Title:  What Dreams May Come
Author:  agent myers
Rating:  R
Keywords:  DRR
Summary:  Monica Reyes has a dream that could lead Doggett to his son's
killer.  But will it lead both of them to death as well?
Spoilers:  Season 9.  Empedocles.
Disclaimer:  They're not mine.  Duh.
Feedback:  I live for it.
Archive:  Gossamer, XFMU, yes.  All others please ask, I'm sure I'll say
yes!
Author's Notes:  My first story/X-File!  Hope it doesn't suck!  But a story
isn't a story without a little bit o' nookie, right?  So I guess that makes
it a romance/story/X-File.  This story was originally written with Scully in
Monica's place.  But I like Reyes better than I did when I began this, so
she's in
Recommended listening:  "I grieve" by Peter Gabriel



***

What Dreams May Come
by agent myers

***





12:46 pm
John Doggett Residence


There were two plates on the table.  He'd had a friend over for dinner.

That friend was Monica Reyes, also his partner.  He found her company
tolerable these days, even desirable.  She made him laugh.  They'd got to
talking and drinking, much the way he would with a buddy of his...but she
was different.  He'd never had so much fun hanging out with a woman.

And then he realized that he was getting drunk.  And that he was sitting
pretty close to her.  It was a realization that hit both of them at once,
John thought.  That was when Monica smiled and said that she should probably
get home.  John was grateful for that.  If she'd stayed longer, things could
have happened that he'd regret.

But he'd regret it only because they were partners.  Can't get sloppy, he
told himself.  But in some alternate universe where he was just a man and
she just a woman...

...he'd be in bed with her right now.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, and went to relax on the couch.  On his
way, he stopped at the fireplace to poke the fire, when the framed photo of
his son caught his eye.  He picked up and stared at it thoughtfully, feeling
the pang of grief hit his chest, just like it always did.

He sighed.

John suddenly wished that Monica had stayed, to take his mind off of those
bittersweet memories that always seemed to come when he was alone and drunk.
He set the picture down on the couch beside him, and picked up a photo album
on the lower shelf of the end table beside him.  He flipped through it idly,
stopping when he came across pictures of his wife and son, from the two days
they'd spent at the hospital when Luke was born.  He saw himself as a very
happy and proud father in those pictures, grinning like a fool as he held
his new son.

<If only you knew what would happen...>

He sighed and cursed himself.  He was doing it again.running the memories
over and over in his mind until his head pounded.  There was nothing to be
done about it now, the case files had been looked away in some damned
archiving room, probably never to be solved.  Too much time had passed for
John to even think of re-opening the case and finding the bastard who
murdered his son.  That fact was like an itch he couldn't scratch.  It
plagued him night and day to not know who the killer was, and to know that
he was still out there, somewhere.

John swallowed the last bit of his beer and set the empty bottle on the end
table.  Shutting the cover of the thick photo album, he put it back where he
had found it.  The rest of the night was useless, he thought, and decided to
go to bed, hoping that tomorrow the demons would be gone.

***

He heard knocking.

John turned over in his bed, and glanced at the clock through blurry eyes.
3:48 a.m.  Who the hell could be at the door?

The knocking came again, this time sounding more urgent.  He was so caught
by surprise, he forgot the white t-shirt next to the bed, and padded down
the steps in his usual flannel pants.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He flung the door open, and was hit by a chilly breeze, and Monica Reyes.

"Monica?"  He asked, squinting underneath the porch light.

She looked unsure of herself as she stood underneath the dim light.  The
wind kicked up again, and it hit John's bare chest like a wall of ice.  He
wrapped his arms around himself.

"John..." His eyes became more focused, and he realized that she was
shivering.

"Come in here, it's cold."  He insisted, taking her by the arm and ushering
her inside.

He shut the door before his teeth started chattering.  Monica stood in the
foyer, and waited for John to ask.

"So, uh, Monica...not that I don't mind the company, but what brings you by
at...almost four a.m.?" He asked, looking at his wristwatch tiredly.

They walked together into the living room, where Monica sat.  "This is going
to sound strange."  Her face was a mixture of emotion; she looked very
troubled.

"Nothing surprises me anymore, Monica, especially when it comes from you."
He said jokingly.   "Coffee?"

She nodded, and John disappeared into the kitchen.  She only had to wait a
few minutes before he came back, steaming cups in hand.  He gave one to her,
and sat beside her.  She looked uncomfortable sitting there, and John knew
there must be something troubling her to be at his door so early in the
morning.

She took a sip, and stared at the cup.  "I can't believe I'm bothering you
in the middle of the night."

For the first time since she'd arrived, John was conscious that he wasn't
wearing a shirt.  He put down his coffee cup.  "It's okay, Monica...just
tell me.  What is it?"

She took a deep breath.  His New York dialect never ceased to make her feel
just a little more comfortable.  His blue eyes...his thin lips.

"I had a dream about your son."  The words came out mechanically.  She
noticed his sudden uneasiness.

Not in a million years, would John have guessed that this would be about his
son.  It surprised him so much, that he nearly lost his grip on his cup.

"A dream."  He repeated.  She nodded.

"About...his murder."

"Go on."  John said, though he wished she wouldn't.  Almost immediately the
feeling of dread began to creep inside him, burrowing into his brain.

She blinked a few times, as if summoning the memories of the dream.  "It was
so real, John.  It was as if I was following the murderer.  I saw
him...kill...your son.  I saw his face, I even saw where he lives.  I have
an address..." She said, pulling out a piece of paper from her pocket.  "I
wrote it down so I wouldn't forget it."

She handed the paper to John.  He took it and read the address.  1109
Center, apartment 13.  But he wasn't buying it.  He looked at her.

"Monica," He began carefully.  "You know that we spent weeks searching for
the man who killed my son.  Every imaginable bit of technology and detective
work was used to try and catch him.  We pulled out all the stops and couldn'
t find a single bit of evidence that would lead us to the killer.  And I'm
supposed to believe that this dream you had somehow gave you all the
answers?"

She looked down, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  "John..."

"You got a pretty vivid imagination...I'll say that."  He said, mocking
her...the words coming out a little too harshly.

