---

Even though Brandon had seen pictures of Wilson, the image he'd built of him in his mind was of a man with almost super-human abilities, able to blend in anywhere at any time. A chameleon capable of wreaking havoc and destruction of mammoth proportions. He'd inflated Wilson, made him into some type of mythological phantom. Now he saw him for exactly what he was: a corpse. Death, the great equalizer.

The Sunshine Motel didn't exactly live up to its name, but had the room not been crawling with Howard's men, it wouldn't have been half bad. The single bed and double dresser looked new, and the floral wallpaper gave the place a homey touch. The carpet was clean, and the sheets probably had been, too, before Wilson decided to die on them. A table beside the bed held a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.

Brandon stood in the doorway surveying the scene when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see Howard standing behind him.

"Thanks for getting here so fast, Nash. How's Doc doing?"

"Anxious. I called my brother to stay with him until I get back."

Howard nodded. "This place has a coffee shop just around the corner. We can talk there while my guys finish up in here."

Brandon followed Howard into the brightly lit café. An attractive young waitress came and took their order, smiling and laughing as if it was an everyday occurrence to have a customer die in one of the rooms. Not that Brandon could find fault with her. Personally, he felt like doing cartwheels over Wilson's dead body. The coffee arrived and he took a bracing sip before saying, "What do you know so far?"

Howard drank down half of the scalding liquid in his own cup in one long sip. "Wilson had a telephone call up at the main desk sometime around eleven o'clock. The clerk transferred it to his room, but no one answered. The caller, who identified himself as Wilson's brother, insisted that the clerk go down there and check on him. The door was unlocked, so he went inside. That's when he found the body."

"Any ideas on cause of death?"

"The coroner didn't find any signs of physical trauma, but you know as well as I do that doesn't mean anything. I've put a rush order on the autopsy, so maybe we'll know within the next couple of days. We're running a trace on the phone call, and of course, doing the whole 'fine-toothed-comb' routine on the room. So far, we haven't turned up anything useful, but there's always hope." Howard took another swig of coffee. "At least you know Wilson's no longer a threat to Doc."

"It sure seems that way, doesn't it?"

Howard leaned back against the vinyl booth and eyed Brandon with a cop's perception. "What's with you, Nash? I should think you'd be damn happy right about now. I know I am, and it's not even my fiancé that was being threatened."

Brandon ran his fingers through his hair. "Am I happy that Wilson's no longer in a position to hurt Nate or anyone else? Hell, yes. But doesn't it all feel a bit too easy to you?"

"Explain."

Brandon pushed his cup aside and said, "I'm not sure I can explain it, exactly. It's more a feeling than anything." He pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of Howard. "Ben Franklin there says that the autopsy reveals Wilson died of natural causes. Four more just like him if it isn't said to be some kind of heart failure."

Howard whistled "Five hundred bucks on heart failure, huh? I might take that bet if you didn't seem so damn sure of yourself."

"Right now all I'm sure of is that this whole thing is coming together just a little too neatly for my taste. The evidence against Calder, the connections to Wilson, and now the only witness, the hit man, all nice and dead, almost as if on cue. I've been a cop in one form or another for too damn long not to know that cases don't just come to a pretty little gift-wrapped conclusion."

Howard said, "Not that I'm disagreeing with you, but you should know that once the autopsy's done, my office is going to call me and my team back to Washington. With Wilson dead, we're officially out of it."

"No offense, Howard, and don't think I haven't been grateful for the help, but I believe I can take it from here." The gleam in Brandon's eyes was savage, feral. "If Calder isn't Wilson's money man, I'll find the bastard who is. And God help him when I do."

* * *

Nate was sitting at the table when Brandon came in the next morning. The minute Bran walked through the door, Nate got up and fixed him a plate of eggs, sausage and biscuits. Brandon walked over to the stove and gave him a slow kiss. He pulled back and took his plate over to the table. Nate brought over two fresh cups of coffee and sat down beside him.

"You look like you've had a rough night."

Brandon took in Nate's bloodshot eyes and uncombed hair. "So do you. Did you sleep at all?"

"A little bit." He gave Brandon a sheepish grin. "I have trouble sleeping when you aren't with me."

Brandon thought back to his long month in the guest room, and to all the nightmares he'd had before Nate came along. "Believe me when I tell you, I know how you feel." He looked around the kitchen. "Where's Keith? Come to think of it, I didn't see his car outside."

"He got a call from the hospital about an hour ago. One of his MS patients was having an episode, so he had to go. And before you have a fit, Deputy Mason has been on duty all night long. If you look through the kitchen window, you can see his car."

