"Come on in, cherie," Lexi called. "Be wit' you in jus' a sec."

Sam watched and listened in astonishment as Lexi finished ringing up a customer with several small bags filled with colored powders, a candle, and a paperback book of spells.

"Hope everyt'ing work out alright fo' ya now," Lexi said. "Jus' don' set nuthin' on fire wit' dat incense. Put it in a vaisselle."

The young woman looked at her blankly. "A vaisse�?"

"A vaisselle. A dish," she explained with a smile. "Lache pas la patate!"

The girl gave her another uncomprehending look.

"Hang in der. Don' give up. You don' get dat boy back," Lexi shrugged, "maybe you find you'self a better one."

"Thanks."

Sam shook her head as the girl left the store. "Lache pas la patate?" she repeated. "Don't drop the potato?"

"You speak French," Lexi said. All trace of her accent had disappeared. "It's just one of those Cajun phrases. The tourists come to New Orleans expecting Cajuns. Some of us try to give it to them."

"Some of you?" Sam was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she didn't understand this city at all.

Lexi laughed. "Yeah, some of us," she said, "New Orleans isn't really a Cajun city. It's Cajun and Creole and Caribbean and everything else, too. But the tourists want Cajun, so Cajun it is." She gestured toward a small table toward the back of the shop. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"I'm fine. Thanks," Sam said as she sat down. "So, how did you end up here?"

"New Orleans? Or this business?"

"Either. Both."

"As soon as I got out of high school I ran to the big city," Lexi said as she poured herself a cup. "New Orleans was the biggest city around. Got a night job at a restaurant to pay the rent and spent the days in Jackson Square trying to find my spot. I finally decided that the fortune-telling looked pretty easy. I watched some of the regulars for a while and picked up some of their tricks. I finally got up the courage to try a reading." She paused to laugh. "I got busted by an undercover cop for not having a vendor license. They don't care that you're scamming the tourists. They just want to make sure you're paying all the right city fees."

"When did you meet John?"

"He and Karen moved here not long after I did."

"Karen?"

"John's mother�" Lexi tilted her head. "That wasn't her real name, was it? I'd always had my suspicions. She seemed to have a lot of trouble remembering to answer to it."

Sam sat silently. She knew Lexi was hoping that she could fill in a few blanks, but it wasn't her story to tell. John hated talking about his past. Sam knew that he would probably be more than a little upset if she talked about it for him.

Lexi nodded understandingly. It was clear that she hadn't really expected Sam to reveal anything. "They rented the apartment next to mine. Johnny was probably about fifteen. I don't remember what grade that was. He hardly ever went to school anyway. I tried to look after him as much as I could. As much as he let me..."she smiled. "Mostly at first I just taped him back together after his fights. He didn't want to bother his mother with any of it. She had enough problems of her own.

"The first time I remember bandaging him up was just after they moved in. He'd gotten into a scrap with some of the local boys over some misunderstanding. That boy did have such an accent. Half the time I had no idea what he was trying to say. Never met anyone from 'Bah-stahn' before." She put so much twang into the name that Sam almost laughed aloud. "There's no telling what those boys thought he said, but they roughed him up pretty good.

"I found him trying to pick the lock on his apartment door. He wasn't very good at it, yet. His mom wasn't home, so I took him in and cleaned him up. We became pretty good friends." She shook her head. "He turned out to be a valuable guy when I was trying to tell fortunes without a license. He could make an undercover cop faster than anybody around. Always made me wonder just what had been going on up in Boston. I had lots of theories, but that was one thing neither of them would talk about.

"He was such a tough kid," she continued, "but there was just something about him that made me want to protect him. He was the kid brother I never had." She smiled a little sadly at Sam. "I wondered about him a lot after they left. Like I said, he could have gone either way. He really was a good con," she grinned. "He could talk his way into or out of just about anything. He never backed down from a fight. Even ones he probably should have. I know he scared his mother half to death and she didn't know a fraction of what he was into. He ran with the delinquents around here and picked up a lot of bad habits. Not that he didn't start out with some nasty tricks of his own, but by the time he left he was one of the fastest lock-picks I knew." Her eyes widened suddenly. "I probably shouldn't be telling an FBI agent that her partner is a lock-pick."

