Ghosts

by Kate

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

The following is a work of fanfiction, and is not intended to infringe on any holder of Simon & Simon copyright. No profit is being made from this story.

Synopsis: After escaping incarceration at the hands of a brutal crime lord, Rick and A.J. deal with the emotional aftermath and possible consequences. Probably not for everyone, this story was written with the intent to show the relationship between the brothers, and has that motive at it's heart. If you like lots of angst and smarm, read ahead! Bear in mind, I've only seen eight episodes of the series, and my memory of the original show is faulty and vague. Your comments (good or bad) are welcome in my mailbox: cmortenz12@verizon.net

Warnings: Some language. While a little on the dark side, I don't believe there's anything graphic in this story to offend anyone, except perhaps very delicate readers. For those who still wish to continue, enjoy!

**********

It was raining again.

Rick Simon listened to the steady pelt of water beyond the blunt block walls of his prison. The rain had been a constant companion since he and A.J. had stumbled into Trace Drayner's trap. Over the past few days, the monotonous downpour abated but briefly, slithering into silence, only to return with renewed vigor hours later. Rick measured the passing days by the frequency of rain. Outside he knew the countryside was mired in mud. He'd had a brief glimpse of the heavily treed area when their captors had hustled them out of the van, before they'd been shoved down the recessed stairway of a storm cellar.   Judging by the crisp hint of autumn and the thinness of the air, Rick guessed the high altitude placed them somewhere in northern California or Oregon. Like A.J., he'd been sedated and unconscious during the flight that had brought them here in a small private plane.  Drayner had money to buy anyone, and that included the thugs who'd caught them unaware as they were leaving their office at Simon & Simon Investigations.

*Was that two days ago or three,* Rick wondered, shifting position on the cold floor. The walls were stone and mortar, the floor nothing more than uneven concrete. One end of the basement sloped to a set of block steps which led to the outside world and freedom. The steel doors angled above had been secured and locked from the outside, making each attempt at escape an effort in futility.  The opposite end of the basement bore another set of stairs, this one wooden and brief, no more than eight steps--Rick had counted them a total of forty-seven mind-numbing times. The short staircase butted against a locked door, which both he and A.J. had tried to manipulate to no avail.

Cursing, Rick thrust to his feet and began to pace. The thought of his younger brother brought an immediate knot of dread to his stomach. He didn't want to think about what Drayner was doing to A.J.  They'd already pumped the kid full of drugs and he still wasn't talking.  Neither of them would. That was the shame of it. No matter what Drayner did to A.J., Rick knew the younger Simon wasn't about to tell the gun runner where they'd secreted his daughter.  Belinda Drayner knew enough about her father's operation to have him put away for good.  She'd gone to the Simons rather than the police, asking for help in hiding until she could provide the State with the evidence needed to convict her father. The safe house had eventually been secured with the help of police, but it was Rick and A.J. that Trace Drayner signaled out as the most likely source of information.  He'd taken a turn with Rick, letting his bullpen of rent-a-thugs work the detective over a time or two. Rick was as tight-lipped as A.J. and Drayner quickly turned his attention back to the blonde-haired man. The drugs had been administered last night and again this morning.  Rick had no idea what they'd shot into his brother's veins, but prayed it wasn't lethal. Drayner's reputation as a brutal crime lord was well earned. What disturbed Rick the most was the sadistic satisfaction the older man seemed to glean from his treatment of A.J.  Perhaps it was nothing more than A.J.'s wholesome looks that made the severe punishment that much more enjoyable to a man who was troll-like and pudgy by comparison.  Though Rick sometimes teased his brother over his GQ coverboy appearance, he took it in stride.  A.J. had the kind of looks most people envied.  Through the years that golden boy image had earned A.J. his fair share of bullies, but the bully who had him now wasn't playing fair.

Rick rolled his hands into fists, angered by his inability to help his brother. Just the thought of what Drayner might be doing to A.J. was enough to push him to the brink of berserker rage. *I swear to God, Drayner, I swear to God I'll make you pay for every second he suffers. I'll end your worthless life myself, you twisted sonofabitch *

The opening click of the door cut short Rick's angry musing. Pivoting on his heel, he lurched toward the staircase, intent on overpowering whoever materialized beyond the threshold. Before he'd so much as placed his foot on the bottom step, his brother's body was hurled down the staircase. Rick caught A.J. in his arms, his own body acting as buffer as both tumbled to the floor.

"Drayner thought you might like to see how the kid's holding up," a snide voice commented from above. The click of the door followed quickly on the tail-end of the words, and the brief infusion of light was snuffed short.

"A.J.," Rick said thickly, focused solely on the battered form in his arms. His brother's coat and tie had been stripped from him shortly after their arrival, leaving only his linen shirt as protection against the damp air. Once pale blue, the garment was now stained with blood and grime, the dark rusty blotches splattered on the fabric, A.J.'s own. Most of the buttons had been ripped free, leaving his brother's chest exposed. Angered by the repulsive sight of newly inflicted welts and bruises, Rick felt his throat tighten. "Damn it, A.J., what'd that sick bastard do to you?"

Lifting his hand, he threaded his fingers into his brother's hair. Presently shaggy and in need of a trim, it was something Rick might have teased A.J. about at another time. His younger sibling was immaculate about every aspect of his appearance--right down to the pleated navy pants and lace-up dress shoes he'd presently wore.

Groaning, A.J. shifted, settling against his brother's chest. His face was pale, the skin over his cheeks stretched gauntly across the bone. The left side of his face bore the black-purple stain of a bruise, feathering to muddy brown at the edges. The skin above his right eye was cracked, oozing a thin, sticky trail of blood to his jaw. More leaked from his nose and his bottom lip was split.  Large, angry blotches encircled his throat.

Inwardly cursing, Rick pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently held it beneath his brother's nose. "I'll get you out of here," he whispered against A.J.'s temple. "I don't know how, but I promise I will." He'd been A.J.'s protector for too long--at least in his own mind--and his present inability to control the situation made his stomach churn.

Wincing, A.J. shifted yet again. His hand found Rick's as his older brother wiped the blood from beneath his nose. Though his fingers trembled with fatigue, he still managed to press something cold and hard into Rick's palm. "Will this . . . help?" he croaked hoarsely.

Rick glanced down at his hand to find a key tucked into his palm. His eyebrows inched higher on his forehead. "A.J. how did you--?"

"Don't ask. When someone's beating you senseless . . . you tend to be . . . pretty close." A.J. drew a breath and Rick felt a shudder ripple through his body. "I grabbed that . . . from Drayner's head goon." His lashes fluttered, dipping briefly to his cheeks as golden threads veiled his eyes.

"Rick, I can't . . . take . . . much more. The drugs--"

"I'm getting you out of here." Scrabbling to get his feet under him, Rick hooked A.J. beneath the arms, and helped him stand. The younger man swayed, turning his face into Rick's shoulder to muffle a groan. Blood-stained fingers contorted in the rough fabric of Rick's denim shirt as A.J. fought to remain upright. His knees buckled, threatening to topple them both, until Rick caught his arm and slung it over his shoulders. "Come on, kid, I've got you. Just lean against me."

A.J. didn't need coaxing, barely able to stand on his own. Somehow Rick managed to get them both up the stairs and out the door. Rick had to navigate blind, guessing his way to the nearest exit since he had no clue where they were being detained. Twice he had to duck into shadowed alcoves, dragging a half-coherent A.J. with him as one of Drayner's thugs passed by. A.J. shivered, clinging to him, as if that alone was all that kept him from toppling. Rick found an exit and half-dragged, half-carried his brother to safety. He'd hoped to find a vehicle or some mode of transportation outside, but the treed grounds surrounding the stone house were empty. He guessed there was a garage on the opposite side, but feared venturing in that direction. From his concealed vantage at the edge of a covered porch, he could see a group of three men hovering where he guessed the garage would be. Idly chatting among themselves, they puffed on cigarettes, a sure sign they were going nowhere.

Biting down on his lip, Rick shifted his grip on A.J. The movement induced a moan of protest from the blonde-haired detective, and Rick cringed for having caused the distress. With a glance over his shoulder, he stole into the trees, hoping to find a road with traffic or another house not far in the distance. Though the rain had stopped, the ground was wet and bogged with mud. Rick pulled his brother deeper into the dense thicket, where roots and rocks jutted from a mucky leaf-carpeted floor.  Though Rick had no difficulty traversing the uneven terrain in his army-issue workboots, the smooth soles of A.J.'s dress shoes where not made for hiking. The younger man slipped, banging his knees on embedded rock. When he would have folded against the ground, Rick caught him about the waist and pulled him tightly against him. Even through the coarse fabric of his denim shirt, Rick could feel his brother trembling.