"I'm not going to pitch a fit, but I didn't want you to be alone. I know how hard this has been on you."

Nate reached across the table and took Brandon's hand. "I'm alright, Bran." He took a deep breath. "Is Wilson really dead?"

Brandon stood up, bringing Nate with him. He led him into the living room and sat down on the couch, pulling Nate onto his lap. He wrapped both arms around him and said, "He's dead, baby. I saw the body myself."

Nate laid his head against Brandon's shoulder. "Your breakfast is getting cold."

Brandon rubbed his hands up and down Nate's back. "I'm not worried about food right now. All I care about is how you're taking all this."

Nate drew in another deep breath and let it out again slowly. "I'm not sure, Brandon. I mean, as a doctor, I was taught that all life is sacred. At the same time, I feel like doing flips in the back yard because the bastard who put poor Marjorie Newman in a coma and killed Amy won't be able to hurt anyone ever again." He caressed Brandon's shoulder and fingered the ridge of scar tissue under his shirt. "The stitches may be gone, but you'll always have a scar from that knife Wilson tossed at you. I wanted him dead for that alone."

Brandon un-tucked Nate's shirt so he could massage the small of his back, skin to skin. The contact with Nate's warm flesh helped drive away the chill of the last few hours. "I had to force myself not to do a gymnastics routine over Wilson's corpse, so I imagine those feelings are normal. Even if they aren't, nobody's gonna fault you for them."

Nate sighed as Brandon worked the tension out of his muscles. "Any idea as to cause of death?"

"Howard put a rush job on the autopsy. We should know within the next couple of days."

"What about my dad? What's going to happen to him?"

Brandon tipped him back over his arm so he could look into his eyes. "I'm not going to lie to you, Nate. There's enough evidence for a good prosecutor to put him away. Are you going to be okay with that?"

Nate's face hardened. "Yeah. Before, when it was just me, I had mixed feelings, but with you getting in Wilson's way and Amy gone. . ." He trailed off as tears filled his eyes.

Brandon brought him against his chest again. "Shh, baby. We don't have to talk about this right now."

Nate shook his head. "Actually, we do. Now that my father is in custody and the investigation on what's left of my office has been concluded, the insurance agent is anxious to settle. He called me yesterday afternoon. Apparently Howard filed his report and my insurance company wants it all over and done with."

Brandon kissed Nate's forehead. "Why didn't you tell me last night?"

Nate leaned back and gave him a grin. "If you'll remember, I had other plans last night." His expression grew serious again. "Then Howard called, and you had to leave. This is really the first chance I've had to discuss it with you."

Brandon studied his face. "Something about this is bothering you, I can tell. What is it?"

"Just a weird feeling I got from talking to the agent on the phone. His name is Ralph Tatum. He seems like a nice enough guy."

"But?"

Nate looped his arms around Brandon's neck. "Tatum was really nervous on the phone. Kept talking about the importance of settling this right away. He's coming out to the house this afternoon."

Brandon raised a brow. "On a Saturday?"

"That's what I thought, too. He said it was of the 'utmost importance that we reach an understanding as soon as possible,' whatever the hell that means. When I bought the policy, I thought the whole thing was pretty cut and dried. I bought the building because Amy and Mike had just purchased a house, and she and I thought it would be easier if it was only in my name. Since my name is on the deed, I bought the insurance. My policy was all inclusive, so what's there to settle?"

Brandon leaned his head against the couch. "What time is he coming?"

"Three."

Brandon glanced down at his watch. "It's just after eight now."

"Why don't you go upstairs and get some rest? You're dead on your feet."

Brandon hated to admit it, but Nate was right. "Promise you'll get me up in a few hours so I can meet this Tatum guy with you?"

Nate gave him a soft kiss on the lips and smiled. "I promise. Now get that sexy butt of yours in bed."

A few minutes later, Brandon went, thinking about all the things he wanted Nate to do to his butt, sexy or otherwise.

* * *

Ralph Tatum was a jittery little thing. Nate guessed him to be about five-four, five-five, tops. He was paper thin and almost bald with just a touch of bright red peach fuzz on top of his head. Nate surveyed the twitch in his jaw and figured it was probably a permanent affliction.

Nate and Brandon sat on the couch together, while Mr. Tatum took one of the easy chairs. He put his briefcase on the coffee table and cleared his throat. "Dr. Morris, perhaps it would be better if we discussed this in private."