She pressed her lips together.  "You might be right.  But I...think we
should at least find out if this is a real address.  I just couldn't ignore
this, John.  Seeing what I saw in my dream...it was so real.  I just have to
know that I'm doing everything possible..."

Her words struck him to the core.  To suggest that he wasn't doing
everything possible to find the killer hit a nerve.  He resisted the urge to
blow up at her.

"Monica.  I've spent the last few years of my life trying to get past my son
's murder.  I've tried to move on...tried to have a life."  He paused.
Admitting his pain was very hard for him.  He looked away from her.   "And
whenever this terrible tragedy comes up out of the shadows...it hurts.  It
hurts a lot."

"I know."

"I don't think you do."

"Yes, I do."  She said firmly, glancing up at him.  "Do you think you're the
only one that's ever lost someone you loved?"

He sighed and took a drink of the coffee, which was already turning cold.
There was a tense silence between them for a moment.  Finally, Monica spoke.

"If you don't want to help me on this, then at least give me your son's case
files."

"You don't need my permission.  They're in the FBI archive."

She looked at him, her face tight.  "The last time someone used those
files...I believe you threw him against a wall."  She said, speaking of
Mulder.

John Doggett sighed loudly, out of frustration, and stood up.  He walked to
the fireplace, deep in his thoughts.  Then he turned to face her.

"I don't want to do this again, Monica.  I can't!" He shouted.  "It was too
hard the first time.  Do you know how...painful...it is to be the one to
find your own kid...your *baby*...lying face down in his own blood?  Do you
know how bad that hurts and how...how it stays with you forever?"

She swallowed hard as she listened to him.  He looked smaller than usual,
vulnerable.  The pain was so visible in his eyes, and so audible in his
voice.  Her eyes welled up with tears, as she too remembered the horrible
images of that fateful day.

"Don't you want to catch him, John?"

"You goddamn right I do.  But...." He said with his back to her.  She didn't
respond; he didn't finish.  She knew what he would say.  He had no choice.
He let out a frustrated sigh.

"Okay," he said quietly, "I'll help you."

***

8:37 am
J. Edgar Hoover Building


John's hands were trembling as he typed in the address to the FBI database.
It would tell him if the address that Monica had given actually existed.
She had pulled up a chair next to him, holding the piece of paper, turning
it over and over nervously in her hand.

He pressed the "search" button, and moments later the results appeared on
the screen.

** ERROR:  No address found **

Monica stared at the screen in disbelief.   It couldn't be right, she
thought.  John sighed softly and bit his lip.

Monica shook her head.  She typed in the address again.  Same results.  John
stood up and placed his hand on her shoulder.  He wasn't going to say
anything accusatory.

"No.  Wait...I...this can't..."

"Let's go, Monica." John said softly.  She looked up at him.  "John...I was
so...sure."

He said nothing.  He started towards the door.  Monica turned back towards
the screen.  She couldn't accept that she was wrong on this.  She thought of
one last query she could try.

She typed in the letters.  1109 Centre.  John turned around when he heard
the machine beep.

They both stared at the screen with wide eyes.

"Maplewood Apartments." He said simply.

Monica grabbed her cell phone from her pocket, and dialed the numbers on the
screen.  "What are you doing?" John asked her as she started to walk away.

"I'm calling the landlord."

John gave her a look, but she ignored him.  John knew this was way past the
point of rationality, and it frightened him.  She walked away to make her
call.

Monica pressed the "send" button, and moments later, a gruff voice answered.

"Yeah, hello."

"Hello, this is Special Agent Monica Reyes with the FBI.  I was wondering if
I can ask you some questions about...one of your tenants."

The man on the other end cleared his throat.  "Uh, sure...okay.  Which one?"

"The one in apartment 13."

"That would be...Jose Mancilla."

A male, obviously.  "Can you tell me more about him?  Like, maybe a
description?"

Monica pulled a piece of paper and a pen from her pocket, preparing to write
down what the man said.

"He's...uh...well, I guess he's Hispanic, but he kind of looks Indian to me.
He's got long, black hair..."

Monica dropped the pen.  Long, black, dark hair.  She nearly dropped the
phone as well.  "Please, go on."

"Kind of a big guy.  About 5'9" or maybe even six feet.  I don't know.  He's
real quiet.  Pays his rent on time every month.  What's this about,
Agent...uh...Reyes?"

Reyes barely heard him.  She didn't write down the description...she didn't
have to.  She had the picture in her head and wasn't about to forget it.  It
was the same man from her dream.

"I...I'm afraid that's classified information, Sir."

"Ms. Reyes.  There are children living in this building.  I got two of my
own.  If this man is dangerous, I'd like to know."

Monica sighed.  "He may have been involved in a murder."

"Jesus Christ." came the man's response.

Monica gave the manager of the Maplewood Apartments her phone number and
asked that he call if he saw anything strange.  She disconnected and
approached John.

He saw the look on her face, and knew immediately that she'd found what she
wanted to find, even though neither of them expected it to be true.

"We've got to go to New York."

"No way, Monica."

She glared at him.  "Why are you fighting this?  This man could have killed
your son!" She shouted at him.  She didn't want to, but her patience had
grown thin, and he was being so stubborn.  But she couldn't understand why,
to save her life.

He gave her a frustrated sigh.  "We can't just leave...we have jobs to do."

"It's only a few hours away.  We can go up there, ask some questions...and
if nothing turns up, we'll be back for anyone knows we're gone."

John shook his head.  He thought on this for a while, thought about how
crazy it was.  He still didn't believe, not for one second, that Monica's
dream was going to lead them to his son's murderer.  Still, the facts that
they'd already gathered couldn't be ignored.  It was coming at him so fast,
and he wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

"Fine.  We'll go and ask this guy a few questions.  Will that satisfy ya?"
He snarled, and stormed off to the restroom.  Something within Monica Reyes
snapped, and she found herself following him...right into the men's room.

She busted the door open just as John was stepping up to the urinal.

"Christ, Monica." He said, zipping his pants back up.