"A.J., they're gonna figure out we're gone. We gotta keep moving."

" . . . can't . . ."

One word that spoke volumes. The knot in Rick's stomach spread roots into his abdomen. They'd been in tight spots before and managed to survive, but none had ever been so bad as this.

"Come on, kid, don't say that."

A.J.'s blue eyes were dull and red-veined. "You go . . . bring help."

"Fat chance of that." Rick tightened his grip on the younger man. "There's no way in hell I'm leaving you, little brother, so just get it out of your head. There's gotta be a house with a phone nearby. We just gotta keep going."

" . . . can't . . ."

That word again. Rick hated it. Hated the sound of it on his brother's tongue. Hated the way A.J. clung to it as though it were written in stone. Taking a step forward, he forced the younger man with him. A.J. grimaced, cupping an arm across his ribs. Only then did Rick realize the way he was holding his brother put pressure on his chest.

"I-I think my ribs are cracked," A.J. panted.

*Or broken.* Feeling as sadistic as Drayner, Rick adjusted his grip and took another step forward.

A.J. moaned aloud. "God, Rick. Please."

Ignoring the plea, Rick glanced ahead, setting his face in a somber mask. If he counted off the steps, slow and even, he could almost block out A.J.'s desperate grip. The cut above the younger man's eye was bleeding again. Though Rick longed to stop and give his brother the rest he craved, he knew they had to keep moving. *I'm a monster. A sadistic, freaking monster.*

A.J. shuddered. After a final plea to stop, he ground his teeth together and hobbled along in his brother's punishing grip. The sharp knife of pain lancing through his ribs brought tears to his eyes, but he blinked them away, ashamed. The breath pummeled his lungs, hot as dragon-fire, rising to sear the swollen tissue of his throat. For one panic-induced moment the sky see-sawed above his head and he thought he was going to be sick. Swallowing quickly, he dug his fingers into Rick's arm, tasting the bitter tang of bile on his tongue. His heart lurched in his chest, beating against his ribs with machine-gun bursts that sent spikes of pain shooting into his temples.  He was still lucid enough to recognize the effects of the drugs Drayner had pumped into him. After a time, every waking step became pain-induced torture, but he held his tongue, knowing how important it was to Rick that they keep moving. It should have been important to him too but he no longer cared about Drayner or the henchmen who would track them through the woods. He only wanted to curl in the damp, chill grass and surrender. He wanted the pain to stop.  Wanted the acid churning of his stomach to fade into oblivion and the ringing in his ears to recede. Every muscle in his body, every joint and nerve felt inflamed. His nose started bleeding again, and he wiped at it absently with the back of his sleeve. His sniffling made Rick tighten his arm around his shoulders.

Rick wouldn't let him stop. Rick made him hobble over broken beds of rock, slick with moss, between groping, spindle-thin trees. A.J. lost track of the cuts and scrapes on his arms and face. Rick said there had to be a house. And a phone.  Rick would take care of him. He had to believe that. But oh god, it hurt. Worse then when Drayner had stood over him sneering, while his apes held A.J.'s arms pinned behind his back. The beating hadn't been anything he couldn't endure. He'd been beaten before. But what followed left him shivering with memory.  He could still feel Drayner's troll-like hands around his neck, pressing on his wind-pipe, cutting short his air supply . . . pressing and pressing until his body responded in a humiliating manner. Drayner's goons had guffawed over his involuntary reaction. The memory made his cheeks burn with shame even now. He remembered the hot stink of Drayner's breath against his cheek, the stale scent of cigarettes and coffee clogging his nostrils. His stomach roiled with the vile memory as pain and humiliation fused in a constricting knot.

"Shit." Unable to stop his reaction, A.J. lurched forward and vomited. His palms sank into the mucky ground as convulsions racked his body. On hands and knees, he emptied his stomach on rain-slick leaves, the pungent scent of the forest as overwhelming as the memory of coffee on Drayner's breath. He closed his eyes, unable to stop the tears this time. He trembled uncontrollably, on the verge of breakdown.

Instantly, Rick was at his side, gathering him against his chest. A.J. folded against him, his body limp with exhaustion. No longer caring whether or not Rick saw the tears, A..J. turned his face into Rick's chest and sobbed. "He . . . he . . ." But the words wouldn't come. Though the horrid images remained seared in his mind, A.J. couldn't force the painful truth past his tongue. The remembered fear of strangulation left him gasping for breath. Within seconds he was on the verge of hyper-ventilating.

Rick had him by the shoulders. "A.J. take it easy. Come on, kid, you've got to calm down." He spoke soothingly but firmly, hoping the steady assurance of his voice would penetrate whatever panic-induced nerve A.J. had triggered. Tensing, he tightened his fingers over his brother's shoulders. Lifting one hand, he cupped his cold palm to A.J.'s flushed cheek, tipping the younger man's head back. A.J. was still breathing much too fast, gulping on air. "A.J. look at me."

The authority in his tone was harsh and demanding. What calm assurance couldn't do, dominance accomplished. The uncharacteristic fear withered from A.J.'s eyes as he focused on his brother. Rick's gaze was as clipped as his voice when he spoke. "I know you're hurtin', and probably not thinking straight, but you gotta pull it together A.J. I'm gonna get us out of here. But you've gotta help me--understand?"

Though at first there was no reaction, A.J. eventually nodded. The heightened rush of his breath abated to a rhythm that while not entirely steady, was closer to normal. Tightening his grip on Rick's arms, A.J. closed his eyes. Tears glittered in his lashes but he pulled himself together. "Okay," he managed, his breath catching on the simple two syllables. " . . .l-let's go."

Not certain what had caused the panic attack, but thankful it had passed, Rick offered a tight smile. Lightly tracking his fingers over his brother's cheek, he brushed aside tears and grime. Rick wrapped his arm about A.J.'s waist, and helped the younger man stand. A quick glance at the sky revealed an increasing mass of dark clouds, signaling the advance of more rain. Within minutes it came--a cold driving downpour, that had both men stumbling blind through the thicket.

Though A.J. shivered uncontrollably, his thin linen shirt drenched and plastered to his body, he never asked Rick to halt.  Rick lost track of time as they continued the grueling journey through the dense trees. Once or twice he thought he heard the sounds of pursuit behind them, but each time chalked it up to his imagination. The sky remained gray and brooding, strewn with an endless trail of rain-heavy clouds. When it became apparent A.J. was on the point of exhaustion and wouldn't be able to continue further, Rick kept an eye alert for shelter. He'd hoped to reach a house or road by now, but Drayner's prison was obviously more remote than he'd anticipated. He was feeling the first full-fledged pang of despair when he spied a small cave recessed into a treed embankment. Thick with fern, sheltered by intertwining oaks and spruce, the tiny crevasse was easy to overlook, making an ideal hiding place. More, it would provide welcome relief from both rain and the damp, soggy air.

"Come on, little brother, we'll rest here." Though Rick spoke close to A.J.'s ear, his breath creating a warm mist on the other's chill skin, the younger man failed to react. He simply shuffled along in his brother's grip, blind to circumstance. Rick knew the drugs Drayner had pumped into A.J. were taking affect. His brother's flesh was alternately hot and cold, and twice during the strenuous trek they had to stop when dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Once, he'd bent forward, hands on knees, spitting bile and blood from his mouth. Though he'd complained of stomach cramps afterwards, he been able to continue, blindly trusting Rick for guidance.

"It's not a penthouse, but it'll have to do," Rick groused as he helped his brother into the cave.  The bank sloped backwards, making it impossible to stand upright within the recessed cleft. Still, it was snug and warm compared to the damp air outside, and the ground was dry, carpeted with browned leaves.

Rick eased A.J. to a spot on the ground as far away from the entrance as possible. There was less draft in the rear of the cave. As soon as he settled, A.J. curled away from his brother, huddling in on himself. The tremors in his body were more pronounced now, making Rick bite down on the inside of his lip. Three days with limited food and water induced his own shaky moment of light-headedness, and he had to swallow hard to silence the weakness. He knew A.J. would be safe here--as safe as possible in a thicket controlled by Drayner's goons. As much as he hated leaving his brother, he knew the only way for both of them to reach safety was if he went for help. The realization didn't ease his conscience any. He felt more of a monster now then he had in the woods. A.J. was basically defenseless. If Drayner's thugs found the cave while he was gone--

Expelling a ragged sigh, Rick dragged both hands down his face. "A.J.--" Crouching beside the younger man, he tentatively touched his shoulder. A.J. flinched then stilled, rousing from a fog-like limbo where pain was the prime reality. Blinking, he squinted at his brother, his eyes red-rimmed from drugs and tears. "Listen kid--" Rick found the words increasingly difficult to say. Though he knew he truly wasn't abandoning his brother, it felt like he was. "You'll be safe here, until I get back. I'm gonna go for help. You just stay here and rest."