Nate shook his head. "Brandon is my fiancé, Mr. Tatum. Whatever you have to say to me concerns him, too. Frankly, I'd like to know why you're giving us the old cloak and dagger routine. The policy I bought from you is ironclad. Why the big production over a straightforward insurance claim?"

Tatum shifted in his chair. "There is no insurance claim, Dr. Morris. Your policy was canceled five weeks ago."

Nate felt like he'd been slapped. "I beg your pardon?"

"Five weeks ago, you came into our office and canceled your policy. I have the papers right here."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

Tatum shook his head. "The agent who handled the cancellation said you were adamant about severing all ties with our company."

Nate stared at him in stunned disbelief. "What do you mean, severing all ties? Chicago Security has handled all my policies since I moved up here. You paid my claim when my apartment and office were trashed, and again when I wrecked my car. Are you trying to say that I came in and cancelled everything, even after all that?"

"Are you saying you didn't?"

Nate was doing his best not to get angry. "Hell, yes, that's what I'm saying. And if you're going to deny my claim, you'd better have proof that I did."

Tatum opened his briefcase and pulled out a termination-of-service form. He handed it to Nate with shaking fingers.

Nate moved the paper so that Brandon could see it, too. Brandon was the first one to speak. "That's Nate's name, but it isn't his signature."

Tatum looked like he was about to cry. "Are you certain?"

Nate got up and started pacing the room. After a minute, he turned back to Tatum, trying hard not to yell. "Don't you think I would remember canceling my own damn insurance policy?" A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Did you say I canceled everything, even my malpractice insurance?"

"Yes."

Brandon caught on. "So you would have had to issue a refund check, right?"

Tatum nodded and pulled another document out of his briefcase. "Yes. Dr. Morris, or whoever he was, wanted the money right then. The young agent who handled the transaction offered to mail it to him, but he demanded it be given to him immediately. Since I was out of the office, my secretary wrote the check. She assures me that the young man showed the proper ID and had all your policy information. Here's the photocopy of the cancelled check from the bank." He handed the paper to Nate. Brandon came over to stand behind him and look over his shoulder.

Nate stared down at the endorsement on the check. It was blurred and hard to read, but Nate was sure he could see a difference. He compared it to the signature on the termination agreement. "I'm no expert, but these signatures don't match each other any more than they match mine."

Brandon said, "It's hard to tell, but the bank that cashed this check should have video surveillance of the transaction, and the check is time stamped. Shouldn't be too hard to track it down."

Tatum was still sitting in the chair, looking up at both of them. "If you can prove that the claim was cancelled under false pretenses, of course, our office will pay for all the damages."

Nate saw the expression on Brandon's face and felt a chill go down his spine when he said, "We'll prove it, Tatum. You can count on it."

* * *

Brandon hung up the phone and came back into the living room where Nate and Tatum were sitting. He took his place by Nate on the couch and said, "I just talked to Clive Rogers, manager of the Carlin Bank and Trust in Chicago, the place where that check was cashed. They send all their security tapes to the main office in Cleveland. He's calling now to ask them to be shipped back here, but it will take until next week sometime to get them back."

Tatum stood up and grabbed his briefcase. "Until this matter is settled, there's nothing my office can do."

Brandon stood up as well. Nate couldn't help noticing the way the little man cringed at the tone of Brandon's voice. "Actually, there is."

"What's that?"

"Tomorrow, I want you to have everyone who was in the office that day assemble at the Reed County Sheriff's Station by twelve o'clock."

Tatum started to stammer. "But. . .but tomorrow's Sunday. You can't expect my people to come in on Sunday."

Nate could tell by the color rising in Brandon's face that he was getting angry. "Look, Mr. Tatum. Your office screwed up, so I expect you and your employees to do whatever it takes to rectify this situation. Are we clear?"

Ralph Tatum looked like he was ready to faint. "Yes, we're clear." He was clutching his briefcase to his chest like a shield. "If you'll excuse me, I should really be going."

Nate got up and said, "I'll walk you out." When Brandon started to follow, Nate put his hand against his chest. "You stay here and cool down."

When Nathan got done with Tatum, he came back to find Brandon still fuming. He sat down beside him and took his hand. "Want to tell me why you nearly took Tatum's head off?"

Brandon ran his free hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "Because the little runt didn't want to co-operate, that's why. Hell, Nate, his office let some guy come in and cash in all your policies, and he acts like it's no big deal. Well it is, damn it."

"I know, but getting mad about it isn't going to change anything. Why do you want them all at the office tomorrow, anyway?"

"I'm going to show them Wilson's picture and see if he was the one who posed as you. It's all we've got to go on right now, anyway."