"I guess I just don't understand you, Doggett.  You've been assigned to the
X-Files long enough to know that things happen that we can't explain.  I
believe I had a vision, and that vision was so intense and realistic, that I
haven't been able to stop thinking about it.  The things I saw struck me so
deep that I am here on a frickin' Saturday trying to help you solve the case
and find the man who killed your son.  What I don't understand, is why the
hell you *don't* want to solve the case.  Don't you want to get the man who
hurt your child?"

He listened to every word.  She waited for his response, in the silence of
the men's room.

"Of course I do, Monica.  If anyone knows that, it's you." He said quietly.
"It's just...I...I'm..."

"What, John?"

He looked at her, hesitating.

"I'm afraid, okay?  I'm afraid of what I will do.  If I come face to face
with the person who killed my son...I don't know what I'll do.  I don't
know..." He shook his head, and leaned against the sink.

Monica stared at him, unblinking.  John Doggett...afraid.  Imagine that.

"I'll be there, John.  I'll be there for *you*"

"I know.  I'm afraid to let you see that part of me.  There's a crazy man
inside me, Monica.  He hurt my boy.  You can't have any idea of the
murderous revenge that's been on my mind for the past few years."

"No one can blame you for that."

He was silent then, reflecting on their conversation.  Monica suddenly
became aware that she was standing in the men's room.

"Now," John said, "if you don't mind...I really have to take a leak, Agent
Reyes."

***

Title:  What Dreams May Come  2/3
Author:  agent myers
Rating:  R
Keywords:  DRR, but not in this part - mostly X/S
Summary:  Monica Reyes has a dream that could lead Doggett to his son's
killer.  But will it lead both of them to death as well?  (Cont from part
one)
Spoilers:  Season 9.  Empedocles.
Disclaimer:  They're not mine.  Duh.
Feedback:  I live for it.
Archive:  Gossamer, XFMU, yes.  All others please ask, I'm sure I'll say
yes!
Author's Notes:  See Part One.
Recommended listening:  "Bodies" by Drowning Pool, "Until It Sleeps" by
Metallica, "Only Time" by Enya.

***

He should have corrected her when she said that it was only a four-hour
drive.  He knew it was at least six hours, maybe more.  She sat quietly next
to him for at least two of those hours before he said anything to her.

"I'm going to pull over for some gas." He told her.  She nodded, looking
like she wanted to say more to him, but couldn't.  Reluctantly, she went
back to her novel, but her eyes weren't moving.  She was just staring at the
pages.

He knew she wanted to talk.  But if there was any way to keep the
conversation away from the case, he would try to find it.

"I had a good time last night.  We should do that again sometime."

She looked up at him, the smile already on her face.  "Yeah.  We should"
She closed the book and laid it on her lap.  "Although...I was pretty tipsy
which made driving hard..." she said, laughing.

"You shoulda spent the night..." John said quickly, but regretted it
immediately.  He had meant that she could have stayed at his house - on the
couch - so not as to drive home drunk.  But it sounded much different coming
out of his mouth.  Their eyes locked on to each other, and uncomfortable
silence hung between them.  John looked away first.

"I meant that you could have...."

"John.  I know what you meant." Monica said, giving him a friendly smile.
He glanced back up at her, grateful for not making him feel like an idiot.
He smiled despite himself.

John pulled off at the next gas station.  They weren't very far away from
the city now.

***

As crazy as it was, John Doggett had missed New York.  It had a certain
appeal to it, a culture that was all it's own.  It was where some of his
happiest - and saddest - memories had taken place.

He didn't recognize the street address of the apartment building that they
where headed to.  He fully expected it not to exist, anyway.  The
possibility that Monica's dream could lead them to the man that killed his
son was almost beyond his mind's reach.

He made a promise to himself:  he was going to keep emotion out of this and
just do his job.

Yeah.  Right.

As they drove closer to the address that Monica had provided, the
neighborhood gradually became more dilapidated with each block they passed.
The inner city had always been the roughest...Doggett remembered most of his
calls as a rookie had been shootings, domestic disturbances and robberies
from this area.  It had been a long drive home each night after work, but he
was glad to brave the traffic if it meant that his son didn't have to grow
up in that kind of environment.

Monica was strangely quiet as they pulled into the parking area of the
Maplewood Apartments.

It was a run-down brick building...much like the other buildings in the
vicinity.  People hung out of their doorways playing their music, sitting on
their cars and smoking cigarettes.  They watched the FBI agents as they got
out of the car...watched them quite closely, Doggett noted.  He knew why.
People who wore suits and ties didn't come around here unless they were cops
or lawyers.  This was the kind of place that people didn't even want to
imagine existed.  It was just easier that way.

Doggett looked up at the building, then down at Monica as they made their
way to the front door.

"You okay?"  Doggett asked Monica.  She looked unsure as she stepped into
the lobby.

"I'm not sure yet.  Let's check out apartment 13."

Apartment 13 was on the third floor.  Monica walked the flights with
determination.  She had a strange sense, even though nothing looked
familiar...she had the strongest feeling they were headed in the right
direction.  Just before they stepped through the door that would lead them
into the third floor hallway, Monica stopped John.

"What is it?" He asked her.  She didn't say anything.  Her eyes were full of
worry.  They kept moving.

As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Reyes knew that her vision had not
just been a figment of her very vivid imagination.  The hallway was just as
she knew it would be.  Dark brown carpet, spotted and very dirty.  Paneled
walls, two dirty windows on either end of the hallway.  Two light fixtures
that were burnt out.  Four doors.  At the end of the hall was apartment 13.
Monica looked at John, and John looked back at her.  She didn't want to tell
him quite yet.

They stopped in front of the apartment door.  Doggett took a breath in as he
knocked.  He suppressed the thought that the man that killed his son might
stand before him in just a moment.  He would be close enough to reach for.
Reyes put her hand over her weapon, ready to take it from its holster.

No one answered the door.  John knocked again.  Nothing.

John put his hands on his hips lazily.  "Nobody home."

Monica sighed.  She looked spooked, Doggett noted.  "What's wrong with you?"

Monica swallowed hard, feeling a sense of panic sweep through her suddenly.
It inched into her limbs, pounded inside her head...like a warning.  She
could hardly catch her breath.

"What is it, Monica?"  John asked her, his eyes reflecting her sudden worry.