Eyes drifting shut, A.J. nodded. It seemed to Rick that he lost consciousness briefly, for his head lolled to the side. Just as quickly he roused, sitting upright with a startled jerk as though his heart had lurched against his ribs. Reacting instinctively, Rick caught him, restraining him from moving further. With a tortured sigh, A.J. sagged against his chest, his fingers curling into the stitched denim of Rick's heavy workshirt.

"Sorry, I'm such a mess," he mumbled, the words slurred by the effects of the drugs.

The hint of a wry smile touched Rick's lips. If nothing else, at least A.J. was coherent enough to talk and that was a step in the right direction. With warm affection he brushed his brother's wet bangs from his forehead. "This isn't one of your better days," he teased. He rubbed A.J.'s arm, smoothing his fingers over the dirty, blood-soiled linen of his once pristine dress shirt. Hesitating, he licked his lips. "I'll stay if you want."

"No." A coughing spasm shook A.J. When he drew his hand away from his mouth, small flecks of blood glistened on his fingertips. He swallowed hard, his throat sore and swollen from the abuse he'd suffered at Drayner's hands. He'd do just about anything not to have to undergo that torture again. The thought of strangulation sent a cold burst of fear waffling through his stomach.

"You go," he croaked, voice raw, "and bring help."

Rick nodded. Gripping A.J.'s hand, he tightened his fingers around the cold palm. Leaning close, he bowed his head against his brother's, feeling the touch of thick damp hair on his skin. "I promise I'll be back. I'll take care of you, Andrew. I promise."

It was all he could do to turn and leave the cave. Setting his face in a determined mask, Rick darted into the rain.

+++++

Panting, A.J. awoke in a cold sweat. It took a moment for him to orient--to realize that his surroundings, though dark, were familiar. That the soft murmur of sound beyond the window was the night-time stirring of a complacent breeze against leaves and grass. As the sense of familiarity returned--as his eyes scanned the darkened corners, lighting on the bulk of a bureau, the rounded hump of a chair, he slowly relaxed. Expelling a shaky breath, he leaned forward, dropping his elbows against his knees, his head into his hands. The bed creaked with his movement, and the sheets, sticky with his own sweat, pulled against his skin.

Though he'd banished the night-time dreams of capture, the memory remained. It had been eight weeks since Rick had walked from the thicket and flagged down a passing van. A.J. remembered little of the time he'd spent waiting in the cave, but his memories of the hospital were lucid enough. They'd injected him with pain medication and taped his cracked ribs. He'd suffered  multiple contusions, dehydration, a fractured wrist and extensive bruising on his throat.  Self-consciously A.J. massaged his neck. He'd since learned strangulation was Drayner's favored method of execution. Though the crime lord had escaped capture--the house where A.J. and Rick had been held captive was found empty when searched by police--nationwide wire posting had branded Drayner a fugitive. Rick thought it only a matter of time before the gun runner was apprehended, but A.J. had his doubts.

Though he hadn't told Rick, he'd had a number of disturbing phone calls in the last two weeks. Hangups and long silences where the line was ominously open ended. Most of the calls came at two or three in the morning, jarring him from a sound sleep. And then there was the package that had been left on his doorstep yesterday--a plain brown box, containing a single withered rose.  He'd dusted it for prints but found none, as expected. Between the phone calls, the box, and reoccurring nightmares of his captivity, his nerves were beginning to fray. Even now he could feel a tightening in his chest as unreasonable fear bubbled against the back of his throat.

The phone rang.

A.J. jerked, his eyes widening as they searched out the instrument on the bedside table. The brittle, jarring ring was overly loud in the night-shrouded stillness, causing him to catch his breath unexpectedly. He knew it was bound to be another hang-up, or even worse the horrible silence that told him someone patiently waited on the other end. Someone who had all the time in the world to toy with him like a cat with a mouse.

The shrill ringing continued and still A.J. did not move. He closed his eyes. *Go away,* he thought. *Leave me alone. I won't play your stupid game anymore.*

That's what it had become, for Belinda Drayner had done her part. She'd provided the police with documentation about her father's various crime dealings. His home and offices had been raided, producing illicit arms, narcotics and documents that tied him to everything from organized prostitution, to forgery and money laundering. A number of his associates had already been apprehended by the police.  It was Drayner himself who continued to elude capture.

A.J. breathed an audible sigh of relief when the phone finally shrieked into silence. He hadn't realized it, but he'd been holding his breath, his whole body tensed with the uncontrollable need for the ringing to stop. He couldn't go on this way. Each night left him increasingly restless as the dreams grew in intensity and the phone calls shattered his limited composure. He knew he'd have to tell someone, but he couldn't quite admit he was afraid.

Not even to himself.

+++++

Rick Simon glanced at his watch, frowning when he realized it was the second time that week his usually punctual younger brother was late. "Traffic tie up?" he guessed as A.J. walked into the office.  The younger man gave a non-committal shrug. Though dressed professionally in a slate gray business suit with white shirt and rose-colored tie, he looked clearly haggard. His wheat-colored hair, normally groomed to perfection had grown shaggy again, and creases of shadow lingered beneath his blue eyes.

Rick tried not to stare as A.J. retrieved a cup of coffee from the nearby pot. The younger man masked the slight trembling of his hands by quickly sitting to review the papers on his desk. Rick had already scanned the odd assortment of notes: a reminder about dry-cleaning ready for pick-up; a phone inquiry from Benjamin Coleman, a current client; an FYI from Town, informing them of a prison release on a drug dealer they'd helped convict; and most annoyingly--three calls from Nathaniel Rhinewood, a potential new customer.

"I guess we can wrap up the Coleman & Jones partnership case," A.J. commented without glancing up. One by one he shuffled the papers and set them aside. Jotting a brief note, he slipped a sheet of loose-leaf into a manilla file folder. "There's no evidence of embezzlement or even creative bookkeeping."

"Yeah." Rick's throat was dry. He knew it wasn't imagination that told him A.J. had been on a steady decline for the last two weeks. Something was troubling the younger man, and whatever it was, it was growing worse. "Coleman's a cocky asshole, but there's no law against being a genuine jerk."

A.J. glanced up with a start, blue eyes focusing on Rick. It took a moment for him to register the scalding humor before he grinned. "Is that experience talking?" he asked with a smile.

Rick grinned back. His younger brother rarely smiled anymore, and the sight of it, dazzling and sincere, brought a lump to his throat. He'd always thought A.J. had a great smile--that he should be on a toothpaste commercial, holding onto a picture-perfect wife while a dog or a toddler played at his feet. Hell, the kid was just so damn good-looking he should be making millions as a cover model, rather than a limited income from a hole-in-the-wall crime investigation agency.

 "Is that insinuation I hear?" Rick parried.

A.J. chuckled, relaxing against the back of his chair. He reached for his coffee, appearing more at ease then Rick had seen him in a long while. "I've been your brother too long to answer that. Besides, I wouldn't want the business to crumble because you couldn't handle the truth."

Rick narrowed his eyes beneath the brim of his ever-present cowboy hat. "Maybe I was wrong--it's not *Coleman* who's the genuine jerk."

"It's not nice to call your brother names."

"It's more like finger-pointing," Rick countered. Wheeling back his chair, he stood. "Why don't we blow this off and go have breakfast? You look like you could use a nice fat greasy omelette."

"And a stomach ache?"

"Live a little, A.J. I know a place where the sausage is fried in day-old lard. You wouldn't believe what that does to the flavor."

"You wouldn't believe what that does to your arteries."

"Kid, if I have to drag you out of here--"

"Okay, okay." A.J. held up his hands, palms forward. "I surrender. I'll go to the grease pit with you. Just don't hold me responsible for what happens afterwards, when I throw up."

Rick feigned sympathy with a mock pout. "Does 'um have a tummy ache?"

A.J.'s smile was pointed and sharp. "Does 'um want a fat lip?"

Rick guffawed. If his brother could banter, while flashing his perfected smirk, he was definitely on the upswing. Rick linked an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "You always were a quarrelsome little brat. Come on, Junior--I'll show you the high life."

Later at a greasy diner that said simply *Ted's Eats,* Rick devoured a full plate of sausage and eggs with a side of home fries and a tall glass of cold milk. A.J. managed to swallow half the scrambled eggs and a piece of limp rye toast before abandoning breakfast in favor of his coffee.  The sausage, plump and pale with a greasy film, he didn't bother touching. Though the diner was small, it was packed to capacity with a late breakfast crowd. A constant din of background chatter and banging dishes filled the air.