Nate leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. "What about the different signatures on the cancellation agreement and the check?"

"I'll have a handwriting expert look at it, but the signature on the check has been blurred so badly, it's gonna be hard to tell."

Nate sighed. "He really messed up by not killing me in the bombing, didn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

Nate turned his head so that he was staring Brandon in the face. "Wilson and whoever was paying him cashed in my policies a week before the bombing. If I had died in the explosion, no one would ever have known I didn't cancel the insurance myself. I guess they figured they could use the money to have a big ole' 'Nate's dead' celebration."

Brandon reached over and smoothed back Nate's hair. "It's almost over, Nate. At least one of the key players is dead, and Howard is pretty sure we've got the other one in custody."

"My father."

"Yep. He's sitting in a Georgia jail without bond waiting to be extradited to Illinois."

Nate closed his eyes again. "And what if he isn't guilty, Bran? What then?"

Brandon pulled him into his arms and said, "Then we'll find the guy who's responsible, babe. You trust me, don't you?"

Nate nodded. "Right now, angel, you're the only one I do."

* * *

Nate sat in Brandon's office while he questioned the employees of the Chicago Security Insurance Company in the interrogation room. After about an hour, Brandon came back in, grinning from ear to ear.

"Both the guy who handled the cancellation and the secretary who wrote the check positively identified Wilson from his picture. You should have seen the look on Tatum's face. He's ready to settle the claim whenever you are, by the way. I think he's afraid you're going to sue his ass."

Nate shook his head. "It was never about the money, Bran. You know that."

Brandon nodded. "I know." He turned his head to the side and studied Nate for a minute. "You look awful cute sitting behind my desk, curled up in my chair like that. Ever thought of going into law enforcement? I'd love to show you how to use a pair of handcuffs."

Nate laughed. "You and your bondage fantasies." He got up and motioned for Brandon to have a seat. When he did, Nate sat down on his lap, one of their favorite positions for talking. "I would like to talk to you about my employment situation, though."

Brandon wrapped both arms around him. "Go ahead."

"I don't think I want to open up another practice." He gave Brandon a good looking over and said, "How would you feel about me trying to get a staff job at Chicago General?" Brandon started to speak, but Nate cut him off. "Before you answer, you should know that my hours will be erratic, and I'll be on call a lot more. It won't be as bad as it was when I was a resident, but I won't have anything near regular hours."

Brandon said, "You know I want whatever will make you happy. I assume you'll be working with premature babies again?"

"Yeah. Keith just happened to mention that Chicago General has an opening for a pediatrician in the NICU."

Brandon grinned. "I'll just bet he did." Brandon reached up and cupped Nate's chin with one hand. "Irregular hours don't bother me. God knows you've put up with enough of them out of me lately. Whatever you want to do, I'm behind you one-hundred percent."

"I think I'm ready to go back into hospital medicine again. When I came up here from Atlanta, I wanted a break, and the idea of working with Amy was a dream come true. Private practice won't be the same without her."

"What about the patients you have now?"

Nate said, "One of the doctors who's been handling my calls since. . .well, you know. Anyway, Dr. Brandt is his name. He has a wife and two small children and wants to move them out of Chicago. He mentioned last week that he'd like to start a practice in Reed. I think he'll do well here."

Brandon nodded. "If this is what you want, then I'm all for it." He lifted Nate up and sat him on the edge of the desk.

"Bran, what are you doing?"

Brandon grinned. "We've just made some major decisions about the future here. I think that's cause for celebration."

Nate looked at him through narrowed eyes. "What did you have in mind?"

Brandon made a grab for his zipper. "Ever gotten a blow job in the sheriff's office before?"

Nate tried to swat his hand away. "No, and I'm not going to now. What if someone comes in? The door isn't even locked." And damned if he wasn't getting hard.

Leaving Nate right where he was, Brandon said, "I can fix that." He was halfway to the door when it opened to reveal Agent Howard standing on the other side.

Howard took one look at Nate perched on the desk with a hard-on and started to grin. "I feel like I've just walked onto the set of a porn movie called Doc does the Sheriff. Hang on and let me grab some popcorn and a Coke."

Nate knew his face was flaming red, but at least it couldn't get any worse. That's when Brandon said, "Damn, what's a guy got to do to get a little dick around here?"

Howard laughed like a lunatic when Nate got down and popped Brandon on the arm. Howard took one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. Nate started to do the same, but Brandon grabbed him and pulled him back onto his lap. At first Nate was uncomfortable, but Howard didn't seem to be bothered by it, and he soon felt himself relax.

