Dedicated to: My Dad, wherever you are
Rated: T, for mild language, mentions of suicide, rape and murder, and for obvious peril
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did
A/N: This is told from Woody's POV, to squash any confusion.

"Mommy," I said quietly, clutching my blanket to my chest. "Mommy!"

It was not my mother who opened my bedroom door and yelled at me to shut up; it was my father, and he was drunk again. I sighed, tears filling my eyes as I buried my head in my pillow.

Mommy wasn't coming home. I knew, but I hadn't been able to except it yet. Daddy was mad that he had to take care of Cal and me. He was mad at us. Mostly at Cal.

When Mommy got sick she could have gotten better, but she had Cal in her tummy and wouldn't get better because it would hurt him. When Cal was born she started getting better, but then she got sicker and left us. Father McMillan said she was in a better place now; that she was happy. But it didn't make me feel any better.

Cal is two now. Mommy has been gone for a while. I miss her a lot. So does Daddy. When he feels sad he drinks the bad stuff. It makes him angry and stupid. I don't know why he drinks it. It never makes anything better.

I have to take care of Cal when Daddy is drunk. Sometimes he yells at us, or forgets that I have to go to Kindergarten. I have to remind him a lot, but sometimes I forget stuff, too. Then he gets even madder.

He's a cop. He saves people. He helps people. So sometimes he has to be able to forget things, I guess. When he went home, he used to be able to because Mommy would remember. But now Mommy isn't here and he has to remember.

"Mommy!" I screamed, getting out of bed and opening my door, "Mommy, where are you?!"

I couldn't stop the tears as I ran through our empty house. Where was Daddy? Where was Cal?

"Mommy!" I yelled, over and over, running to my parent's room. "Mommy, please come home! Mommy, I need you!"

"Mommy, I neeeeed you," came a mocking voice from behind me. "Oh, Mommy, please come home!" I turned to face the voice. It's my Dad, wearing his police uniform and staggering a little. "Guess what, Woods. I got a secret. Your Mommy ain't comin' home no more. She's gone forever. Deal with it."

The last words ring over and over in my head. "Deal with it. Deal with it. Deal with it. DEAL WITH IT." Louder and louder his voice gets, consuming me. It's all I hear, see, and feel. But I CAN'T deal with it. I'm only a little kid. I opened my mouth to scream.

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

"Woody? Woody, wake up!"

I opened my eyes, not to find myself as a six-year-old in my childhood home, but a twenty-nine-year-old detective with a beautiful brunette shaking my arm and looking worried. I sat up and realised I had been asleep on the couch in her office.

"Sorry," I mumbled stupidly, the previous day's memories coming back to me in a rush. "Bad dream."

"Oh, really?" asked Jordan, faking shock. "And here I thought you were screaming for your mother because you were perfectly okay and having a very pleasant dream." Her sarcastic tone made me wince and rub the back of my neck. It prickles when I'm uncomfortable.

"This case is just getting to me, that is all," I said, trying to ignore the fact she said she'd heard me calling out for my mother. Jordan clicked her tongue, then sat down on the couch beside me.

"Go home, Woody," she said, putting a friendly hand on my shoulder, "You need to sleep. You've been up for fifty hours straight trying to find this guy. You've done all you can."

Hypocrite, I thought bitterly. Oh, the irony! Jordan Cavanaugh telling someone to stop obsessing about a case and get some sleep is worse than the pot calling the kettle black. I was just about to point this out when Nigel suddenly burst into the room, holding up a sheet of paper triumphantly.

"I've got it!" he said excitedly, "I've got it!" Jordan sighed and stood up.

"Slow down, Nige. Breathe. Now, what exactly have you got?" Nigel took a deep breath, and I stood, hoping for good news pertaining to the case.

"That substance we found on the little boys' hands was lubricant," explained Nigel, "But not your ordinary lubricant. This stuff is the high-end stuff. A hundred and ninety bucks a tube."

Jordan glanced at me, then back at Nigel. "If this stuff is so expensive... do store owners keep a list of purchasers?" she asked. Nigel nodded.

"Sixty clients. When we get a suspect, we can check the list."

I sighed, rubbing my neck again. "But it doesn't give us a suspect. We need to get this guy before he kills again!" Nigel looked apologetic, while Jordan's eyes lit up.

"Did you compare the names to known sex offenders?" she asked, sticking her hands in her jean pockets. Nigel grinned.

"Nope," he said, then left her office, almost running in the direction of Trace. I shook my head; how could he have forgotten to do that?

"I'm going to re-check the most recent victim again," said Jordan, "We may have missed something." I nodded and she left.

I sat back down on Jordan's couch. Seven boys, under the age of fourteen, raped and murdered over the course of three weeks. We needed to find this guy. We had a serial killer on our hands, and the FEDs hadn't helped one iota. It wasn't fair. We had to get him.

I yawned. Lack of sleep was catching up with me. Perhaps I should take Jordan's advice and go home to sleep for a while. Or at least take another nap on her couch.

I laid down, putting my hands behind my head and crossing my ankles. I'd only rest for a minute, then I would get back to work. Just for a minute...