"I thought you might be interested in this." Bonham dropped a charred wallet onto M. Williams' desk. "Don't worry, it's been printed. So have the contents."

M. Williams set down his cup of coffee and picked up the burned leather. He didn't have to ask. "The John Doe's?"

"Won't be John Doe much longer." Bonham flashed a quick hard-as-nails grin then crossed to the window, staring out of the one-story office building and into the parking lot, where cars, trucks and motorcycles baked in the sun.

"How about this?" Williams opened what was left of the wallet and flipped through the burned bills - hundreds, for the most part. Over three hundred dollars' worth, and what had once been a driver's license but was now barely a corner of the document. "What state's this from? Alaska?"

"Looks like it. We're checking."

The picture - if there had been one - was burned off and some numbers were missing, but there was enough that, with some time and the cooperation of the Department of Motor Vehicles in the forty-ninth state, the identity of the man dying at the Northwest General Hospital would soon be known. "Contact the state police, see if they've found any abandoned vehicles with Alaska plates - or for that matter, any cars. He could've rented one down here or bought a junker with the kind of cash he was carrying - and check the rental agencies, see if any cars are overdue, from L.A and," - he squinted at the license but the address had burned off - "all the major cities in Alaska."

"All ready done." Bonham said. "And we're sending this to the crime lab in L.A, see what they can reconstruct."

Good. They'd finally caught a break. Nearly everyone in town seemed to have an alibi for the ninght of the fire, especially the people who were at the top of his list of suspects - Christian Bale, Martina Bale, Kaya and Alex Bale, Eva Biersack, even the parents of Jimmy Sanchez. The only person who didn't have one was L.K herself and the two men in the fire. Finding people who had the time to set the blaze had been a son of a bitch.

"Where the hell did you find this? I thought the boys had finished digging around down there at the mill," he said, frowning at the charred wallet.

Bonham stretched his arms over his head and his back cracked. "That's the strange part. We got it off a local."

Williams head popped up, and he pinned Bonham with his hard gaze. His pulse jumped a little. Bonham was holding out on him. The shithead. He loved his little game of companionship. "Someone around here?"

"Yep. And we lucked out, too."

"How?" Williams leaned back in his chair until it creaked in protest and stacked his hands behind his head, waiting.

"Our man here drank a little too much down at Burley's. Someone had the nerve to call him a moron and he took offense, landing a right cross to the name-caller's jaw."

"Who - who the hell is 'our man'?" Williams asked, his patience wearing thin.

"That's the interesting part," Bonham drawled. "Jon Doe's wallet was found in Max's back pocket." Bonham grinned widely, showing off more white teeth than any single human had the right to own. "Yes sir, it looks like the village idiot has a helluva lot of explaining to do, don't it?"

---

L.K switched off of the monitor of her computer and rotated the kinks from her neck as she sat at the desk at the magazine offices.

After driving through the rain for nearly an hour yesterday, she'd gone home, taken a long bath and even drank a glass of wine before going to bed.

But sleep had evaded her. She'd been restless and worried, her mind spinning with imaged of Andy, Ashley, Christian, Eva and Martina. Even Abi and Monica wormed their way into her thoughts, and after tossing and turning for hours, she'd given up on sleep at three-thirty, gotten up and outlined a story on her desktop computer at home and driven to the office.

She'd been here alone before, but in these early hours, the connecting rooms seemed eerie. Or was it her imagination? Her body was tired, her mind restless, hyped up, and it probably didn't help that she'd made her way upstairs to the employee kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee, listening to the hot water drip through the filter as she walked to the bank of windows and stared out at the small town where street lamps shimmered a ghostly blue and the stoplights in town, two that she could see from here, blinked brilliant red.

Only a few cars drove past the storefronts of First Street and the sidewalks were empty aside from a stray dog sniffing along the curb. The scent of coffee was strong, the pot chimed that it was through brewing and L.K poured herself a mug, then returned to the window where, as she lifted her cup to her lips, she spied a movement in the night's shadows, a dark figure slipping around the corner.

Probably someone getting to work early, she thought, but there was something furtive in the way the person moved from the lamplight. As if he'd been looking up at L.K and quickly scurried away.

"Don't be ridiculous," she warned herself. Lately her nerves were stretched thin, her anxiety level at a fever pitch, that was all. No one was sneaking around peering at her, for God's sake!

With a snort of disgust, she turned and headed downstairs to her desk. She flipped on the entire main bank of lights, illuminating the shared office space and telling herself to get a grip.

Back at her desk, she started checking through old files and printing out everything that was available on disk about the fire in the gristmill that had killed Abi and Jimmy years ago. She closed her mind to the terror her sister and Jimmy must have felt, to the fact that Andy had said he'd been there, to the mystery of Abi's pregnancy - L.K couldn't go there if she was to be objective and professional. She had to push her emotions aside and think clearly, use all of her training and reporter instincts.