Sam laughed. "John is a lot of things. To be honest, the lock-picking really doesn't surprise me."

"Well, all this is old news, Doc," Lexi said. "Tell me what he's like now."

Sam shrugged. "It doesn't sound like he's changed all that much. I guess he's lost most of the accent. But he's still a 'tough kid'," she said, echoing Lexi's words. "He's a good agent, a good detective. He has good instincts, but he takes risks that he probably shouldn't. He scares his boss half to death," she smiled, "but he gets the job done. Even if he has to drive everybody else crazy to do it."

"Ah," Lexi said. "I see you're familiar with the famous Grant humor. Have you figured out yet if it's better to laugh or strangle him?"

"No, I haven't decided. If I laugh that will only encourage him, but if I strangle him�"

"You would miss him," Lexi said softly.

"Yeah."

Both women sat silently for a moment. Lexi spoke first.

"You know he only does it to hide, don't you?"

Sam nodded. "Classic defense mechanism."

"Which means there's always the third option."

"Third option?"

"Laugh at him because he is funny, strangle him because he's annoying� or hug him because he's afraid."

Sam stared at the tabletop. There was truth in Lexi's observation. She hated to admit how appealing the third option was.

"A Fed," Lexi said, breaking the awkward quiet. "I still can't believe he became a Fed. Seems like they'd have a few too many rules for him."

Sam smiled. "He just ignores the ones he doesn't like."

"That does sound like the kid I knew."

******

"Where's Sam?" John asked as he entered the briefing room.

Bailey looked up from the city map he was studying. "She's working on the rune angle. She went to see your friend, Carson."

"Oh." John frowned slightly. Sam and Lexi. Together. He wasn't sure that was a good thing. Sure, it might help pull their profile into perspective, but he had a feeling that the killer wasn't the only one that the two women would end up profiling.

Bailey's voice interrupted his thoughts. "How are we coming with the canvassing?"

"We're not," he said in disgust. "Montenet and I have been down at the docks all morning trying to run down everybody we didn't get to yesterday. Nobody there saw anything. Same as everywhere else we've been."

"Keep on it. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Right. And maybe this guy will just turn himself in." He stared at Bailey's map upside-down. The three murder sites were marked by red tags. "All in the Vieux Carre," he murmured to himself. "Think he lives here?" he asked Bailey.

"Vieux Carre?"

John pointed at the map and traced a rough trapezoid. "Vieux Carre. The Old Square," he translated. "The French Quarter. It's all the same. You think he lives here?" he asked again.

"Lives here. Works here. Good odds," Bailey nodded. He traced a smaller shape inside the one John had drawn. "Somewhere in here is where the actual killings are taking place. Somebody out there has to have seen something. Keep looking for them."

******

"You have a daughter," Lexi said. "You worry about spending enough time with her. You try to be organized, but sometimes things just get away from you. You're very dedicated to your work. It's very important to you. You believe you're doing important work. You use to be married but aren't anymore. You're trying to get on with your life."

"That's pretty good," Sam admitted. Lexi had offered to give her a demonstration of how one of her readings usually began before they started working on the case.

Lexi laughed. "It's nothing. Your purse is open." She nodded at Sam's pocketbook on the floor by her chair. "There's a school open house flyer sticking out - you have a kid. There's a ladybug barrette in the side pocket - you have a girl." She grinned. "And every parent worries about spending enough time with their kids. Then there's the organized part." She pointed to Sam's purse again. "It's a disaster. You spent five minutes digging for a pen when you first walked in. Disorganized people are generally either trying to be more organized or at least recognize that they should be trying. Your dedication to your work� If you're the best profiler in the FBI, like Johnny says, then you could probably go out and get a much higher paying job in the private sector. You wouldn't stay in such a horrible job if you didn't think it was important for you to be doing it."