"This...this is the place, John.  I've been here before.  Except...I
haven't.  We *have* to get in there."

John shifted his weight from one foot to another and clenched his jaw.  "You
know we can't just go walkin' into people's apartments.  We got nothin' to
go on, no probable cause."

Monica stared at John, wishing that what he said wasn't true, but knowing fu
ll well that it was.  She shook her head.  "We have to get it, then."

"And just how the hell do you think we're gonna do that, Monica?  Think
about why we're here.  A dream isn't probable cause."

The panicky feeling was getting more intense.  It seemed to creep up her
body and take her by the neck.  "Something's in there, John."

John was about to respond when he heard a sound that caught his attention.
Footsteps.  Coming up the stairs.  Monica turned to look in the direction of
the noise, unable to breathe.  Frozen in her spot.

The figure rounded the corner.  He stopped when he saw the agents at the end
of the hall.  He had a small bag of groceries in his hand.

"John?" Reyes said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"It's him."

Suddenly the large, dark figure dropped the bag of groceries and took off
running.  He went for the window at the opposite end of the hall.

Doggett gave chase, pulling his weapon from the holster as he ran.

"Federal agent!  Stop right there!"

The man dashed to the end of the hallway, towards a door marked "emergency
exit".  It lead to the fire escape.  He burst through the doors and
disappeared.  The last thing Monica saw was John chasing him down the fire
escape.

Finally, Monica found her feet.  Her instincts took over from there, and she
pulled her gun from the holster and began making her way, quickly, down the
flights of stairs.  Everything was happening so fast.  She had no doubt in
her mind now that the man that they were chasing was Luke's killer.  It had
to be.  And to think, she had almost just gone back to bed that night,
ignoring the violent nightmare that she'd had.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she caught sight of John running
across the street.  The perpetrator, obviously Jose Mancilla, fled into a
back alleyway.  Monica gasped as an oncoming car almost struck John as he
pursued Mancilla across the busy street.  She went after them, her
adrenaline surging like battery acid through her body.

She heard two shots.

When she reached the alley, she saw John at the end of it, propped against a
dumpster.  He'd been shot.  There was blood on his shoulder.

"John!"

"He's gone." He said, wincing and holding his shoulder.  Monica knelt down
beside him, surveying his wound.  She was out of breath.

"It's nothing.  Just grazed my shoulder." Doggett assured her.

"Where'd he go?"

Doggett motioned behind him.  "I lost sight of him.  Then outta nowhere I
heard the gunshot.  The first one missed.  The second one hit.  By the time
I got my senses back, he was gone." John said, disappointed with himself.

Monica heard the sirens getting closer.  An ambulance appeared at the end of
the alley.  A police car wouldn't be far behind.

Monica turned her attention to Doggett's wound.  Peeling away the bloody
pieces of his torn shirt, she noticed that his wound was pretty deep.  She
touched it gently, and John had to grit his teeth to avoid yelling out.

"This needs attention." Monica said to John.

"Bullshit.  We gotta find Mancilla." John said, getting up.

"No, John.  He could be a mile away by now.  We'll get NYPD out looking for
him.  You and I need to stay here.  I think what just happened is sufficient
reason to search that apartment now."

Doggett thought this over.  Reluctantly, he nodded.

Monica gave her statements to the police and spoke to a detective named
Highler.  Meanwhile, the paramedics attended to John's shoulder.  She
informed them of the case, and their intent to search the apartment.

The landlord opened the apartment for them.  He seemed pretty shaken up.

Upon entering the apartment, John and Monica switched on their flashlights
and readied their guns.  The place was small, and in a few moments they had
determined that there wasn't anyone else inside the unit.  Now they began
their search.

The place was an ordinary pigsty.  Garbage lay strewn around the place; the
smell of fried chicken grease and cigarette smoke was strong.  Monica
slipped on her latex exam gloves and began to dig.  Detective Highler joined
them.

John, having been skeptical at first, was now more convinced.  Still, what
had taken place didn't prove that Mancilla had killed his son...there could
have been another reason that he was running.  For instance, marijuana and
cocaine had been found in the bedroom, kitchen and living room.  A good
amount.  Enough to put him away for drug possession, anyway.  John had mixed
feelings as he searched through the place.  Part of him wanted this man to
be the killer.  Part of him wanted to go on as before, oblivious to the
details of his son's murder.

"Agents?  You should come take a look at this."  Detective Highler called.

John's heart quickened as he made his way into the bedroom.  Monica was
already there, and the two of them were studying a picture of a woman.

"You found something?" John asked.

"Yeah." said Highler. "I recognize this woman.  She was a missing person
about a year ago.  We found her body two weeks later.  Shot to death."

The officer picked up another picture.  It was a black and white photo,
obviously taken without the man's knowledge.

"I recognize this man too.  Name's Christian Tyler.  We found his body a few
months ago.  He was a small-time drug dealer.  We suspected that he was
killed by Eduardo Gonzales and his group...but we never had any proof to
substantiate that claim."

John spoke up.  "Eduardo Gonzales?  Why does that sound familiar to me?"

"It was a big case about six years ago, Agent Doggett.  I remember it
because I had just been promoted to detective.  If I remember correctly,
your testimony was the one that put him away."

John thought on this for a moment.  He'd testified in court against dozens
of common slime over the years, and put many of them in jail.

"I'd have to review the case files.  It's been awhile." John said.

"Sure.  Gonzales had been running drugs in this part of the city for years.
He only did three years in jail.  And, as usual, when he got out it he was
back in the business.  Only this time, he started knocking off his
competitors.  We think he's been responsible for a dozen murders in the last
three years."

"What's his connection to Mancilla?" John asked.

The Detective shook his head.  "As far as I know, there's no connection.
But...he's got two photos of murder victims in his apartment.  Murders that
we believe were committed by Gonzales.  My guess would be that he's one of
his men.  That would explain the pictures.  Hired killers often use them to
identify their targets."

John glanced at Monica.

Doggett nodded.  "You'll notify me as soon as they pick this guy up?"

"Sure." Detective Highler said, and began walking away.  Doggett was deep in
thought as Monica went back to rummaging through the desk.