She, like the police, couldn't help thinking that the fire five years earlier and the recent blaze at Bale Sawmill were related. The police said the incendiary devices were similar and both properties had been owned by her father. . . in one fire three lives, counting the baby's, had been taken; in the other, two men had barely escaped with their lives and one might not make it.

So if the fires had been intentionally set - for what purpose? She clicked her pen as she thought.

Ashley had refused to give her any information. Why? Was he guilty of something? Covering for someone? Or just didn't know?

Having been married to her for so long, he had to realize she wouldn't just let the matter die. And she hadn't. She'd decided to do some investigating on her own. She already had detailed records of the first fire; she'd assembled her own personal file shortly after moving back to Malibu, and now she'd keep a personal record of every shred of evidence, every suspicion, every rumor, every theory that was posed about the blaze at the sawmill.

She unlocked her file cabinet and pulled out her file on the original fire. It was a thick sheaf of papers, a collections of articles and references to television news stories and her own set of notes. . . but as she flipped through the yellowed pages, she had the sensation that they weren't as she left them . . . the pages were out of place. She glanced at the notes she'd clipped to the front flap of the file - the list of all her information - then checked them against the articles in the file. Several of them were missing.

"Damn it!" she muttered under her breath. No one else had a key to the cabinet. So why were the articles, three of them, missing? Who had taken them? No one, L.K. You just misplaced them. Who would want them?

Was that it? Had she been careless?

She drummed her fingers on the desk and told her it didn't matter. She'd catalogued the stories, could get copies.

But why were they missing?

She felt a change in the atmosphere in the office, as if someone had opened a window and let in a rush of cold air. But she was alone. She looked around, saw no one and told herself she was being paranoid, when she heard footsteps in the hallway.

"Someone there?" she yelled, looking at her watch. It wasn't even 6 A.M. "Hello?"

Her pulse was pounding as she pushed back her hair and walked to the hallway, flipping on lights as she did. "Hey? Who's there?" she said, but heard no response. No more footsteps. No heavy breathing. She was tired and nervous, seeing figures lurking on the street, hearing footsteps, thinking someone had stolen from her files.

"Get a grip," she told herself, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched somehow - the same uneasy feeling she'd experienced at the hospital. Sitting down at her desk again, she told herself that her case of nerves was because of Ashley. She knew that he was worried and since whoever had intentionally set the fire was still at large. . .

Her skin crawled at the thought. She checked over her shoulder and wished some other reporter would come early , so that she could have some company and chase away this ludicrous case of the creeps.

Forcing herself, she turned her attention to the most recent fire. What did she know about it?

Only that Ashley had been working late; which wasn't unusual, especially lately. He was known for his long hours. Alex had always chided him for not paying enough attention to L.K, for "kissing up" to the old man, for being a workaholic.

L.K had always assumed Ashley had been alone when he'd been at the office. The mill wasn't currently running a graveyard shift and there wasn't even a night watchman or guard dog on duty. Ashley had often told her that he did his best work late at night, alone, when everyone, including his secretary, had left for the day, when the phones didn't ring and people didn't stop by his office and didn't interrupt him.

But this time he'd lied.
Just as he may have lied in the past.
She felt betrayed, but tried to keep her objectivity.

Obviously the man had been with him. She doodled on a new page of legal pad she always kept handy and made a big question mark on the lined paper.

Andy?

She'd convinced herself that Ashley was with his brother, but she had to consider the fire with less emotion and tunnel vision. He could have met with someone else. But who?

Was the injured man the culprit, or had Ashley decided to set fire to the mill? Or was it another, as yet unidentified, person - an employee who had been fired and held a grudge against Bale Sawmill, or someone with a personal vendetta? Someone who hated Ashley? Or Christian? Or anyone with the last name of Bale?

Tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her notepad, she tried to imagine what had gone on that night. Was the fire arson, or was it attempted murder? The ugly thought ran like an electric current through her mind. Was someone deliberately trying to kill Ashley?

Goosebumps crawled up her arm.

The door opened and she nearly shot out of her chair before realizing that, for the reporters and secretaries who liked to get to the job a few minutes early, it was time to arrive. She waved to the photographer as he and the receptionist entered together.

"Come on," she muttered to herself. This was no time to freak out. She searched through the files, found the newspaper's copy of the police report, then made a copy for her personal file.

By the time she returned to her desk, Bill Laker was waiting for her. Tall and lean, he looked like he ran the forty miles a week he was so proud of. Lately he'd become an exercise and fat-intake expert, and the twenty-five pounds he'd lost in the last two years testament to his philosophy.

"You've been avoiding me," he accused.

"No way. I've just been busy."

"If you say so." He didn't look convinced in his stiff white shirt, black slacks, suspenders and matching tie. "I've been assigned to report on the fire and it's aftermath."

"I know. Saw your byline on the last piece."

"I'd like to talk to you," he said, resting a hip against her desk.

"I don't know anything about the fire."

He grinned, showing off teeth that were stained by tobacco, though he'd given up smoking at the beginning of his health kick several years ago. "Is that the same as 'no comment'?"

"Really, you probably know more than I do."