She smiled at Sam. "It's all pretty simple observation. Johnny use to be just as good at it, too. Well, I guess he still is. A Fed."

This is what I do, Sam thought as she watched Lexi. This is what John sees. When I build a profile he sees the scams he and Lexi use to run as kids. He doesn't see it as a talent. He sees it as a con.

"What about the not being married anymore and moving on?" she asked. "How did you deduce that from the contents of my purse?"

Lexi's expression became a little more serious. "I didn't get that from your purse," she said. "I got that from the way you talk about Johnny."

Sam looked away quickly. It was an incriminating response, she knew. She couldn't help it. She looked back at Lexi. The other woman smiled at her.

"He was a great kid, Doc," Lexi said. "If he's gotten everything straightened out and knows which side of the line he's playing on now� I'm sure he's even better."

Sam nodded slowly.

"So, what does the kid with the ladybug barrettes think of him?"

After a few more minutes of small talk Sam pulled out her case files and began to lay them out for Lexi to see. She explained who the victims were, how they were killed, and which stones were found with the bodies.

Lexi studied the photos. At the top of each photo she placed their matching rune stones. Sam watched in confusion as the other woman suddenly began to rearrange the pictures. When she was finished Sam saw that she had moved each photo down one space. The first victim was left without any runes while the last set of runes had no victim.

"Why didn't they tell me all this to begin with?" Lexi muttered. "It's so simple."

"What is? What did you just do?"

"The first set of stones is missing," Lexi said. "The first set you *found* was actually the guide telling you who the second victim would be. Why didn't they tell me this before?" she asked again.

Sam stared at the photos. Could she be right? She looked at the second victim and the runes Lexi had placed with his photo. Harvest, darkness, journey. A grocery clerk, fatally blinded, found at a bus stop. Victim, method, and location, she thought. She turned quickly to the third victim, the second set of stones. Flow, disruption, signals. A man who worked on the river, his heartbeat disrupted by the electric current, and� Sam suddenly remembered the crosswalk sign that had been blinking on the pole John had leaned against down by the mall.

She watched as Lexi placed three more runes on the table.

"I don't have any idea where they might be now, but I'd bet these were the first runes he drew," Lexi said. "Warrior, sacrifice, gateway. This killer is using the most literal interpretations of the runes there are. Almost like he thinks he needs a gimmick."

"He wants to be a textbook serial killer," Sam nodded, trying not to let the horror of it sink in entirely. "He's probably read about other serial killers and wants to have a defining characteristic."

*****

"So, what do we do now?" John demanded. "Protection, standstill, and possessions are the next three runes. You think he's going to target someone involved in protection?"

"Probably," Sam said. "Police officers, security guards, fire fighters�" Her voice trailed away as she sank into thought. "The killer is drawing the stones at the scene of his last kill. The days in between murders he's trying to decide how to interpret them and choose his next victim."

"Protection is a pretty easy interpretation," Bailey said. "It won't take him long to find someone who fits."

"It's been almost two days," John said. The worry in his voice was clear.

The members of the VCTF exchanged unsettled glances. Odds were good that they would have another victim sooner rather than later.

******

Sam couldn't sleep. That was nothing new. Usually she worried over either cases or Chloe. Tonight she worried about John. She was certain that something was bothering him. She was surprised to find herself standing beside the connecting door between their rooms. The lock was on her side and she eased it open gently. Just to check on him, she told herself.

A street lamp cast an orange glow through the dirty window. Sam could make out Bailey's form in the far bed. John slept near the door. She sighed as she realized that John was already murmuring a phrase she was beginning to hate. She sat down quietly on the edge of his bed. He recoiled from her touch as he had before.

"Is this what happened last night?"