The two brothers were seated at a window booth, overlooking the constant hub of milling traffic in downtown San Diego. Outside the sky was bright blue, warmed by sunlight and a scattered froth of lazily drifting clouds. A.J. shifted on a padded bench, feeling the pull of sticky, tomato-colored vinyl against his legs. He tried not to think about the possible grime clinging to his immaculate gray suit.

Rick stopped shoveling food into his mouth only momentarily. "What?" he asked with an arch stare. "Not enjoying the local cuisine?"

The hint of a smile flitted over A.J.'s lips. "It's just good to be out of the office," he returned, avoiding the snappy comeback Rick had hoped for. His eyes dipped briefly to his coffee cup.

"When we're done here we need to head over to Boathouse Road and set up surveillance for Rhinewood."

"Yeah, Yeah." Rick wasn't in the mood to think about the long hours of stake-out their latest case would bring. In the background the waitress yelled for an order of pancakes and the cash register pinged the latest sale. Rick pushed potatoes with his fork. "I don't know, A.J. We've been getting a lot of Peeping Tom stuff and I can't say I like it."

A.J. tugged at his tie. It was getting hot in the restaurant. Too many bodies and too much commotion. He heard the cash register bang shut followed by a loud clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Out on the street, a horn blared as someone braved the chaos of Fourteenth and Dockside.

"Rhinewood thinks his son-in-law is having an affair. Since his daughter won't listen, it's up to us to prove it."

Rick frowned. "Just another case of Daddy sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."

"It doesn't matter where he sticks it, as long as we get paid." Reaching for his coffee cup, A.J. raised it to his lips. Almost immediately, a phone rang in the background--the shrill, brittle jangle cutting across the din of voices. It was the sound that did it, so similar to his nighttime intrusions.

A.J. jerked involuntarily, sloshing hot coffee down the front of his shirt. "Damn it!" Brown liquid puddled on his hand, and he immediately flecked it aside. Abandoning the cup, he snatched up a handful of napkins to mop against his tie. A mortified flush spread across his cheeks--not for what he'd done, but what had caused it.  It was suddenly suffocating in the restaurant. He couldn't breathe. It was as if Drayner's hands were around his throat, and the smell of spilled coffee was the remembered reek of Drayner's breath. His stomach roiled dangerously.

"A.J.? A.J., what's going on?"

He suddenly realized Rick was talking to him, that he had been for some time. His brother had his arm by the wrist and was holding it away from his chest. A trio of dockworkers at a neighboring table stared boldly, their waitress hovering discreetly in the background. A.J. realized he was on the verge of losing complete composure. Wrenching free of Rick's grasp, he pushed from the table. "I'll wait outside," he gasped, "I need some air."

Rick was too stunned to react. His brother strode from the diner amid a bevy of curious stares.

*What the hell just happened?* One moment they'd been discussing a case, the next A.J. had gone completely blank on him. Rick motioned the waitress for their check. So the kid had spilled some coffee on his jacket and tie. That shouldn't have resulted in anything so extreme.  As Rick passed a handful of bills to the blonde-haired girl, he mumbled an assurance the food had been fine, that his brother was just feeling a little under the weather. Pocketing the remainder of his cash, he strode outside into the blinding sunlight. Squinting against the glare, Rick slipped dark aviator glasses over his eyes. A.J. waited for him at the Power Wagon, arms folded against the passenger door, head bowed into the loose, makeshift cradle.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?" Rick queried coming up behind him.

Flinching, A.J. raised his head. "Nothing," he mumbled. The color had yet to return to his face, and his blue eyes looked overly large against his bleached skin. Drawing back from the truck, he laced unsteady fingers through his hair. "Can we just go?"

Rick's perpetual stubbornness kicked in. "Not until you tell me what happened."

"What happened is I spilled some coffee," A.J. flared, his voice rising sharply, "And now I need to go home and change. Is that too much to ask? Huh, Rick? Is that too effing much to ask?"

For a moment both men simply glared at one another. Rick felt his facial muscles twitch as he bit silent an angry retort. His brother didn't swear. Not like that anyway. A.J. was too much of a gentleman to use crude language, and the fact that he had, indicated he was on the snapping point.

"Get in the truck," Rick said grimly, yanking open the door. He took his frustration out by jabbing his key into the ignition.

All his life he'd been there for A.J. He thought his brother knew there wasn't anything he couldn't share. Yet whatever the darkness was, eating at A.J., he was unwilling to discuss it. That knowledge hurt worse than all the biting retorts and point blank directives to be left alone that A.J. could muster.  The drive to A.J.'s home was silent and tense. When Rick finally pulled the truck to a stop before his brother's house, he waited before killing the ignition.

A.J. reached for the door. "You don't have to wait. I'll meet you at the office and we'll head to Boathouse."

Rick caught his arm as he sought to escape. "Listen to me." Something about his tone made A.J. pause. In the thick, ballooning silence, Rick stared hard at his brother. "I don't know what's bothering you, but you don't have to go through it alone."

A.J. tugged free. Not as violently as he had at the diner. "I'm fine. I'll meet you at the office."

Without another word he left the truck, too ashamed to admit he was scared senseless--that his world revolved around waiting for the phone to ring and sleepless nights. Last night he'd finally disconnected the receiver, but he knew he couldn't continue to. What if his mother tried to call in the event of an emergency?

Angry over his own unreasonable fear, A.J. slid the key into the lock on his side door. Behind him he heard Rick pull away, the distinctive rumble of his brother's truck fading as the vehicle gained distance. Moving inside, A.J. felt his foot bump against something on the outdoor step.

Puzzled he glanced down.

A dead gull lay on the concrete, its neck twisted at an awkward angle.

Unconsciously, A.J. sucked down a tremulous breath. San Diego was infested with sea gulls, just like every other town up and down the pacific coast. Birds routinely died for any number of reasons including overpopulation. That one should end up on his doorstep shouldn't be cause for alarm.  Normally.  Except that this one's neck was broken.

Suddenly conscious of his every movement, A.J. glanced over his shoulder, wondering if some unseen observer watched even now. Stepping inside he retrieved an evidence bag and a set of latex gloves from his office. Though he'd every intention of helping Rick with the stakeout on Boathouse, A.J. quickly changed clothes and detoured to the Medical Examiner's office instead.

+++++

"You want me to do what?" Tom McKellan cried, his gray-green eyes narrowing in a look of befuddlement. The paper bag with the dead bird lay on top of his desk; his friend and sometimes professional associate seated across from him.

A.J. motioned to the crumpled paper bag. "An autopsy," he said again.

McKellan was aghast. "On a bird. A dead bird?"

"Well I wouldn't ask you to do it if it was still alive," A.J. parried sharply. Leaning forward, he braced an elbow against the edge of McKellan's desk. "Look, I know this is a little out of theordinary--"

"*A little?*"

"--but I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Just take a look and tell me if there's anything unusual. Anything you think might be important."

Tom sighed, running his fingers through his short brown hair. "This related to a case?" he asked at last.

A.J. gave a somber nod. When he saw the other was going to proceed, he stood, offering his patented megawatt smile. "Thanks Tom." One step to the door and he stopped. "Oh, just one other thing," he said, half-turning. "Don't tell Rick about this, okay?"

"I'm not going to tell *anyone* about this," Tom assured. Half-heartedly he peeked inside the bag. "Except maybe some other birds."

+++++

"He stood you up?" Cecelia asked, clearly surprised. Delicate brows rose into the perfectly coiffed fringe of her blonde hair as she studied her oldest son. "That's not like A.J. at all."

"I'm telling you Mom, something's wrong with him," Rick insisted, taking a huge bite from the turkey and cheese sandwich she'd made him for lunch. A handful of barbeque potato chips followed, and he chewed thoughtfully. "I just wish the little rat would tell me whatever it is that's eating at him."

Cecelia frowned. She knew her oldest son meant well. It was a big brother's prerogative to worry, but sometimes those intentions were misplaced. "Rick, A.J. is a grown man," she explained calmly, joining him at the kitchen table. Her own lunch consisted of half a sandwich on whole-wheat bread and a cup of blueberry yogurt in place of chips. "He may just feel he has to figure this out on his own."

Rick scowled. She'd made him remove his hat to sit at the table, and he pawed distractedly at his thinning hair before turning his attention to a glass of root beer. "I think it has to do with Drayner," he offered as though he hadn't heard. "A.J.'s been kind of 'weirded out' ever since . . .well, you know," he inserted awkwardly.

He and A.J. made it a practice never to talk about their confinement, but Rick had the feeling whatever Drayner had done to A.J. had scarred him permanently. Something had happened in that stone house to alter his brother's emotional state. Something that still bothered him and probably would, so long as Drayner remained at large. "The scum," Rick muttered thinking of the crime lord.