"You think we got the right guy here, Monica?"

Monica didn't look up.  "I don't know, John.  But I have a feeling we're on
the right track."

John sighed.  He was tired.  He hadn't slept the night before, and it was
beginning to catch up with him.  Absently he looked out of the dirty window.
A school was behind the building...children were playing on the playground.
Laughing and screaming.

Screaming.

"John..."

Monica's voice broke John from his revere.  He walked back over to her.  Her
expression was nothing short of pure alarm.  She was holding another photo
in her hand.

John's breath caught in his chest.  It was picture of Luke.

***

PART 3

***

John and Monica stared grimly at the picture. It was a black and white
photograph, taken as he was just about to enter the schoolyard. He had a
huge grin on his face, like he was running to meet friends. John would have
smiled at the new picture, if the circumstances surrounding it had been
different. But they weren't, and knowing that this was the last photo taken
before his death made him shake like a leaf.

Monica looked at John, the surprise fading from her face, replaced with
anguish. She saw the emotion in her partner's eyes, saw his suffering, and
wished that she could take it all away.

John didn't speak. He felt more determined now than ever to catch this
suspect. Still, something didn't seem right. Jose Mancilla didn't seem
like the kind of man who would kill a child.

"We've got to find Mancilla." John said flatly. He tucked the picture into
his coat pocket and walked out of the room. "I need a minute," He told
Monica as he left.

Detective Highler was nearby, still studying the apartment.

"If nothing else, we can pin this guy for drug possession." He said, holding
up a Ziploc bag of a white substance. Monica crossed the room to meet him
and snapped off her gloves.

"I don't think we'll have any trouble building a case against him..." she
said, trailing off.

"But...?"

Monica looked puzzled. "Mancilla may have killed Luke Doggett. There's
certainly enough evidence here to suggest that. But I can't believe that he
was working alone."

"You think he had an accomplice?" Higher asked.

"No...I think he was being directed. The other murders were completely
unrelated to this one, and we don't have any reason to think that Mancilla
had something against Luke Doggett. Why would he? He was just a kid."

Highler nodded. "You think someone else orchestrated it?"

"That's what my gut tells me."

Highler nodded, but looked distant. "Okay, but why? Why would someone send
a hire Mancilla to kill an eight-year old boy?"

Agent Reyes was silent.

After speaking with Highler, Monica went to find John. He was in the
hallway, staring out the dirty, cracked window. He turned as she approached
him.

"You okay?" she asked, knowing that whatever he might say, he wasn't.

He shrugged his shoulders tiredly, and Monica realized it was getting late.
They should find a hotel, she thought, and try to get some sleep. She knew
that they'd probably be in New York awhile.

"Doesn't make any sense." Doggett said. He sighed deeply and avoided her
eyes. He probably wanted to be alone right now. Hell, she wanted to be
alone. She was fighting the urge to run to the nearest ladies room to cry
her eyes out.

But there was work to be done.

"Maybe it does." she said. "Detective Highler and I think that someone
hired Mancilla to kill Luke. My instincts tell me it was Eduardo Gonzales."

John turned around.

"The police suspected that he was responsible for the death's of those other
victims that we found photographs of, but they were never able to pin it on
him. He sounds like a dangerous man...maybe he targeted Luke as a way of
getting back at you for putting him away."

John thought on this for a moment. "But why Luke? Why didn't he come after
me?" He said, and Monica knew that John wished that he had come after him
instead his son.

"I don't know."

John sighed. "We've got to find Mancilla." He said again.

Monica put her hand on John's shoulder. "We've got to get some rest. It's
late."

John gave her a peculiar look. "Are you kidding? Do you think that I can
sleep with my son's killer out there in the city?

Monica's face was full of sympathy. "I know. But you aren't going to be
any good to this case without any rest. You need to eat...wind down."

"Wind down..." John repeated.

"The police are scouring the city for Mancilla. He'll turn up. I've told
them to call us if they do."

Agent Doggett searched Monica's face, and concluded that he wasn't going to
win this one. There really wasn't much more they could do tonight. He
probably wouldn't sleep, but a change of scenery would do him good. And
maybe a hot meal, if he could stomach it.

He nodded tiredly, and Monica led him down the hall towards the stairs.

John didn't say much on the way to the hotel. He was lost in his own
thoughts, his memories, and the case. The only good thought he could muster
was that he might finally have some closure to this nightmare.

They stopped off at a drive-through restaurant to order some food before
pulling the car into the "Sleep Easy" motel. Monica paid for two adjoined
rooms, and they carried their bags in.

They ate their brown-bag special together in Monica's room. John picked at
his food, eating only about half of it. Monica couldn't blame him.

"You wanna talk?" Monica asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

John looked at her, and then returned his gaze to the motel painting on the
wall. "About what?"

She shrugged. "About the case. About Luke. About you." She took a sip
from her drink, and set it down on the nightstand.

"Not much to say."

"I know. I just want to...you know...be here for you. I wanna know that
you're okay." She said sincerely.

Doggett smiled slightly. "You're really concerned about that, aren't you?"

"Well, of course I am." Monica said. "I care about you."

John stared a Monica for a few seconds. When he felt the lump in his
throat, he turned away. He didn't know how much longer he could hold it in.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I just...I just don't understand why anyone would want to hurt a little
boy." Doggett said gravely.

Monica looked down at her hands. "I think you and I both know that there's
evil in this world that we can't comprehend. We just have to...keep on
remembering the good."

John nodded, but didn't respond right away. He was thinking of the time
that his son had woken him at 5:30 in the morning to show him that he had
learned to ride his bike without the training wheels. He'd wanted to stay
in bed and catch a little more sleep, but he was glad he didn't.

"I just wish I'd had him longer."

Monica felt tears rising to the underside of her eyes. She bit her lip.

"Oh, John..."

He looked at Monica. He knew that, if she started to cry, it would be all
over for him. He wasn't surprised when she reached for him, pulling him
into a warm embrace. He softened in her arms, taking comfort in her small
gift.

"I wish I could take it all away," she whispered. She pulled back to look
at him. His eyes were misty, but he was being brave. She wasn't. A tear
streaked down her cheek. John reached up to wipe it away.

