Second Lie To Me fic, much longer this time around if I have any say. If I get feedback for it I'll take it further. Actually I'll probably take it further regardless, because I'm like that, but reviews are really nice.

So, the warnings: Callian, Cal abuse, maybe M, not sure. Also, the story isn't linear most of the time so it might get confusing. I was trying it out, experiment-like; just ask if you need clarification.

Standard disclaimer, etc.

~W

CHAPTER ONE

[Washington Post, Thursday, morning edition]

THE TRUTH HURTS

DC's Lightman Group was barraged late Tuesday night in what specialists believe, but do not confirm, to be a terrorist attack. 'There's no doubt now that it was an intentional bombing,' states specialist Kurt Marx, 'but not necessarily by terrorists. The Lightman Group has enemies, as anyone in the right circles knows; it could have been one of any number of individuals or parties.'

Because of the hour, the majority of the Group's employees were not in the building at the time of the bombing; only six persons were unaccounted for. Rescue teams started the search for the missing souls at 10:30 p.m. Tuesday night, the instant the site was declared safe to ingress. As of last night four of the six have been recovered; two currently unidentified bodies and two survivors.

Christopher Dudek, aged 38, and Ria Torres, aged 24, were found at 5:18 yesterday morning, having been trapped in the building for just under 5 hours. Both sustained only minor injuries. 'We were in the elevator,' recalls Dudek, 'I remember the lift sort of shook, and then something snapped and it fell. Ria [Torres] got knocked out and I tried to call for help but the button didn't work and the lights didn't work. I couldn't see anything or hear anything. It was hell.'

The Lightman Group, a privately owned consulting company, was established by Gillian Foster and its namesake, Cal Lightman, and deals in deception. The Group accepts assignments from third parties (commonly local and federal law enforcement), and assists in investigations, reaching the truth through applied psychology: interpreting microexpressions, through the Facial Action Coding System, and body language. 'This,' says an informant within the FBI, 'is probably why the building was attacked. Cal Lightman locks up a lot of bad guys, and the rest of the bad guys don't like that.'

Lightman himself, along with employee Andrew Black, 35, is still unaccounted for. Insiders confirm that he was in the building when the bomb hit; he has been trapped for over twelve hours. Search teams continue the desperate hunt, but their hopes fade with every hour. 'If these two [Lightman and Black] were injured at any time during the initial blast,' says Mary Lance, one half of a canine/handler team, 'there's a high chance that they're not getting medical attention for critical injuries, and the longer it takes to find them the higher the odds get that those injuries become lethal, if they aren't already.'

DC stands by as the US&R perseveres, watching and praying.

Gillian Foster stared at her morning paper without seeing it. She was sitting at her kitchen table in the same clothes she'd worn yesterday, her hair unkempt and her make-up undone. The bright morning sun spilled across the paper like it was trying to cheer her up, dust motes dancing happily within, but she didn't see it. She didn't see anything.

Because of the hour, the majority of the Group's employees were not in the building.

Loker and Torres had been off on a case, interviewing some rich lawyer's wife to see if she was cheating on him. It was one of those cases they took purely to pay the bills, and Cal had thought it would be a good opportunity for their fledgling lie detectors to get some solo experience. Cal was catching up with paperwork, taking advantage of the relatively slow day, and had waved her off when she asked if he wanted a hand.

'If you do it, then I'll be bored,' he'd said, 'and we both know I'm insufferable when I'm bored.'

'Okay. You won't mind if I head out, then.'

'Got a date?' Cal had asked her with a straight face. Gillian had smiled and flipped her hair and taken her coat.

'Call me if you need me.' She'd felt Cal's gaze on her as she left the building. She didn't have a date. But every once in a while it was fun to tease him. It would give him something to think about, keep him from getting too stir-crazy.

She'd gone home. Had dinner - leftover chicken and salad - and settled down with a new romance she'd been dying to read.

That had been at seven thirty. Loker called her at ten. She'd ignored the phone at first, annoyed at the interruption; she was just getting to the really good part. But then she sighed and picked it up.

Sirens assaulted her ear immediately, and the sounds of people shouting, and something else, something like static but not. Panic had clenched around her stomach before Loker even said a word.

'Gillian.' That was all he said. He sounded close to hysterical, and she could almost see him standing there with wide eyes, his mouth working furiously to get something more out.

'Where are you?' She'd taken control instantly, leaping up and pulling on the jeans she'd worn that day.

'The - the office.' He'd managed. 'Gillian, it's - it's been bombed.'

Fire. That was the static. Gillian froze as the panic spread through her like a cancer. But she forced herself to move, grabbing her keys and sprinting out the door.