Sam looked up to see Bailey watching them. She nodded.

"He's two for two," she said softly.

"Has he said anything? Did something happen here? Anything we should know about?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so." She looked down at John's worried face. He looked stressed even in his sleep. "When he's awake he genuinely seems to like New Orleans. I don't think it's the city that's bothering him." She met Bailey's gaze again. "I think it's this room."

"This room?" He scanned the dark box around them.

"Not this room, exactly," she said. "Just... rooms like this." She ran her fingers through John's hair as he stirred restlessly, soothing him as she would Chloe. "His dreams have been about his father. I think that these little, ugly hotel rooms are reminding him of his childhood... of being on the run from his father."

They both studied John in the dim light.

"Must have been a rough way to grow up," Bailey said finally.

"What do you suppose he's not telling us? How much is he trying to deal with all by himself?"

"Fifteen... twenty ... maybe the whole thirty years worth..." Bailey said. "He might actually be carrying around as much as you do." He smiled. "Go back to bed, Sam," he told her gently. "I think he'll be alright, now."

She looked down at John's still form. He had stopped, at least temporarily, struggling with his inner demons and was snuggled quietly against her shoulder. She wanted to stay... to make sure he slept... to protect him. She wasn't entirely sure what she wanted to protect him from, but she knew that she didn't want to leave him alone.

"Sam," Bailey's voice drew her back. He was staring at them thoughtfully. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," she whispered. She slipped off the bed and away from John's warmth. She looked at Bailey, still propped on his elbow, and shrugged. "I just don't know."

******

"Protection, standstill, possessions," John said three hours later as they stood on the sidewalk. He looked at the window of the store behind them. A pawnshop. "Does that cover 'possessions' for anybody else?"

"Well, that's a 'standstill', for certain," Montenet said.

John looked down at the body and laughed humorlessly. Sometimes it was the only way to cope. The head of the security guard was incased in cement. Would have been too heavy to move if he'd covered the whole body, John decided. He tried not to think about the terror of suffocation.

Beside the body were three more stones.

"Why is one of them upside down?" Bailey asked.

Both John and Sam shook their heads.

"It's not," Sam answered. "One of the rune stones is supposed to be blank."

"Why? What does it mean?"

"It's blank," John snapped irritably at the obvious. "It means 'unknown'. This is NOT what we need. That's supposed to be the victim stone. How are we supposed to figure out his next target now?"

Sam turned to give him a worried look. He hated it when she gave him that look. He knew it meant that he was projecting too much exasperation. It meant she was afraid that he was about to do something stupid. He took a deep breath and suddenly smiled. Grace was pushing her way through the crowd of onlookers and official spectators. George was a few steps behind her.

"It was just quicker for us both to come straight from the airport than to run me by the station," George said as he stopped beside John. They watched as Grace moved on to examine the corpse. "She's like a little kid at Christmas," he said, shaking his head. "This is really disgusting."

John slapped a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. He knew George hated coming to the crime scenes. They were too disorganized, too chaotic. And there wasn't much for him to do here. The computer whiz was much more comfortable in a well-wired room where he could put his unique skills to work. Actually viewing the body did absolutely nothing for him. Except maybe make him ill. John looked carefully for warning signs in George's face and was pleased to see that he seemed to be holding up pretty good.

"So, you up for a little breakfast after we finish up here?" John asked brightly. "You ever been to the Caf� du Monde?" He was even more pleased to see George turn a shade paler. "They have the best beignets, these little fried pastries with powdered sugar on top." He grinned as George's complexion became tinged with green. "They're a little greasy but�"

George swore quietly as he turned away. The only word John caught was "sadistic". Tormenting his friends was one of the few ways he knew to keep his own sanity at scenes like this one. It kept his mind from wondering how it felt to die like that. He hoped that George's exasperation with him would also keep the other man from dwelling on the body. If he was ticked with John, maybe he wouldn't be thinking about how awfully the guard had died.

******