Cecelia cocked her head. "I didn't catch that."

"Nothing," Rick said. Swallowing the last of his sandwich he stood and carried his plate to the sink. Leaning against the counter he stretched his blue-jean clad legs, crossing his feet at the ankles. "It just tears me up to see him like this," he said softly, his eyes suddenly downcast. "You didn't see him at the diner. It was like . . . like he just freaked out over nothing. I'm telling you, Mom, another few minutes and the kid would have been hyper-ventilating."

A crease of worry lined Cecelia's smooth brow. "Something must have triggered that reaction," she insisted.

Rick shrugged. "We were discussing a case. Nothing out of the ordinary. A stupid piss-freakin' stakeout."

"Richard."

Hearing the sharp note of reprimand in her tone, Rick drew a breath. Both brothers adored their mother immensely and rarely raised their voice in her presence. That Rick had left colorful language slip through was testament of his own frustration. Properly chagrined, he lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Mom. Guess I'm not very good company today."

"Honey, your company is fine with me any day," Cecelia said rising to kiss his cheek. "When A.J.'s ready he'll talk to you. He always does. You just have to give him the time and space he needs until he's comfortable with whatever it is he has to say."

Rick nodded. Though he'd told himself the same thing time and again, hearing his mother say it had a calming effect. She was right. He was simply impatient. Still--if A.J. didn't come clean soon, he knew they were going to butt heads. And that promised to be downright ugly.

+++++

By the time A.J. finally made it to Boathouse, Rick decreed the stakeout over. The surveillance had produced nothing useful and their target was departing for the night.

"I'll follow him," A.J. said, feeling guilty for leaving his brother to fend alone most of day. He muttered an apology, glaringly short of explanation, then eased his car into traffic. It was unlikely he'd get much rest that night. At least tailing Phil Hetrick--Rhinewood's questionable son-in-law--would keep him occupied.

Flecking a glance in the rearview mirror, A.J. noted with vague distraction Rick had not moved from his parking space. The dusty shell of the Power Wagon was clearly visible in the small rectangle of reflective glass. "Idiot," A.J. mumbled, but wasn't certain if he was referring to his stubborn sibling or himself.

*I owe him something. More than a half-assed apology.*

Palming the wheel, A.J. guided the Camaro smoothly through a turn. Though he could see Hetrick's sleek Jag up ahead, his mind remained on Rick. He'd never felt so distant or aloof as he did now. A short eight weeks ago, he'd been clinging to Rick, stumbling blindly through a rain-drenched thicket, counting on his big brother to save him. Now, it was all he could do to speak cordially.

A.J. shut his eyes--a brief, heart-felt blink of despair. In the past he'd never been hesitant to share his concerns with Rick. Ever since childhood, his brother had been able to ease his traumas, whether minute or earth-shattering. Why should this one be so wretchedly different?

Tightening his hands on the steering-wheel, A.J. tried to hold the answer at bay. Unwanted images plundered his mind with savage brutality. Drayner standing over him . . . Drayner smiling that insidious god-awful grin as he molded his hands around A.J.'s throat . . . the sweet/sour stink of coffee and nicotine . . . the mocking rumble of laughter as Drayner's goons urged their boss to greater cruelty . . . the sickly yellow glare of a single bulb suspended from the ceiling. There'd been a crack in the wooden truss to the right of the light. A.J. had focused on it through most of the ordeal, using it as a focal point to help block the surging spikes of pain in his body; the red-ripe terror of his mind. He could withstand anything--almost anything--but the slow strangulation and the horrible reaction it induced in his lower anatomy.

Sucking down a breath, A.J. counted quickly to ten. *I will not remember. I will not remember.*

He blinked, shocked to realize he'd lost sight of the Jag--that for the last few minutes he'd been transported to some inner chamber of his psyche where reason and terror fought to co-exist. A quick visual scan of surrounding traffic confirmed both the oversight, and his growing stupidity.  Grinding his teeth together, A.J. swore softly and veered toward home.

+++++

"Kind of late, isn't it?"

The trip to Grand Canal had been sidetracked by a visit to two dance clubs and an upper-scale bar. Conscious of the fact he still had to drive home, A.J. had indulged only briefly, ordering a glass of Chardonay at the first, then repeating the same order at the last. He'd hoped to temporarily silence his inner torment by drowning all thought in a wallof mind-numbing music.  Sequestering himself at a table in the rear of the darkened club had seemed like a good way to remain unattached. Yet even then, he'd been forced to fend off unwanted advances: an overly attentive cocktail waitress who made it clear drinks weren't her only speciality; an athletic-looking college student who was new to town and wanted an "older man" to "show him around," and finally an attractive red-head with a tendency for sultry stares. When the red-head's boyfriend became aware of her wandering attention and its source, A.J. knew it was time to head home.

Rick glanced pointedly at his watch. "Ten of one. Isn't that past burning the midnight oil?"

A.J. scowled. He was in a lousy mood and didn't want to argue. "What are you still doing up?  And what are you doing *here?*"

Rick shrugged. The room was mostly dark, illuminated by a single table-side lamp set on low. In the dim half-glow, Rick's face was veiled in shadow, the glint of his eyes luminescent by contrast.

"I remember a time when you didn't mind me dropping in."

"It's ten of one, Rick. That isn't 'dropping in.' That's 'waiting up.'" Sighing, A.J. shrugged out of his suit-coat and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. His tie, long ago abandoned, dangled from one of the pockets. Thumbing open the top two buttons of his shirt, A.J. tugged open the nearest cabinet and stood staring blankly at the contents. An assortment of cans and labels reflected the soft glimmer of light from the connecting room: tomato soup, albacore tuna, water chestnuts, black olives, french-cut green beans, the bulky, darkened shapes of items he couldn't read. *I need to get to the store.*

Switching on the light above the sink A.J. reached for the can of tomato soup. Rick came up behind him, leaning casually into the counter. "What'd you find out on Hetrick?"

A.J. wet his lips. He palmed the can, running his thumb over the red and white label. It was 1:00 in the morning. Was he really going to eat tomato soup? With a disgusted sigh, he placed the can back in the cupboard and closed the door. "I lost him," he admitted, leaning forward to rest his head against the raised panel of the wooden cabinet.  When Rick didn't comment, A.J. half turned to face him. The look on his brother's face said the news came as no surprise.

"I know you lost him, A.J.," the older man returned sourly. "That's why I spent most of the night watching our spoon-fed playboy enjoy his dirty little tryst."

A.J.'s lips parted. "You mean--"

"Yeah." Rick swung away, striding back into the living room. "Rhinewood was right. The kid had a threesome arranged at a fleabag hotel on the east end. I've got more than enough glossies to cement the divorce, if that's what Daddy's after."

"I'm sorry, Rick. I should have--"

"Yeah, you should have," the older man snapped belligerently. "What the hell is with you, huh? Did you suddenly decide to do a 360 and drop out of the private eye business, or just the brother business?"

A.J. stiffened. "That's uncalled for."

"A.J., your whole attitude is uncalled for. Ever since that thing with Drayner--"

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make you face the truth? I don't know what that man did to you--"

"*Rick!*"

The sheer white-knuckled panic in A.J.'s voice brought the conversation to a shuddering, abrupt end. Into the sticky vacuum of silence, the sudden jangling of the phone was like the blood-curdling screech of a banshee. A.J. jerked violently, his eyes darting to the plastic black box on the end-table. Rick took a step toward the couch.

"*No!*" Surging past his brother, A.J. snatched the phone from the table, hugging it to his chest.

"Don't answer it."  Lifting the receiver only high enough to make the connection, he immediately dropped it into the cradle, severing the call.

Rick looked at him aghast. "What the hell was that about?"

"Nothing." A.J. yanked the phone from the wall, dropping it unceremoniously on the couch.

Though his face was white, the tight set of his mouth indicated anger. "It's late. I'm going to bed."

"The hell you are." As A.J. started past him, Rick caught his arm, wrenching him to a rough halt. His fingers locked in a ruthless grip over the younger man's upper arm, holding him securely in place. "I've had enough of this bullshit, Andrew. I want answers."

A.J.'s eyes flashed anger--icy blue and turbulent, like the waves of the Pacific when a storm battered the beach. Grinding his teeth together, he visibly strove for control of his rising temper.

"You've got no right," he hissed angrily.

"I do when my partner can't even hold up his end of a stake-out. Do you want out of the business, A.J., is that it? If you want to ditch Simon & Simon, tell me now, because I've got better things to do then baby-sit you." Rick didn't know why he was suddenly being so cruel.

His frustration level had risen past the point of measure, but that didn't grant a license to wound. Especially not someone he cared about so very much--someone whom he'd spent his life protecting.