"You've always been there. Thank you..." He said.

The regarded each other with affectionate gazes. Monica stroked his cheek
gently with her thumb. He smiled, beginning to feel just a little bit
better.

"I want you to get some sleep, okay?"

He nodded. "I'll try."

She pulled away from him gently, and got off the bed. "I'm right next door
if you need me, John." She said, and then opened the adjoining door. She
didn't lock the door when she shut it.

Finally alone, John didn't know what to do. He was tired, but he knew that
sleep wouldn't come easily tonight, if at all. He went to take a shower.
He turned on the water full-blast, and watched it circle around the drain
and disappear. He watched it until the tears came.

He cried for five minutes. A long time for John Doggett. Then, when crying
had exhausted its usefulness, he took off his clothes and got into the
shower. He stood there, underneath the hot spray, for a long time. He let
the hot water relax away some of the tension that had building throughout
the day.

He thought of Monica. He would have kissed her there, on that bed while she
held him so tenderly, if he hadn't been feeling so damned sorry for himself.
He had meant what he'd said though, about always being there. Even though
it had been hard, he'd never had to face it alone. Nothing could replace
what she'd given him. Someday, maybe someday very soon, he would repay her.

****

Monica opened her eyes and looked around. It was after four in the morning,
she noted, as her eyes scanned the room and landed on the digital clock.

She'd heard something.

A voice.

A moan.

Then she heard it again, louder, more persistent. She sat up in bed. The
sound continued, and she recognized it as John's voice. She got out of bed
and went to the door that connected their rooms. It was clearer now.
Words that she couldn't make out, cries. She opened the door gently.

The lights were out, and John lay in bed, the sheets twisted around the
lower half of his body. He was dreaming. He was crying.

"Oh, God, no..." He whimpered.

Monica didn't hesitate. She went to his bed, and sat softly on the bed next
to him. She pulled him into her lap, and he wrapped his arms around her.
He was still asleep, trapped in a nightmare. He was holding onto her with
all of his strength.

"John..."

She rocked him until the cries began to subside. He was waking up. In the
darkness she could make out his open eyes. There were tears in them. He
pillow was soaked.

"Monica..." His voice was small, like a crying child.

"I'm here, John."

His arms clung to her, and they stayed silent for several minutes. After
what seemed like an eternity, John began to feel a little childish. He
pulled away from her gently.

"I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about, John." Monica said. She was still
touching him. He smiled gratefully at her, and finally lowered his head to
the pillow.

"Stay here." He asked simply.

She responded by sinking down beneath the sheets. She laid her head on his
shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world. John's arm
snaked around her shoulders, and he squeezed her.

Ten minutes later, they were still both wide-awake. Comfortable as he was,
John couldn't ignore the fact that this woman that he was so painfully
attracted to was lying so close to him. Her hand lay motionless on his bare
chest, her legs touching his. And he realized, with all the pain he was
feeling, with all that he had to think about right now, he only wanted show
her just how good he could love her.

As if sensing what he was feeling, Monica looked up at him. Their eyes
locked on each other for a moment, and Monica recognized the look. It was
the same one he'd had in his eyes the night before at his house, just before
she'd decided it was time to leave, unless she wanted to end up sleeping
with her partner.

Except this time, they hadn't been drinking.

She didn't stop herself. It felt natural to kiss him. There wasn't any
magical sparks that went off between them, and the world didn't stop...but
it felt wonderful.

Monica felt John's hands moving through her hair, down to her neck, and
across her shoulder. She moved closer to him, pressing her body against
him. His lips kept up their soft movement against hers, and began to trail
down to her neck. She gasped when she felt his tongue on her earlobe.

From there, Monica lost all concept of herself and anything else in the
world.

****

She was brushing her teeth when he finally woke up. She was the lucky one,
because she'd been fortunate enough to wake first, and see John sleeping
next to her. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms, but drifted apart
sometime during the night. When she woke, she'd snuggled up with him. He'd
woken too, but just barely, just enough to feel her next to him and then
drift back into oblivion.

When eight o'clock came, Monica couldn't sleep anymore. She'd kissed him
tenderly on the cheek, and slipped out of bed, and into the shower.

"Morning." she called from the bathroom.

John didn't sit up, but he smiled at her. Monica knew that his feelings
would be mixed, what with the case and all. She just hoped that the
previous night had taken at least some of that pain away.

John stretched out and yawned noisily. Monica laughed, having never heard
such a sound come out of John. She grinned at her reflection in the mirror,
thinking about the night before, and the sounds that came of out him then.

Finally, John got out of bed, and Monica couldn't resist peeking at him as
he slipped into his boxer shorts, which had somehow gotten under the bed.
He put them on and caught her looking. He smiled sheepishly.

These were the good times. She hoped that there'd be more.

****

Two hours later, Agents Doggett and Reyes were looking through police
reports.

"This guy's got a record dating back to the seventies. Small stuff, like
possession and auto theft. Did some time...nothing that really helps us
figure out how to find him." Detective Highler said with a sigh.

Doggett closed the file and sat back in his chair with a look of annoyance.

"What about Eduardo Gonzales? Any clue about how we can find him?"

Detective Highler shook his head. "We've been trying to keep tabs on him
for years. The guy's got a network of people covering his ass. He's pretty
much untouchable."

"No one is untouchable." Doggett said.

Highler ran a hand over his head. "Since he's been out of jail he's wised
up. He's given us nothing to go on."

Monica picked up his file again. "What about family?"

"I know that he had a girlfriend back when he was incarcerated, but after he
got out she kind of...disappeared."

"Murdered?" Doggett asked.

"We don't know. It's likely that she just left town, probably to get away
from him. She had a child."

"Gonzales'?"

Highler shrugged, meaning that he didn't know. The three sat in silence,
going over the case in their heads, trying to come up with
something....anything. Doggett was starting to become restless. They'd hit
a brick wall, and he wasn't about to accept that this is where the case
would end.

From there, Highler, Doggett and Reyes hit the streets. Highler knew of
some contacts that might be able to help. Snitches. Highler had an
exquisite way of threatening people...John liked it. But still, no one knew
where to find Jose Mancilla or Eduardo Gonzales.