'I'm coming, Loker.' She'd said, and hung up.

Loker was waiting for her when she got there. He was the only person standing still amid a chaos of running, shouting people and blaring sirens and dust. Dust - it was everywhere, blanketing everything like smoke, like morning mist, except that it stank like concrete and stuck in her throat.

He'd looked utterly lost, standing there, staring up at the dark predawn sky where the familiar building used to loom, the dust making his dark hair grey. She'd thrown her arms around him and he'd clutched at her like she was the only rock in a thundering river.

'Where's Cal? Torres?' She asked instantly. Loker, looking dazed, could only point. Toward the building.

'Ria was - checking in…'

Gillian shook her head. For a long second nothing at all crossed her mind. 'Oh, God.' She croaked. 'Oh, God.'

The two of them stood there for a very long time. The sirens continued to howl and the people continued to run and the dust continued to drift, and they were the only two things that were absolutely still.

She didn't know why she was looking at the paper. She didn't even know how the paper had come to be in her hands at the kitchen table; she didn't remember going to the door to get it. All she could think of were her colleagues, her friends, trapped in a building that had been blown up. Images flashed through her mind, images where Cal and Ria were bloodied, injured, confused, dead. Dead dead dead dead. Her brain continued to throw the word at her, could be dead, probably dead, and she sat there and tried to rebel but her but it just kept right on coming.

She broke into tears.

At four thirty she'd gone back to the office. Drifted that way naturally, with nowhere else to go. She'd showered mechanically since coming home at one in the morning. She'd changed her clothes and brushed her hair and forgotten to eat, and at some point between all that some part of her must have decided to go back because she grabbed her keys and left again. She hadn't even thought of her bed.

There were less people now, but still a lot. She found a guy who looked authoritative and he told her what was going on; there were six missing persons still in the building, and the US&R teams, the Urban Search and Rescue teams, were trying to sniff them out. Gillian asked which six, and he told her.

Andrew Black

Christopher Dudek

Martin Phelps

Eden Roy

Ria Torres

Cal Lightman

She knew all those names. Andrew and Christopher and Martin and Eden, she'd hired them herself, had checked their backgrounds, talked to them sometimes. Now they were trapped, possibly injured, possibly dead.

Ria Torres. Cal Lightman. Possibly injured, possibly dead.

He let her stay. Jared Chase, her temporary rock. Like the night before, she was the only stationary thing in a swarm, a fray, a mosh pit. The only person without a job to do, the only one without some way to help. But she stayed anyway. She had nowhere else to go.

She was there when they found the first two. A dog started barking and its handler started yelling, and before she knew what she was doing Gillian was up and sprinting toward them. She had to stand back while more people moved great blocks of cement and twisted steel and prised two bodies from the wreckage, but as they were loaded onto gurneys and rushed toward waiting ambulances she seized her opportunity.

Christopher Dudek lay prone in his gurney, head held rigid by a neck brace. There was blood drying at his temple and he was crying outright with relief. Gillian found herself crying too as she kissed his hand - alive! Hope! - and moved to the other gurney.

Ria. She was sitting up on her gurney, looking like a ghost for all the dust and completely unscathed but for scattered cuts and bruises. When she spotted Gillian, she too burst into tears, and the two of them hugged so tightly they might have cracked some ribs. The US&R medic looked on disapprovingly.

'Cal?' Gillian asked. Ria's face went through several emotions in quick succession: fear, grief, guilt, shame.

'I don't know. He wasn't in his office when I went up to check in, so I… I left. I was in the elevator when… I don't know where he is.'

She looked like she was about to start crying again, but Gillian took up the mother role instinctively, hushing her and hugging her and stroking her hair and telling her it was okay, it would be okay.

'Miss, I have to check her over.' Said the medic. Gillian let him have at it, but hovered, focussing very hard on Ria and not thinking about anything else at all.

When the medic let Ria go, Gillian started to dial Loker's cell. On the second digit she froze, snapped the phone shut and dialled a different number. Ria gave her a puzzled look, probably seeing the distorted emotion on her face, but Gillian said nothing. She held the cell to her ear and didn't breath. He might not answer, he probably won't answer, probably no reception, this is ridiculous, why am I even trying - her thoughts raced on as the phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

'…Gillian.'

She nearly sank to her knees with the force of her relief. 'Cal! Cal, where are you?'

'I… don't know.' His words were slow, muddled, like it cost him to get them out. 'I can't… remember… no clues, everything's wrecked…'

Gillian felt the muscles in her face contort into an expression akin to pain. Ria took her arm to steady her as she swayed. 'Cal, how badly are you hurt?'