The anger in A.J.'s eyes melted, became something unreadable. Wounded, he wrenched his arm free. "Do what you want," he mumbled, shuttering aside his emotion before the vulnerability left him exposed. This time Rick didn't stop him as he moved for the stairs, and he didn't bother looking back.

Once in his room, he stripped off his clothes, tumbling into bed exhausted. He didn't want to think about what had just happened--about the harsh words he'd exchanged with his brother. The brother he adored. *Tomorrow. I'll apologize tomorrow. Please, Ricky. I didn't mean any of it.

I didn't mean . . .*

Thorough exhaustion swept him into the realm of fitful sleep. There, on the brink of darkness, with consciousness thought still flickering on the edge of his mind, A.J. realized how much safer he felt with his brother downstairs.  Yet even that knowledge couldn't stop the dreams.

+++++

"A.J! Damnit!" Rick was one step away from pure panic. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows of A.J.'s bedroom, plaiting the walls with warm gold. Tossing restlessly on the bed, the younger man battled the throes of a nightmare, face turning blue as he struggled for breath.

Alarmed by the horrible choking sounds coming from his brother's throat, Rick gripped him by the shoulders, shaking hard. "It's a dream. A.J. A freaking dream! Wake up!"

The efforts, though administered roughly, produced no results. A.J.'s head lolled to the side, his struggle for breath continuing in very real gasps for air. Cursing softly, Rick opened his hand and cracked his palm across his brother's cheek. The stinging slap dragged A.J. abruptly awake, even as he gurgled on one final gasp of air.

"Hey--" Concerned, Rick held him by the shoulders, one leg planted on the bed between the younger man's knees. 

Mortified to find his brother practically straddling him, A.J. flushed. Sensation, memory and emotion washed over him in one battering, unforgiving wave. Groaning aloud, he thrust quickly from the bed. Shoving his brother aside, he staggered to the adjoining bath, slamming the door behind him.

Rick trailed on his heels. "A.J." Pausing at the door, he rapped two knuckles against the satin cherry finish. A muffled grunt greeted the inquiry, followed by a click. "A.J." Rick spoke forcefully. Wrapping his hand around the knob, he tried the door, finding it locked. Within seconds he heard the unmistakable sound of his brother being sick.

"Shit." Dragging a hand over his face, Rick paced to the window. He couldn't stand it much longer--not this slow torture of watching his younger brother slowly fall apart. With a final glance for the bathroom door, Rick headed downstairs. The hour had inched past nine-thirty--a late morning for both of them--but A.J. had looked so exhausted last night, Rick thought it better to let him sleep. It was only when he'd eventually decided to rouse his younger brother, that he'd found him in the middle of a too-real nightmare.

Plugging the phone back into the wall, Rick punched out a series of numbers on the keypad, placing a call to their friend, and San Diego police lieutenant, 'Downtown' Brown. "Hiya, Town," Rick said when the connection was finally made. "No, no--don't hang up. It's an easy request this time."

Town, ever long-suffering of their relationship, rattled off a string of reasons why he didn't have, nor should he invest, the time for a favor involving anyone named 'Simon.' Though Rick knew the protest was staged, he didn't have the strength for a bounce-back retort. "Town, it involves A.J." he said quietly, inducing a lengthy silence on the other end.

The feigned protest and levity vanished from the law officer's voice. "What's wrong?"

Rick's shrug was apparent in his answer. "I wish I could say, but the kid has me as confused as he is. I think he'd settle down if Drayner was behind bars." Hopeful, Rick licked his lips.

"Anything new?"

A rustling of paper crackled across the phone line, as if Town sorted through material on his desk.

"Sorry. Nothing new on the wire service."

"Uh-huh." It wasn't what Rick wanted to hear. "Think you could make some calls? Nose around? There might be something you're not hearing. Town--" Rick sucked down a breath, trying to keep his voice from quavering, "--I've just never seen A.J. like this before. He's having a really hard time coping."

"Consider it done." Town paused. "Rick, if you want . . . I mean if you think A.J. would agree, I could recommend someone for him to talk to. You know--a police psychologist. Our analysts are trained specifically to help law enforcement agents recover from situations like the one A.J. was in.  Confidential, of course."

"Of course." Rick glanced at the ceiling. Upstairs he could hear the shower running and breathed easier, knowing A.J. moved about. "I'll ask, but you know how stubborn he is. Thanks Town--for everything."

After Rick hung up the phone, he started a fresh pot of coffee, thinking his brother would likely need the jolt. Opening the refrigerator, he studied the contents, contemplating the likelihood of forcing breakfast on his moody younger sibling. The decision was placed on hold by a knock at the door.

"Tom?" Rick opened the door wide enough for the medical examiner to step into the kitchen. "What are you doing here?" Lowering his eyes, he cast a suspicious glance to the oversized, brown envelope the other held tucked beneath his arm. "What's this--A.J. has you playing errand boy now?"

"Hey, Rick." Tom smiled, clearly unconcerned by the other's presence. "I just happened to be out this way, and thought I'd drop off this report." Tom slid the sealed envelope onto the bar.

Belatedly he seemed to realize he wasn't supposed to mention it to Rick. "Nothing special--just some minor thing A.J. wanted me to look at. *Really* minor. I mean what kind of case is he working on anyway? I didn't spend all those years in college to dice up birds."

"Huh?"

Tom offered his hand in a departing wave and turned toward the door. "Tell your brother he owes me one."

When the ME had vanished, Rick retrieved the envelope and held it toward the light. He could see the faint lines of the report on the inside, topped by McKellan's back-slanted scrawl.

"What's that?"

Rick jerked, startled by his brother's presence behind him. With a guilty glance over his shoulder, he fumbled the envelope onto the kitchen bar. "Nothing. Something Tom McKellan dropped off."

A.J.'s eyes tracked to the envelope. Retrieving it, he walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. Rick watched from the kitchen area, glancing over the bar. Though his brother's face was in profile, the dark circles beneath his eyes were apparent even at that distance. Obviously not intending to go to the office, A.J. had dressed casually in black Dockers and a tan shirt bordered by thin, white, vertical stripes. Hands resting at his side--one still laxly holding the envelope--he stared vacantly into space.

Feeling like he was walking on eggshells, Rick sat on the coffee table facing his brother. In the narrow space between table and couch, their knees bumped. Uncertain how to begin, he struggled for an opening to traverse the tenuous wire of A.J.'s erratic emotions. "Working a case without me?" he asked lightly.

A brief smile flickered across A.J.'s lips. "No. I couldn't *wouldn't* do anything without you."

A.J. drew a shaky breath. "Rick. I think I'm in trouble."

The older man hedged, frightened to appear eager. Could it really be this easy? He'd been ready to forcefully drag information from his younger brother and now it seemed A.J. intended to be forthcoming.

"Is this about yesterday?"

"And this morning. And the last two weeks." His voice suddenly strident, A.J. sat forward and rubbed his temples. "I'm falling apart, Rick. I--"

His voice caught on the last word. Rick reached forward and gripped his forearm. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the strain of tightly clenched muscle. "A.J. . . . this morning . . . you were having a nightmare."

Unable to look at his brother, A.J. kept his gaze trained on the dark strings of grain in the coffee table; the puffy, raised knapp of the fawn-colored carpet.

 "About Drayner," he admitted with difficulty. "About--"

The words wouldn't come. Alerted by the quickened intake of his breath, Rick moved beside him on the couch. Draping his arm across his brother's shoulders, he pulled him close.

"Listen to me, kid: what happened in that house is over and done with. You've got to forget it."

"You don't know what it's like," A.J. whispered, his voice a mere thread. Still, he wouldn't raise his head. "You don't know what it's like to be afraid. Day after day, thinking this is it--this is the day he's going to catch up with me, and . . . and . . ."

"A.J., stop it." Rick's voice was firm. He didn't bother reminding his brother that he'd done a tour of duty in Vietnam, where fear was a given. Now was not the time. "That sick bastard is probably miles from here, hiding in some grubby hole," he insisted. "Every law enforcement agent from here to Washington is gunning for him."

"No." Raising his head, A.J. met his brother's eyes. "It's some kind of sick game to him. Who do you think's been calling me on the phone for the last two weeks at three in the morning?"

Rick was stunned. "You know it's Drayner?"

"Of course not." Restless, A.J. pushed to his feet. Frustrated, he paced from the sofa to the dining area and back, wearing a repetitive path in the rug. "The caller always hangs up, or just leaves the line open, but it has to be him. Who else would bother harassing me? And the dead gull and the rose--"

"Whoa." Rick held up his hands. "You want to slow down and tell me what you're talking about?"