The day wasn't getting any better when Reyes received a phone call from
Deputy Director Kersh. He wanted them back in D.C. immediately.

"Disobeying my order will land you - and your partner - in serious trouble.
Are you prepared to lose your job?" Kersh threatened.

Monica clenched her fist and said, "Do what you need to do. Because right
now, I don't really give a damn. Sir." And she hung up the phone. She
didn't receive any more phone calls the rest of the day.

When ten o'clock came, Detective Highler cautiously announced that he was
calling it a day. It seemed that he was losing hope. Monica and John
stayed a little longer, but two hours later, they still had nothing.

Tired and strung out, they headed to the motel. They hadn't spoken of the
night before, but Monica expected that. She didn't ask to stay with John
that night.

As she was leaving his room, he caught her hand. She turned to look at him.
His face was a mixture of emotion.

"I don't regret what happened last night, Monica. I hope you know that. I
just can't...not right now."

She smiled at him. "I know, John." She paused. "I'll still be here when
this is all over."

He smiled at her gratefully, and she departed.

When she got back to her room, all Monica wanted was a hot shower and a good
night's sleep. She turned on the shower and stripped off her clothes. She
locked the bathroom door behind her, but she didn't know why.

Twenty minutes later, she finished with her shower and dressed for bed in a
t-shirt and shorts. She was used to sleeping in the nude, but this place
was alien to her.

Besides, she thought, John might need me again.

As she was turning down the sheets, she became uncomfortable. The hairs on
the back of her neck stood on end. She looked around the room. There was
no one there. She sighed and went back in the bathroom to brush her teeth.

She spit and turned off the water. She toweled her mouth off, and shut the
light out. As she emerged from the bathroom, hands grabbed her from behind.

And with the strong smell of chloroform in her nostrils, everything went
black.

****

John Doggett had been asleep for ten minutes. He awoke with a sense of
urgency, and sat straight up in bed. What was it that had caused him to
wake?

A sound, coming from Monica's room. But it was silent now.

He wanted to go back to sleep...God knew he needed it. But...

He threw the covers off and got out of bed. He was in his boxer shorts and
a white t-shirt, so he decided to slip on a pair of jeans that had been
thrown across a chair before he checked on her. He went to the door and
knocked.

"Monica?"

No answer.

"Hey, Monica."

Nothing.

Worried, he opened the door. A single lamplight was on in the room. He
called her name again. She would have heard him if she was in there. He
padded into the room, wondering where she could have gone.

He noticed something on the floor and picked it up.

Christ.

He didn't even have to hold it to his nose to smell the chloroform. He
dropped it and raced to the window. No one was in the parking lot.

He ran to the back door of the room, the one that led to the alley. As he
flung open the door, a black car sped away, squealing its tires and leaving
behind a cloud of smoke.

He dashed back to his own room, and grabbed three things. Car keys, gun and
shoes. With his adrenaline surging, he got into the gray Buick and took off
down the street. The car was still visible, but it was moving fast. He
stepped on the gas.

He followed the car cautiously to an old building behind a McDonald's. He
pulled into the restaurant parking lot, and got out, slipping on his shoes
as he did so.

****

Monica Reyes opened her eyes groggily. The scent of the chloroform was
still on her, and she instantly remembered. As her eyes focused on the dim
light of the large room, she found herself face to face with a man she had
never seen.

He smiled wickedly at her.

"Hola."

She tried to move, but found that she was tied to a support beam. The man
laughed.

"No use struggling, Chica."

"Who are you?"

He smiled. "My name is Eduardo Gonzales. I'm surprised that I had to tell
you."

She stared at him. He did look different that his mugshots, but the face
was the same. He looked a little older than his pictures, and he was
wearing a suit. His black hair was slicked back. She didn't like the way
he was looking at her. Like a kid who's ready to pull the wings off a fly.

"What do you want with me?" She asked him, but her instincts told her that
her life was in danger. She was just delaying for time, hoping that John
might have found his way here. But that was unlikely, since he'd been in
bed, probably asleep when she'd been taken.

"Just tying up some...loose ends. You know of my connection to the boy. I
don't know how, but I'm sure you'll tell me. I'm not going back to
prison...not again."

Which meant that he was going to kill her. But she wasn't going to let him
see the fear that was boiling inside of her.

"I'm not telling you anything, Gonzales."

"You know I'm going to kill you, don't you?" He said, the patience in his
voice was waning.

She didn't answer him. He pulled a gun from his pants and held it to her
face.

"Tell me."

She was shaking with nervousness. Her eyes darted around the room, looking
for any sign of John. Her eyes fell on another man whom she recognized as
Jose Mancilla.

"I don't believe you've been properly introduced to my associate."

"He killed my partner's son." she said flatly.

Gonzales shook his head, and withdrew the gun. "Yes, he did. Killing is a
nasty business. I prefer not to get my hands dirty."

Monica realized that everything she had suspected was true. A simple dream
had lead her to this point. Just a dream.

"So, shall I kill you now, or would you like to delay your death long enough
to tell me what you know?"

She hesitated. Where was John?

Gonzales' patience had left him. "Fine." He said, and pointed the gun at
her face. She closed her eyes shut tight.

"Stop!"

Monica's eyes bolted open, and she saw John.

"John!"

The gun was still pointed at her head.

"Well, Mr. Doggett. I'm glad that you could finally join us. A little
late, aren't we?"

"Drop the gun, you bastard, or I'll blow your head off." He said, pointing
his pistol at Gonzales as he walked towards him. Mancilla remained still.

"I don't think so." Gonzales said with a slight smile.

Suddenly, four men surrounded John, with guns pointed at his head. It was a
trap, Monica realized.

"Drop the gun, Mr. Doggett, or I kill her right now."

His hands went up in the air, his gun falling to the ground. The sound
echoed off the walls of the large room. The four men took him, hands behind
his back, to another support beam and began to tie him.

John looked at Gonzales with contempt. "Murderer."

Gonzales walked slowly towards Doggett. John was convinced that he would
rip this man limb from limb if he was to get free. After all these years,
he was face to face with the man who had taken away his son.