'I can't - agh, my head… I just got… knocked out, Gill, I'm --'

'If you say you're fine, I swear to God, Cal.' Gillian barked, so spent by hours of extreme emotion that she thought she might keel over at any second. Ria stared at her, alarmed. Cal's breathing was unsteady in her ear; she wondered, in her brief moment of angry detachment, if he had the strength to lie.

'I'm… burned pretty bad, Gill.'

Gillian put a hand over her mouth. Burned. Burned badly enough to have difficulty breathing, badly enough to tell the truth.

'Cal… Cal, listen to me. Is there any way you could tell me where you are? Any way you could signal us?'

'I don't… how?'

Her mind stumbled for an answer, tripping over her fear.

'Wait… Gillian, how much of the… building's gone?'

'All of it, Cal.' She said hollowly, but recognised something in his voice, even though his words were slow and laboured. 'The whole building collapsed.'

'The bomb… was very close. Wherever it went off, it… took out the whole building's… supports. Wherever those supports are, Gill, that's… that's where I am. Blueprints. Tell the s--' He broke off.

'Cal?' Gillian's breath caught in her throat. 'Cal!'

Abruptly he let out a strangled cry, muffled, like he was trying to keep it from her. The sound sent chills down her spine. 'I'll be fine, Gillian.' He was panting now. 'Just… blueprints… Tell them blueprints.'

'Cal --'

'Gillian… I love you. Okay? I love you --'

The scream cut off as the line died.

So now it was six in the morning on a Thursday, and she was staring blankly at a newspaper that took what had happened on Tuesday - her second home, her real home, crashing down like so much dust; her friends, trapped, missing; finding Ria; calling Cal; 'I love you.' - and shredded it down to a few choice sentences with a picture of the rescue effort and a quaint little title.

'I love you,' he'd said. She couldn't get it out of her head. The words played over and over, as though on a loop, as though sounding scratchily from some broken record and she listened over and over again to the minute details of his voice. 'I love you,' a slight catch as his breath hitched, 'I love you,' an undertone of tension, which meant pain, 'I love you,' the words hurried, crammed together, like he was seeing something coming - the thing that made him scream.

He was in pain. A lot of it. And there was nothing she could do.

She had tried. She was the one who thought to phone him, she was the one who'd gotten through, she was the one who told Jared Chase to look at the blueprints. She had done all she could. But Cal was still trapped in the bowels of his own damn building, unreachable and hurt, and there wasn't anything more she could do.

She should go visit Torres and Loker. She knew they were together, huddling for warmth after the storm. She knew they wanted her there, were concerned for her, needed her. She could help them. Pulling on a coat, she headed out into the derisively bright day to find them.

+-+-+

Tuesday, 7:41 p.m.

'Doctor Lightman, there's someone here to see you.'

Lightman looked up from his computer at his receptionist. She was a young girl, new, just started a week ago, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

'Now?'

'Not law enforcement, either.' She said, her expression saying, 'the nerve of some people.' He'd forgotten her name. Eden, he thought. An uncommon name. She was catching on. 'He says it's urgent, and he'll "make up for barging in."'

That meant money. Personal case. Lightman looked at his watch - seven forty. He sighed. 'All right, love, show him in.' He closed the file he was working on and logged off. Today had been a slow day; maybe this would be interesting.

The man who walked through the door was a smallish bloke with sandy hair and glasses. By his clothes he might be a young accountant or an intern somewhere, with a red tie that might have been fake silk.

'What can I do for you, then, Mr…?' Cal said.

'Smith.' His voice was soft, almost hesitant. He hadn't wanted to come to a specialist for help; if it was his wife, as these cases often were, he probably wanted like hell to believe she was innocent. But he met Cal's eyes; determined. 'John Smith.'

Warning bell. Glaringly fake name; not about any wife. If this guy knew anything about investigations he knew that his real name would crop up soon enough. Which meant he expected to be here about five minutes, which meant there was no case.

Which meant bad. Cal kept his face cordial, stood up to shake Smith's hand over the desk. 'What can I do for you, John?'

'It's Smith.'

Ooh. That was interesting. Distancing, which meant he probably had something malicious planned for Cal. Cal kept his face calm.

'I want you to tell me if my wife has been cheating on me.'

Which was what Cal had guessed already, but no. No, he didn't. Liar, liar. Cal sat back in his chair. 'Have a seat, Mr Smith.'

'I'd rather stand.'

'All right. Tell me what happened with your wife.'