He glanced to the top of her desk, where her notes were visible. "But you've been thinking about it."

"My husband was nearly killed."

"I know. Bummer." He scratched his jaw, still studying her doodles, and she followed his gaze, noting the question mark as well as Andy's name. Without an excuse, she shoved the legal pad into the folder. "You know, I'd like to talk to you about Ashley."

"You and every reporter in the state."

"How about I stop by the hospital this afternoon-"

"No." He gave her a wounded look that she wasn't buying for a second. "Look, Bill, I appreciate that you have a job to do - I probably understand it better than most people - but Ashley is still recovering. He can only see members of the immediate family."

"And the police?"

"That goes without saying." She looked up at him and noticed his jaw set hard, his pupils dilated and his arms suddenly grew goosebumps. "So. . . what do you know about someone getting into my file cabinet."

"What do you mean?" Was it her imagination or did a guilty look pass behind his eyes?

"I mean someone's been snooping in my files, taking some articles and notes."

"You're the only one who has a key, right?"

"In theory," she said, tilting her head at him.

"What?" His hands flew to his chest. "You think I would stoop so low as to break into a reporter's desk? A beautiful one?"

"I'm just asking."

"L.K. . . " he cajoled. "Are you sure?"

"Dead certain."

His wounded look disappeared. "Seriously? Then we've got a problem."

"At least one."

"Sorry, I can't help you with that. I have no idea who could have gotten into your things."

"Humph."

"But I'd still like a word with your husband."

She managed an icy smile. "And the answer is still 'no.'"

Bill picked up a pencil from her desk and rolled it between his fingers. "You know, Mrs. Biersack, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you might be hiding something."

"Like what?"

His grin was turned seductive. "I'm still working on it."

"Don't work too hard. It's a waste of time."

"Just give me some background on Ashley, okay?" he insisted.

"I think the paper already has a file on him."

"I know, but I'm not talking about his resume, for Christ's sake. Him being a lawyer and coming to work for Bale Industires after you were married and him having a successful band - that's just stuff that everybody knows. I need something a little deeper."

"There is nothing more."

His lips twitched and he worked the pencil a little more feverishly. "No? What about the John Doe?"

The knife-edged tone of his voice caught her by surprise. "What about him?"

"Looks like the police are gonna ID him soon."

Her heart nearly stopped. "How?"

"Seems as if they're finally getting a break. They found a wallet this morning, though they're not saying much about it. But my source-"

"Just who is your source?"

"Can't say," he said, shaking his head. "You know better than to ask." He gave her a wink that set her nerves on edge. "But the word is that the man in CCU is going to have a name soon. It's going to be interesting as hell to find out who he is, don't you think?" He dropped the pencil on her desk and stood. "Hell, it'll probably break the case wide open."

---

Why the hell didn't they die?

I drove through the dark streets of the town and cursed myself for underestimating them.

Both men, languishing in the hospital, recovering for Christ's sake. Rumor had it that Ashley was about to be released to his wife and the other guy just kept hanging on, by the proverbial thread.

I hated it.

This was not how things were supposed to go.

But then, I realized, taking a corner and spying a police cruiser hidden behind a laurel hedge, nothing was going as I'd planned.

They should be dead by now.
Buried and forgotten.

My jaw clenched so hard it ached, and I glanced in the rear view mirror. The police car had pulled up behind me. Crap! My hands tightened over the wheel. If I was pulled over, how would I explain the hospital garb? The surgical gloves on my hands?

In a panic, I pulled the gloves off with my teeth, first my left hand, then the right, one eye on the speedometer to make certain I didn't crawl over the speed limit, the other on the cop behind me.

Should I pull off, pretend that I needed an early cup of coffee at the local coffee shop? But then I'd have to get out of my car and I'd have the scrubs on . . . no, that wouldn't work. I could drive to the hospital as I planned, but then, if there were any questions later, the cop might remember my truck, maybe even run the plates. . .

I began to sweat and I drove toward the county road, hoping this city bastard would get off of my ass. Slow . . . it's only twenty-five.

My heart was hammering. He was following me. Laying back, but always there, his overhead lights visible as he passed under the streetlights, his silhouette black and foreboding in the wash of the headlights from the car behind him.

At the sign post near the outskirts of town that upped the speed to forty, I pushed on the gas and the truck accelerated, seeming to leap forward. I checked the mirror. The cop turned off.

Hallelujah.

I couldn't risk another mess-up.

After a few minutes, I turned onto the county road and pulled a quick U-turn. I'd planned another visit to the hospital and, knowing that L.K was busy, figured i wouldn't be disturbed. I knew the hospital routine and when the shift change occurred.

I had just enough time.

Notes

Sorry for the very long wait. Since it's summer, I have a lot more time. I was on Newspaper this year, so I'd work on nothing but articles... FYI: that's how I know a lot about newspaper in this story.

But, I'm back! Lauren will be gone for a while, obviously since she usually updates when I can't. Sorry!

Hope you liked it :) I will be updating Amnesia soon tomorrow/maybe later today.