Howard wasted no time getting to the point. "Autopsy's back." He slanted his head to the side and his eyes locked on Brandon's. "Damned if you weren't right, Nash. Massive heart attack. The medical examiner said it looked like the damn thing exploded."

The doctor in Nate rose to the surface. "Did Wilson have a history of heart problems?"

Howard shook his head. "No, but according to the toxicology report, he was speed-balling. Not long before he died, he shot a massive dose of heroin and snorted a nose full of cocaine. There was also a health amount of diazepam in his bloodstream, probably from the same batch he used on your dog." He snorted. "Being a hit-man probably wears on the nerves."

Brandon gave Howard a puzzled stare. "The only thing found in that room besides a suitcase and Wilson's clothes was a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and an empty glass. I went over the report myself."

"That's true, but the clerk said Wilson went out earlier in the evening. He could have gotten doped up while he was out. Combined with all that whisky, the junk in his bloodstream was too much for Wilson's ticker."

Nate noticed that Brandon didn't disagree, but he still seemed skeptical. Nate turned to Howard. "So what happens now?"

Howard's expression softened a little. "That's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, Doc. Did Nash tell you that Wilson had a brother?"

"Yeah. He said the brother called the night Wilson's body was found."

"That's true. They're half-brothers, actually. Same mother, different fathers. We got the phone company's records and tracked him down. His name's Patrick Malone. He had a lot to say about his brother." Howard's face took on that sympathetic glaze that Nate was starting to dread. "He also had a few things to say about your father, Doc."

Brandon's hands tightened around Nate's waist. Nate said, "Let's hear it."

"Malone works for Mor-co. He says he was the one who introduced Calder to Wilson. He claims Calder told him he needed some muscle, but didn't tell him what for. He's willing to make a deal in exchange for his testimony against your father."

Nate looked back and forth between Brandon and Howard. "Can he do that? Even after what happened to Amy?"

Howard said, "That'll be up to the local DA, but I'd say chances are good that Malone will get immunity in exchange for his testimony against Calder. To prosecute him as an accessory to murder, the DA would have to prove he knew ahead of time what the plan was. That's gonna be damn hard to do since we aren't even certain exactly what the plan was ourselves." He turned his attention to Brandon. "Wilson's death is officially listed as an overdose. I spoke with my boss not an hour ago. We're off the case as of now."

Brandon helped Nate to his feet and then stood up himself. He extended his hand to Howard. "I can't say I'm surprised, but I will say I couldn't have kept Nate safe without your help. I owe you, Howard."

Howard shook his hand and said, "You're wrong about that, Nash. I was glad to help you, but you had it covered long before I got here." Howard shook Nathan's hand next. "Sorry about your dad, Doc. I wish things had turned out differently."

Nate reached for Brandon with his left hand. "I'm sorry my father is a worthless bigot. And," his voice cracked, "I'm more sorry than I can ever say about Marjorie and Amy." He moved his gaze from Howard to Brandon. "But there are some things I'll never regret."

Brandon kissed his palm and returned the look, his gaze full of heat. Howard said his goodbyes and slipped out of the room with a smile.

* * *

Being in love with someone didn't necessarily mean loving everything about them. Brandon accepted that. He knew he and Nate were always going to have their differences. Brandon never said a word about Nate's obsessive neatness, or the fact that he chewed exactly thirty-two times before he swallowed his food. He even glossed over the fact that Nate talked baby-talk to their dog. But no way in hell was he going to ignore Nate's callous disregard for one of America's greatest inventions.

"It's just a car, Bran."

Brandon clutched his hand over his heart. "Just a car? Just a car, he says. Was the General Lee just a car to the Duke Boys? Was Kit just a car to Michael Knight in Knight Rider? And what about James Bond and all his different spy cars? Or Batman? Where would Batman be without the Bat-mobile?"

Nate started buttoning his shirt. "Walking?"

Brandon shot him a dirty look from his seat on the bed and continued lacing up his boots. "If you're not going to take this seriously, you can find someone else to take you car shopping."

Nate tucked his shirt into his jeans. "Brandon, it's not that big of a deal." When Brandon gave him another withering stare, Nate said, "If I get the urge to fight crime or join an international spy ring, I promise you I'll consult only the top experts before I buy a car. And since I'm already sleeping with the local sheriff, I don't think I'll need a car like the General Lee." He grinned and slipped his belt through the loops. "If I do decide to start bootlegging whiskey, I won't need a special getaway car. I'll just slip you about six inches and ask you to look the other way."