Drawing a ragged breath, A.J. hesitated. The indecision was plain on his face. It was obvious he didn't want to proceed, yet knew he must. Scrapping a nervous hand through his thick hair, he haltingly told his brother about Drayner. Though reluctant at first, the words spilled from him in their haste to escape--the phone calls and nightmares; the appearance of the rose and the dead gull; the incident at the restaurant, when the unexpected ring of the phone had incited his panic. 

He paced skittishly--back and forth, back and forth, feeling as trapped as any animal in a cage. Like the clipped edge of his step, his words grew short and strangled. Finally, no longer able to keep the truth bottled inside, he told Rick of the horrible humiliation he'd suffered at Drayner's hands. Of the repulsive feel of fat, troll-like fingers throttling his neck; of Drayner's goons cackling and saying he enjoyed it; of the blatant involuntary reaction of his body as his windpipe was methodically crushed.

Unable to continue, A.J. collapsed on the couch and buried his face in his hands. Rick stared at him aghast, not realizing the extent of the trauma his brother had silently endured for the last eight weeks. No words of comfort seemed sufficient to overcome such terrible darkness. "Andy--"

A.J.'s shoulders were shaking, and Rick knew he was weeping. Feeling tears burn his own eyes, Rick wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him tightly to his chest. "I didn't know," he whispered, pressing his cheek to the soft crown of the younger man's silky hair.

 "I'm so sorry--for everything I said. You know I'd never let you face this on your own."

Reluctant at first, A.J. wrapped his arms around his brother's waist, burying his face against his chest. Rick heard the catch of a tormented sob, followed by a muffled " . . . my fault . . ."

"No. It's not." Smoothing his hand through A.J.'s thick hair, Rick swallowed anger. Rage bubbled black and deadly in his throat. Drayner was a perverted son-of-a-bitch who'd put his baby brother through hell, while enjoying every second of his pain. *Prison's too good for the scum-sucking bastard.*

Rick's chest rose and fell with the heightened, angry rush of his breath. Protectively, he cradled A.J. close.

"I'm gonna get you through this, kid. You just gotta take it easy now. There's people you can talk to."

Alarmed, A.J. started to withdraw. "You mean like a shrink?"

Rick looked at his pale face, wet and streaked with tears; at his hair mussed and tumbled against his brow and didn't have the heart to pressure him. "We'll talk about it later," he said, realizing his brother was terrified by the idea.

"I'm gonna call Town and see about getting you some protection."

"No!" A.J. knotted his fingers in his brother's shirt, preventing him from rising. "I don't want anyone else to know. Just . . ." Lowering his head, he sucked down unsteady breaths. "You stay with me at night, Rick, and I'll be fine." Half-hopeful, he glanced at his brother. "Is that okay?"

*Hell no, it's not okay. You're one step away from a nervous breakdown.* Though the thought jumped loudly in Rick's mind, he offered a reassuring smile and nodded. "Sure, Andy."

Threading his fingers into his brother's hair, he pushed sweat-sticky bangs from his forehead. "If I make you some breakfast, do you think you could eat something?"

He hated the near skeletal hollows of A.J.'s cheeks, the dark bruises of shadow beneath his eyes. Though A.J. had only awakened a short time earlier, Rick thought he looked ready to keel over. Grimacing, A.J. shook his head, clearly queasy with the thought of food. "Maybe lunch," he offered, knowing a solid refusal would be met with resistance.

Rick consented. "All right." Shifting, he retrieved the envelope the Medical Examiner had delivered. "Why don't we see what McKellan discovered about that gull?" Withered roses and dead birds seemed trivial to Rick--both a longshot--but he wasn't taking any chances with A.J.'s life. Besides, his brother was terrified enough to consider them both a threat.

Nodding, A.J. settled into a corner of the couch, content for the moment to let his older brother handle matters. As he watched Rick scan the report, his eyes drifted slowly shut. "You know what I think of sometimes?" he asked softly.

Surprised by the announcement, Rick swivelled his head to glance at his brother. "What?"

"I think about how when we were kids and used to go to that big abandoned house in the hills. We'd sneak in through the back window and sit in the dark telling ghosts stories, trying to scare each other senseless. You remember that, Rick?"

The older man felt his throat tighten. "I remember."

A.J. opened his eyes, blue and liquid with unshed tears, lashes wet and clumped together. "I don't want to be afraid anymore, Rick. I want the ghosts to go away."

Curling his fingers behind his brother's neck, Rick massaged tight, corded muscles. "There aren't any ghosts, A.J. Drayner's flesh and bone. He bleeds and dies like any man."

"No," A.J.'s voice was a shriveled thread. "He's a ghost. I can't touch him."

*But I can,* Rick thought. *And I will.*

+++++

He never did.

Fate intervened and turned the world upside down for all of them. McKellan's script on the bird revealed nothing out of the ordinary except for a minor reference to the presence of metallic dust on one wing, and no traces of fingerprints. The neck had been snapped in a powerful, brutal thrust, implying unnatural force such as a human hand. Rick stayed the night as promised, keeping vigil well into the early morning hours, but the phone never rang.

The following morning Town called to inform them Drayner's body had been found in the San Francisco bay, the apparent victim of a boating accident. Unable to believe his nemesis was truly dead, A.J. wouldn't rest until Rick drove him to 'Frisco to view the remains in the morgue. Afterwards, both men left feeling unbalanced. A.J., still reeling with disbelief, couldn't believe the long nightmare was finally at an end. Less stunned, Rick felt cheated of the opportunity to inflict his own punishment for Drayner's sadistic treatment of his brother. The end result however, was all that mattered. Drayner was dead, and A.J. could begin to heal.

"Do you want me to stay?" Rick asked later that night, when they'd returned to the darkened house on Grand Canal.

Moving into the living area, A.J. switched on a table light. Licorice shadows leapt across the wall, conjured like awakening wraiths from the jeweled glow. "No. I'll be fine." The hint of a familiar smiled played about his lips. Shrugging free of his black nylon jacket, he dropped it on the couch. "Besides--I've had prettier nursemaids."

Rick grinned. His brother appeared relaxed, almost casual. Though his mode of dress contributed to that image--khaki pants and white shirt with cuffed-back sleeves--Rick knew it went beyond outward appearance. With Drayner's death, A.J. had crossed a bridge. Heaving an inward sigh of relief, Rick cast a backward wave of his hand, and headed for the kitchen door.

"Yeah, just be thankful I don't do bedchecks. Get upstairs, Junior. I'll see you in the morning."

A.J. chuckled as his brother departed. He actually felt good, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He owed Rick more than just his gratitude. His brother had not only taken care of him, but had held Simon & Simon together while A.J. was wallowing in fear. Even as much as he detested "Peeping Tom" jobs, Rick had been the one to finalize matters with Rhinewood earlier that day, dropping off the incriminating photos of his philandering son-in-law, with a bill for their services. Tomorrow, as soon as he got to the office, A.J. vowed to tie up any loose ends he could for Rick.  Switching off the kitchen light, he moved back toward the living room, guided by the illumination of the table lamp. Though shadows draped the corners, he was familiar enough with his home to move solely by feel if need be. Bending, he reached for the lamp and plunged the room into darkness.

"Perfect," a voice said behind him.

A.J. spun, not nearly fast enough to stave off the blow that clipped the side of the head. Pain exploded behind his eyes, spiking from temple to neck with a suddenness that was staggering. Uttering a soft moan, he folded against the carpet, dragging the lamp with him. Someone toed his leg, roughly jostling his body, and the pain ricocheted through his skull.

Then there was nothing--just a blissful void as sensation and half-light was swallowed in a velvety cocoon.

+++++

A.J. blinked. His cheek was pressed against something cold and rough. Something smelling of concrete and metal. Coming fully awake, he jerked. Ripples of pain pinged inside his head until he narrowed his eyes against the sharp discomfort. He was in a garage of some sort--industrial by the looks of it. The space was large and rectangular, strewn with machine parts, tools and  welding equipment. Seated on the floor, he was shackled to the steel brace for an I-beam, his arms looped around the pitted metal pole.

Twisting so that his back was to the steel support, he craned his neck to see into the corners. Though the garage appeared vast, the only light was cast from a harsh flourescent hung overhead. As a result, the corners were masked with shadow. Uncomfortable, A.J. had the feeling he was being observed.

*But Drayner's dead. I saw his body.*

He tried to think clearly. Tried not to panic, but the restraint of the shackles resurrected all the pain and fear of his recent captivity. He could feel blood trickling from the back of his skull and knew his head had been cracked open. Even now the room reeled on an unstable axis, taunting him with waves of nausea-inducing vertigo. Swallowing to hold back bile, A.J. curled his hands into fists. At least the shackles were standard-issue cuffs. With a small piece of wire and the right amount of time, he could probably pick his way free. Unfortunately, neither appeared in great supply at the moment.

