?�

�No.�

There was a pause, and then both men burst into laughter, near doubling over even as the light changed in front of them.� They seemed to laugh for hours on end, and Elijah clutched his sides as his laughter slowly died.� Roger managed to collect himself, and cleared his throat, quickly wiping at his eyes before pulling the car away from the light.� He glanced over to the other man, letting a sly smile touch his thin lips.

�So really, how�s your week been?