Brandon threw a pillow at his head. "Six inches, my ass. More like eight. And I still say you should put a little more effort into this. Hell, you don't even know what kind of car you want."

Nate sat down beside Brandon and pulled on his socks. "I told you, Bran. I don't care what make or model as long as it gets good mileage and runs decent. I want something serviceable, like my old Honda."

Brandon made a gagging sound. "If you look up 'serviceable' in the dictionary, it says, 'See boring.' You're twenty-eight years old Nate. You have the rest of your life to drive something dependable. Don't you want to live a little? Have some excitement?"

"I think I've had enough excitement in the last two months to last me a lifetime."

Brandon said, "That's not the kind of excitement I'm talking about, and you know it. Look, in a few years, after the kids come along, we'll get you a nice, quiet mini-van. Right now, don't you want something a little bolder?"

Nate narrowed his eyes. "How bold are we talking, here?"

Brandon was all but rubbing his hands together with glee. "As it happens, I know a guy who sells just the kind of cars I'm talking about."

"I thought we'd just go to some of the dealerships in Chicago."

Brandon shook his head. "We talked about that last night, Nate. Those places are all the same. Cookie-cutter operations selling the same old thing. The place I'm talking about has character. No one will ever accuse Cain Lucas of being a conformist."

As soon as Nate sighed, Brandon knew he'd won. He leaned over and kissed Nate's cheek. "I'll pick you up after work this evening and we'll head over there."

Nate said, "I'm breathless with anticipation." Brandon ignored him and finished getting ready for work, whistling as he went.

* * *

The minute Brandon pulled the Camaro from the paved street onto a gravel road leading into the woods, Nate knew he was in trouble. When Cain Lucas's place came into view, he fought down the urge to beg Brandon to turn the car around.

"When you said you were taking me to buy a car, I thought you meant you were taking me to a dealership."

Brandon never took his eyes off the road, a good thing because he was navigating his way through a maze of rusted truck beds and totaled car bodies. "I told you, babe, modern dealerships-"

"Are dollar-driven bastardizations of commercial greed. You told me that last night when I first mentioned car shopping to you." When Brandon started to respond, Nate said, "Look, I understand how you feel, but when you said you had a little something different in mind, I never dreamed you were taking me to a junk yard."

Brandon pulled up in front of a hulking cinder block garage and cut the motor. "I prefer to think of it as an 'automotive rehabilitation center.'"

Nate snorted. "Rehabilitation, huh? I hate to have to tell you, Bran, but this is where cars come to die. We're sitting in the only live one here."

Brandon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If Nate didn't know any better, he'd say Brandon was going for the 'heartfelt sigh' approach. Then he said, "Alright. If you really want to go, we'll go. I understand that it isn't fair of me to inflict my interests on you. A good marriage is about compromise, after all."

Nate knew it was a crock the minute he heard it, but when Brandon turned big blue puppy-dog eyes on him, Nate was a goner.

"Fine. We'll go in, but if I don't see something really impressive in the next five minutes, I'm leaving." He reached over and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "With or without you."

Brandon smiled. "Deal. Come on. I called Cain this morning to tell him we were coming. He's expecting us."

Brandon led him around to the side door of the garage and knocked twice. A raspy voice yelled out, "It's open." Brandon turned the knob and opened the door.

Nate expected the inside of the garage to be as cluttered as the grounds, but it was surprisingly neat. All four walls were covered with peg boards holding various wrenches, sockets, and tools. Instead of the harsh fluorescent lights most garages used, this one had four large skylights assisted by several rows of track lighting. A lift held a battered Silverado about eight feet off the ground, while two more cars waited their turns in the bays nearby. It wasn't until they got closer that Nate noticed a pair of legs sticking out from under one of the cars.

Brandon said, "It's us, Cain."

Nate watched as the legs got leverage against the cement floor and wheeled the man attached to them out from under the car he was working on. He wiped his dirty fingers on his coveralls and shook hands, first with Brandon, then with Nate. "How's it going, Sheriff?"

"Fine. Cain Lucas, this is my fiancé, Dr. Nathan Morris. He's looking for a car."

"Sure thing. I think I might have something he'll be interested in. Just give me a sec to wash up, and I'll show you what I've got."

When Lucas walked across the room to wash his hands, Nate took that moment to study him. He was about thirty and had waist-length black hair secured with a leather thong at the nap of his neck. Most women would kill to have a silky mane like his, but there wasn't anything feminine about Cain Lucas. He was tall, at least six-four, and had broad shoulders which threatened to burst the seems of his coveralls. When he turned back around, Nate noticed his bronzed skin and dark eyes. Nate was willing to bet those eyes didn't miss much. His chiseled features reminded Nate of pictures he'd seen of American Indians in books and museums.