A soft hiss came from across the room, and A.J. saw a burst of flame in the corner as if someone had struck a match. Seconds later the acrid reek of sulfur filled his nostrils. "Long time no see, *Andrew Jackson.*" Though the voice was casual, the emphasis on his name was snide and forceful.

A.J. wet his lips. It was not Drayner's voice. Drayner was dead. The man who strode boldly into the light, was tall and gangly with a hatchet face and sunken gray eyes. Brick-colored hair, ragged and scraggly like seaweed, hung limply to his shoulders. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. Though not immediately placeable, his face was familiar.

Perplexed, A.J. raised his head, staring up at the man who stood over him. "I know you," he said uncertainly, more question than fact.

The red-haired youth drew on a cigarette, igniting the hot coal with a fiery red glow. "Damn right, boy." A.J. thought the reference to "boy" odd, when he was a least twelve years older than the younger man. Once again, a nagging sense of familiarity tugged at his mind. Someone else had called him that. A long time ago.

The youth grinned. Exhaling, he sent a stream of smoke directly into A.J.'s face. Though the stink resurrected memories of Drayner, A.J. didn't so much as flinch. "Alan Fletcher," he said belatedly, as realization struck. Vaguely he recalled the note on his desk at the office. The answering service had taken a message from Town--a warning that a prisoner he and Rick had helped convict, had been released weeks earlier on parole. A.J. had glanced at it only briefly, too consumed by his own fear to give it more than a passing thought. Stunned, he felt as though he stepped on the coattails of the surreal. All this time he'd thought Drayner was harassing him, but it was really this petty thief and small-time drug dealer.

"It was you," A.J. spat. He'd been through hell, and his tormentor turned out to be a pimply kid, barely old enough to order a drink in a bar. "You made the calls. You left the rose and the bird."

Quick-silver rage flowed through A.J.

Fletcher grinned, revealing a set of tobacco-stained teeth. "Pretty cool, huh? I saw the rose thing on a late movie. Kind of like the mob leavin' a horse head in your bed. Had to let you know your days were numbered, Andrew Jackson."

"You stupid shit!" Angrily, A.J. tugged on the cuffs. "Get these damn things off me."

"You just don't get it." Leaning forward, Fletcher gripped his chin, roughly forcing his head up.

"This ain't a game, detective man. I spent three years in the slammer 'cuza your testimony. I lost all my street business. No one wants to touch me now. They all think I'm trash. But once I kill you, I'll prove myself. You know what I mean, boy? Huh?"

A.J. ground his teeth together. "You're talking about murder. Those three years are going to seem like three days compared to the time you'll do for that."

"Ha!" Placing his cigarette between his lips, Fletcher drew long and hard, making certain the coal was red hot. "They gotta catch me first." With careful deliberation, he ground the lit cigarette against A.J's arm. Though the detective jerked, he didn't utter a sound.

Amused, Fletcher released him. With an elaborate sigh, he strode to the opposite side of the room and retrieved an acetylene torch. "Guess you gotta figure they do a lot of welding in this place, huh?"

Lowering his head, A.J. fought to silence the growing blossom of pain behind his eyes. Whatever Fletcher had hit him with at the house, he'd done more than a smattering of damage.

"Spare me the endless 'huhs' okay?"   He didn't want to think about what Fletcher intended to do with the torch. Shifting, he tested the cuffs behind his back. His heart quickened against his ribs as he realized the hopelessness of the situation. If anything, maybe he could keep the idiot kid talking until help arrived.

*What help? I sent Rick to his boat. Admit it A.J.--you aren't walking away from this one.*

Approaching almost casually, Fletcher drew a pack of matches from his pocket. "You know how hot these torches get? Just think about it a minute--if it can melt steel, imagine what it can do to flesh." With a ghoulish giggle, Fletcher stopped in front of A.J., setting the torch on the floor. As he drew one match from the pack, the light in his gray eyes turned flat and deadly.

"I'm gonna start with that pretty face of yours, Simon. Make you so freakin' ugly your own mother's gonna run screamin' when she sees you."

"I don't think so." Before Fletcher could move, A.J. kicked out with his right leg, landing a solid blow on the left side of the other's chest. Unprepared for aggression from his bound prisoner, the red-haired youth reeled backwards. Stumbling, he struck the concrete floor with enough impact to stun him momentarily.

Scrambling to get his feet under him, A.J. maneuvered around the pole, effectively placing himself on the opposite side. Tugging violently at the cuffs, he felt skin break. Though his wrists grew slick with blood, the binding held. Angry at his inability to free himself, A.J. swore savagely. He knew as soon as Fletcher gained his feet, he was as good as dead. If nothing else, he'd face that moment with defiance and anger--not the fear Drayner had once instilled in him.

"You snivelin', under-handed, tight-assed, sonofa--" Spewing a stream of profanity, Fletcher raced for the torch. Even as he reached for the metal flange, a gunshot cracked in the air, near deafening in the echoing chamber. The garage was flooded with light as every overhead flourescent flared abruptly to life.

"I wouldn't," a new voice said. A wonderfully familiar voice. "Unless you want the next one planted dead center between your eyes."

A.J. swivelled, weak with relief. "Rick--thank God!"

The older Simon grinned, his eyes shifting from A.J. to the suddenly humbled Fletcher. "And just for the record, you snot-nosed little weasel, no one calls my brother 'tight-assed' but me."

Sighing, A.J. rested his head against the steel pole. "I don't know how you found me, big brother, and I don't care. I just want to go home."

Rick nodded, striding forward as police suddenly fanned into the garage behind him. "I think that can be arranged."

Later, outside in the parking lot, wrapped in a blanket and resting against the side of Rick's truck, A.J. watched his brother converse with local police. Fletcher was already in custody, stowed in the back of a patrol car, waiting return to prison. Rick continued his conversation with Brown, who waved once in A.J.'s direction, then motioned his men to wrap things up. With a departing nod for the black lieutenant, Rick strode back to A.J. Overhead the sky was a canvas of star-dusted jet at the apex, a bleached fringe of pale city lights on the horizon. The breeze, coming off the ocean was cold and crisp, and A.J. shivered, huddling deeper into the blanket.

"You could get inside the cab, you know," Rick commented as he approached. The sound of his boots against the wind-blistered macadam sent ringing echoes bouncing into the night.

A.J. ignored the observation. "How'd you find me?"

Propping his back to the truck, Rick folded his arms across his chest. His shoulder rested snugly against his brothers', the two men standing side-by-side. "When I got on the boat, I realized I'd left my wallet in your house. When I came back and saw the lamp knocked over, and you nowhere in sight--" Rick trailed off, unwilling to recall the gut-wrenching dread he'd felt when he'd realized A.J. was in danger. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he forced himself to continue.

"With Drayner dead, I was pretty clueless where to look. Then I remembered that stupid gull, and McKellan's note about metallic dust on the feathers. It was a longshot, but I knew some of the buildings down here weren't used too frequently, and that seemed like a good place to take a prisoner." Rick shifted, uncomfortable again. "I called Town on the way. Guess I just got lucky.

I never thought some foul-mouthed snit like Fletcher was involved."

It was A.J.'s turn to be uncomfortable. "I, um . . ." He smiled. The soft, endearing smile Rick liked best. The one that made him seem impossibly young and a trifle naive. " . . . thought for a while there, I wouldn't see you again."

"Don't let that bastard scare you, A.J."

"No. I'm done with fear. I was angry at Fletcher, not afraid." Leaning back, A.J. rested his head against the driver's side door.

"When I realized he was the one who'd been stalking me these last few weeks, I felt . . . enraged. Drayner terrified me, but I let someone else play on that fear and make it all-consuming. I think I'm smart enough now to know the difference between ghosts and demons and which are self-created."

Pleased, Rick nodded. His brother had reached the turning point, casting aside the barrage of dark days that had haunted him far too long. Yet of all the comments Rick could have made--of all the complex emotions tugging at his heart, he picked the easiest to voice. "You forgot one."

Confused, A.J. met his brother's suddenly impish gaze. "One what?"

"Mythological thingamajigs. You forgot angels." Rick's grin widened in a self-satisfied smile. Thumbing his hat back on his head, he looked suddenly cocky--an image he didn't have to work hard at achieving. "You know--like me."

A.J. took a playful swing at his head. "Let's get out of here."

But it was true. Ghosts, demons and guardian angels. He had the best of the three--an older brother with a slightly tarnished halo. A guardian who would forever be best friend, confidant, confessor and childhood hero.

As Rick steered the truck toward home, A.J. closed his eyes, secure in the knowledge his brother would see him safely there.

*****End*****

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