"Before I kill you, Doggett, I want to tell you a little story."

"Save it." Doggett spat. Monica was terrified that John was going to be
shot right in front of her very eyes.

"No, I think you'll want to hear this one. After all, you've been searching
for me for all these years, wondering why I had your son killed. And I've
waited so long to tell you."

John glared at Gonzales, but didn't say anything.

"Six years ago, you put me in jail. I won't be surprised it you don't
remember. Putting people away is your job, and I don't hold that against
you, however..."

He approached Doggett slowly.

"I don't suppose you know that I had a son."

Doggett didn't respond. Gonzales continued.

"He was a sick little boy. Leukemia. I wanted to live a straight lifestyle
for him, an honest one. But I was poor then, uneducated. And my son was
dying. I made profit where I could."

"From drugs." Doggett accused.

"Yes, from drugs. And I was able to get the necessary care for my son.
That was all the reason I needed."

The other men stood behind Gonzales as though they were statues. He glanced
over at Monica. He knew her well enough to know that she was terrified.
Gonzales continued.

"And then, I was sentenced to six years in jail. Your testimony made sure
that I was convicted. And you sent me to that place...that dungeon.

"My son died three months after I was put in prison. Without me, he
couldn't go to the doctors. He couldn't get the medicine he needed. As far
as I'm concerned, you killed my son. And when I was realeased, I vowed that
I would avenge him. You took my son away. So, I took yours."

And so there it was. The reason and the man he'd searched for for years.
Never again would his son's killer be a faceless, nameless figure in the
night. Doggett looked at Mancilla.

"This man killed your son for five-thousand dollars." He said with an evil
smile. Then he turned the gun on Mancilla, and shot him in the head. His
corpse fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Gonzales turned to the other men. "Get that out of here. No one finds it."
And three of the men lifted the body and began to drag it away. They
disappeared out of the room, leaving only one of the men behind. He had put
his gun away, Monica noticed. She had been fumbling with the rope for ten
minutes now, and it was beginning to loosen. Just another few moments and
she would be free.

Gonzales held the gun to Doggett's face, and his expression was serious.
"Any last words?"

"I'll see you in hell."

Agent Reyes knew she had to act. Everything seemed to be in slow motion.
With one swift movement, she dropped the rope off of her and kicked
Gonzales. The gun fired, but the bullet whizzed by Doggett's ear. Caught
off-guard, Gonzales fell backwards, the gun sliding out of his hand. Monica
grabbed it, just as the other guard was reaching for his gun. She fired
without flinching, dropping him with one bullet.

Gonzales stumbled to his feet. Monica held the gun on him.

"Get down on the floor." she said.

He glared at her, but obeyed.

"Put your hands on your head and lace them together."

The gun still pointed at Gonzales, she made her way over to John. She
loosened the ropes, enough for him to get free on his own. They dropped to
the ground.

"Are you okay?" He asked her.

She nodded. "Got any cuffs?"

He shook his head. He grabbed the dead guard's gun out of his hand and
pointed it at Gonzales.

"I should kill you." He said coldly.

"John, don't." Monica said.

Gonzales laughed. "You won't. You're a cop."

"I'm also a father."

"You WERE a father."

Doggett struggled to contain his emotion, his hatred. His finger trembled
on the trigger. It would be so easy, he thought. So easy....

"Go call for back-up, Monica." Doggett said without looking at her. His
eyes were fixed on Gonzales.

"John..."

"Go."

She swallowed hard, and then ran out of the building. She hoped he would do
the right thing, although she wasn't sure what the right thing was.

When Monica was gone, Doggett told Gonzales to stand up and face him. He
did.

"I'm not going to let you hurt anyone else. It stops here."

"If you're going to kill me, Doggett, then do it."

Doggett pointed the gun at him, but said nothing. He wanted to drop this
man, wanted to put a hundred bullets in his body. But he couldn't.

Gonzales laughed. "You can't do it. Not even for your son."

John shook with hatred. Every fiber in his being told him that killing
Gonzales would be the right thing to do. The two men stared back at each
other.

Suddenly, Gonzales lunged at Doggett. He fell backwards with Gonzales on
top of him. The gun fell at his right and he reached for it. Gonzales
struggled on top of him, grabbing for the gun. Doggett picked up the gun
and buried it in Gonzales' belly.

A muffled shot rang out.

Gonzales went rigid, and Doggett threw him off. He stood up and watched
Gonzales bleed out. His face was void of emotion. Slowly, John raised the
gun to Gonzales' head and fired.

And then it was quiet.

John fell to the ground, the gun dropping from his hand. He felt sick to
his stomach. He felt tired all over. He stared at the corpse in front of
him.

John barely noticed Monica running to him. He thought he might pass out,
but he didn't. Monica saw the blood the covered his chest, but she knew
that it wasn't his. She knelt down beside him.

She pulled him into an embrace, and they sat in silence for a moment.

"It's over." he whispered.

****
Two days later, John Doggett found himself going through a box of Luke's
things. He smiled as he picked up each item. A baseball glove, a picture
drawn in crayon. He heard a knock at the door.

When he answered it, Monica stood on his front porch. He invited her in.

"How are you doing?" she asked him.

"Okay. I'm doing okay. As well as can be expected. Wanna sit down?"

She did. They sat next to each other on the couch, each not knowing exactly
what to say. They talked for a few moments about nothing.

"I'm still not sure I did the right thing." John said.

"I think you did, John. I would have done the same."

"You would?"

"I know you loved him. No one could blame you."

John looked at Monica thoughtfully. He wanted to tell her how much he loved
her then, but it wasn't the right time.

"You know, I was thinking..." John started.

"About what?"

"That...I might like to have another child someday."

Monica smiled.

"I think that would be wonderful," she said. "You were a good father."

He took Monica's hand then, and held it tightly. "You wanna hang around
tonight?"

"Of course."

He smiled. Yes, he wanted to tell her that he loved her, and he would. But
he also wanted to tell her that she would make an excellent mother, and
excellent wife, but it was definitely too soon for that. Right now all he
wanted was her presence.

And, for once, he knew that he was going to be okay.


~ end ~

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