Lucas dried his hands on a clean shop rag and walked back over to where Nate and Brandon were standing. "So, what exactly did you have in mind, Dr. Morris?"

"Something dependable that gets good mileage."

Lucas raised his eyebrows at Brandon. "And you brought him here?"

Those were Nate's thoughts exactly, but Brandon wasn't going to go down without a fight. "Nate just thinks he wants some wimpy little foreign job because he hasn't seen your selection yet."

Lucas looked as skeptical as Nate felt, but all he said was, "You know where the other garage is. Go on ahead while I lock up here and I'll meet you up there."

The drive to the second garage was more pleasant than the drive to the first. Whereas the lower part of Cain's property was littered with car and truck remnants, the upper half was beautifully landscaped. Nate could just make out a house in the distance, but Brandon pulled the Camero off the main path and headed down another road through a stand of trees. He parked the car in front of another massive garage, this one made of brick instead of cinder block.

Brandon and Nate got out of the Camaro just as Lucas pulled up in a beat-up Chevy truck. He went around to the side of the building, motioning for Brandon and Nate to follow.

Lucas unlocked the deadbolt and flipped a switch just inside the door. He said, "Come on in. Everything in here is for sale except the Harley. That one's mine."

Nate walked inside and then stopped at the threshold, amazed at the display he was seeing. Brandon whispered, "This place is something else, isn't it."

It certainly was. Twenty cars, all of them classics and all beautifully restored, were lined up on each side of the garage. A chopped-out Harley Davidson, the only motorcycle in the garage, stood in one corner. Three of the walls were decorated with antique gas and oil signs, and a display of framed car adds from the thirties and forties took up the other. A restored bubble-top gas pump took up the corner opposite the bike.

Lucas pointed to a red fifty-seven Ford Thunderbird heading up the first row. "If your looking for something dependable, I'd say this one is your best bet. She's as close to all original as you're going to get. I bought her from the original owner. All I did was drop in a new motor and give her a new paint job."

Brandon nodded. "She's a beauty, but we're a Chevy family."

Nate said, "We are?"

Brandon looked absolutely offended. "Yes, we are."

Lucas grinned. "In that case, I've got a great little fifty-five Chevy four door I just finished with. I changed the transmission from manual to automatic and painted it back to it's original finish."

Lucas led them down the row to the car he was talking about. Nate had to admit, the car was nice. He might have even considered it, if he hadn't glanced over and seen the car at the end of the row.

Nate pointed to the striking black beauty with something akin to awe. "What's that?"

Lucas followed his finger and said, "Oh, that's a thirty-four Ford, five window coupe that I bought from a guy in Minnesota. But you don't want that car, Doc."

Nate didn't hear him. He walked over to the coupe and caressed one round headlight. "What year did you say she was?"

"She's a thirty-four, but-"

"Did you do all the restorations yourself?"

A trace of pride tinged Lucas's voice. "Yeah. She was just a rusted out shell when I got her. Took me eleven months, but I finally got her done." He saw the way Nate was tracing the car's curves with one fingertip and said, "Look, Doc, I think you'd probably be happier with something else. I've got a couple of Sedans that are worth looking at."

For the first time, Nate heard what Lucas was saying. "Why wouldn't I want this car?"

Brandon spoke up. "Because she's a Ford, and because she's too much car for you, that's why."

Nate whirled on him so fast, Brandon took a step back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Brandon put his hand on Nate's arm in an effort to calm him down. "Nothing bad. Look, Nate. This morning you were talking about buying a Honda or a Nissan. Something quiet that gets good mileage."

"Right. And you said I have the rest of my life to get a boring family car. You told me to live a little, to buy something bolder, something exciting."

Brandon swore under his breath. "I never expected you to go from a four-door hatchback to a custom street rod." He spoke to Lucas next. "What's she got under the hood, Cain?"

"I took the motor out of a late model Corvette some kid smashed up. The body was a loss, but the engine was barely scratched. She's got fuel injection and Flow Master pipes. The original transmission was a three-speed, but I converted her to four in the floor."

Nate didn't understand a single word Lucas had just said, but that didn't dim his enthusiasm. "So that means it's got a powerful engine, right?"

Lucas and Brandon both looked at him like he had an extra eyeball in the middle of his forehead. Brandon said, "Look inside her, Nate. She's got a roll cage. This car was made for racing, not driving back and forth to work." He turned to Lucas again. "Is that thing even street legal?"

Lucas nodded. "Barely, but yeah, she is. Technically, she would be okay for everyday use, but I wouldn't recommend it."

Nate went on the offensive. "Why not?"

"Well, she only gets about nine miles to the gallon. And then there's this." He walked over to the passenger side and opened the door. Nate was surprised to see that it opened towards the front of the car instead of the back. Lucas saw his confusion and said, "They're called suicide doors. They stopped making them in the late thirties, early forties. If you see them on later model cars, they were done custom, not factory."

Nate watched as Lucas closed the door again. "Why are they called suicide doors?"

Lucas leaned back against the body of the coupe and put one foot on the running board. "Because if the car gets up enough speed, they have a tendency to come open. The natural inclination when your car door comes open is to reach out and grab it to close it up again. In the case of suicide doors, that's a big mistake."

Nate had never heard any of this before, and he was absolutely enthralled. "Why would shutting the door be a mistake?"

"With a regular door, it wouldn't, but suicide doors are different. See, with a regular door, the wind is pushing against the door and whoever's holding it. With suicide doors, the air pressure is misdirected. The minute you grab a hold of the door, all that force is on you. If you don't let go, it will drag you right out of the car. I've heard of folks being thrown out and crushed beneath the tires. That's why they stopped making them."

Brandon was nodding right along with Lucas, but Nate wasn't satisfied. "There's got to be some way to keep the doors from popping open."

"There is. I put power locks on both doors. As long as the switch is flipped, the doors stay closed. But you have to remember to lock it each and every time or the danger's still there."

Nate turned to Brandon and said, "See there, Bran. Nothing to worry about."

Brandon said, "Look, Nate, that car-" His pager went off right in the middle of what looked to be a long-winded lecture. He glanced down at the number. "It's Sam. I left my cell in the car. Let me run out there and call in."

Lucas pointed to a door at the other end of garage. "No need, Sheriff. I've got a phone in the office. Just use it."

"Thanks, Cain. I'll be right back. Don't let him talk you into selling him that car while I'm gone." He left before Nate could protest.

When Brandon was gone, Lucas said, "You really want this car, don't you?"

Nate didn't hesitate. "Yeah, but I don't really understand why. To me, a car's always been a necessity. Something you had to have to get you where you needed to go. This is the first one I've ever felt like I just had to have. Do you know what I mean?"

Lucas grinned. "Actually, I do. My first car was a sixty-three Chevy Impala with the top chopped and the frame lowered to about three inches off the ground. I remember telling my dad I was gonna die if I didn't get that car."

Nate smiled back at him. "I think I'll live even if I don't get this car, but I do want it, make no mistake about that. How much are you asking for her?"

Lucas said, "Forty-six thousand, firm."

"You take checks?"

Lucas whistled. "Damn. You are serious. You know that the Sheriff is gonna stick it to me if I sell you this car, right? I won't be able to drive through town without getting a ticket from here on out."

Nate shook his head. "Bran likes to talk tough, but he's really a pussycat."

"Uh-huh. If you say so, Doc."

For the first time, Nate noticed the wedding band on Lucas's hand. "How does your wife feel about you restoring cars for a living? I imagine it must be pretty time consuming."

Nate saw the pain in Lucas's eyes before he redirected his gaze to his foot, still perched on the running board. "My husband thought it was great. He was as big a car nut as the Sheriff is." He looked back at Nate. "I was widowed three years ago, not long before I moved to Reed."

Nate said, "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to bring up any painful memories."

Lucas shrugged. "You didn't. It all happened a long time ago, anyway." He switched back to business mode. "If you're sure this car is really what you want, I'll start the paperwork. But I want to include a thirty day trial period. If you drive it for a month and find out it isn't what you want, bring it in and I'll give you your money back. In fact, I won't even cash the check until the thirty days are up."

"That's very generous of you. Most car salesmen aren't so understanding."

Lucas said, "Yeah, well that's dealerships for you. Modern dealerships-"

Nate cut him off. "You don't have to say it. Brandon gave me a full rundown of his opinion last night and this morning."

Brandon came out of the office and he wasn't smiling. "Did I just here my name?"

Nate nodded. "Cain and I were just discussing your shared philosophy on car dealerships." He studied Brandon's face. "What is it?"

"The DA's office called a few minutes ago. After I talked to Sam, I called them back." He reached out and snagged Nate's hand. "About an hour ago, your father had a meeting with his attorney. He's gonna plead guilty, Nate. Calder just confessed to everything."