Smith didn't seem to have planned that far. He put his hand in his pocket and fondled something, eyes searching the floor for something to say. Warning bell. Gun, or knife. Weapon. Cal watched.

'What time is it, Doctor Lightman?' Smith asked suddenly. Cal's eyebrows rose.

'A bit past seven forty.' A flash - anxiety? - Smith hadn't known that.

'What's wrong, Mr. Smith?' He asked lightly. Another flash, this time the same expression a kid wears when someone calls him on a lie - caught. Smith immediately closed his expression. As if that worked.

'I got here early. Ten more minutes.'

'Til what?'

'Til - til my dad gets here. He wanted to come with me. For support.' Shrug. Liar, liar. Cal took a moment to think. This guy obviously wasn't here for a wife, he obviously didn't have anything good planned for Cal, and he was obviously waiting for something to happen. Something like what? Seven fifty, what was important about seven fifty?

He decided to take the offensive. Leaning forward on his elbows, Cal looked Smith in the face. 'What are you waiting for, John?'

Smith didn't like Cal's sudden change in posture. He took the smallest of steps back, crossed his arms over his chest. 'It's -'

'No, it's not Smith. It's not John, either, for that matter. What's your real name?'

A flare of panic, before Smith smoothed over. 'It is John.' He didn't ask why Cal would call him on so simple a truth, didn't flash confusion or look at him like he was mad. This sod was very, very bad.

'All right,' Cal said, 'let's say it is John. What are you waiting for, John? What happens at seven fifty? Back-up? A diversion? A bomb?'

A flash. Cal almost sat back with shock - a bomb - but there was no time for that, timing was everything. 'A bomb then. Interesting, John. Where's it planted? Basement?'

Flash. Basement. 'How many, John? Just the one, or is the whole building rigged to come down?' He had his cell phone in his hand beneath the desk, thumb dialling at the speed of light. Smith's face was radiating fear now, Cal was pushing too hard, but he knew he had a time limit now, he needed to get all the information he could in order to pass it on before it was too late.

Flash. The whole building. Smith's expression was gearing on toward terrified now, he knew he was being read somehow but he had no idea how he was giving himself away. Then, a twitch of the lip, a change in the set of the eye. Cal started to duck. Too slow. The gun was raised before he'd hardly moved, and the strangled pshw of a silenced gun sounded.

Cal was jerked back in his chair as the bullet burrowed into his chest. His fist convulsed, clenching around the cell phone in a dead man's grip. Cal's ears rang. For a second he reeled, looking up at the city lights casting a little glow on his ceiling. There was pain building in his chest, but it didn't touch him, not yet; it was waiting for him to make a wrong move before it came crashing down on him.

Smith had gotten behind him, was binding his wrists with what felt like rope. He heard an incredulous laugh as Smith pried his phone from his hold. Smith tied that tie around his face; Cal gagged when the cloth got too tight between his teeth. When Smith was done he came around the desk again and stood on a chair to hold a lighter up to a fire detector. Within seconds the alarms went off, wailing, cracking Cal's skull.

'All right.' Smith said, his timid voice completely changed now. He seized Cal under the arms and pulled him upright. 'Start walking. Fast.'

Cal made it to the car. He fell into the backseat when Smith shoved him, cracking his head on the far door. He let out a grunt around the gag.

'Shut it, idiot.' Snapped Smith as he elbowed Cal's legs in and slammed the door. For a split second the sound of the fire alarms in the Lightman building were muted, distant, like he was in the eye of the storm. He lost consciousness.

+-+-+

When he woke he was strapped by the ankles to a chair, and his tied wrists were fastened tightly enough that he couldn't move them at all. For a bit he just stayed as he was, giving no outward sign that he'd come round. His chest ached dully, not at all the same searing fire as before. How long had he been here?

There was talking. He could hear talking. A little ways off, two male voices, echoing a little. Hard walls, then, big. It was cold; Cal guessed warehouse. He recognized the two voices. The first one, the lighter one, that was Smith. The second one, he knew that one too, but… he couldn't place it…

'You have to be kidding me, Dallas. The gun was a security blanket, you weren't supposed to use it!'

'I panicked! I'm sorry, Guy, I really am, I didn't mean -'

'All right, shut up. Just shut up. At least you didn't kill him. And gimme that gun.'

Cal heard Guy snatch the gun. All right. Guy and Dallas. That was good. Now he had a lesser disadvantage than he had before. Now if he could just --

'Guy, come on! Dad gave that to m --'

'Dallas!' Dallas shut up.

These guys were pathetic. Now he knew they were brothers. Dallas and Guy, Dallas and Guy. Guy. He knew that name. And he knew that voice. He strained his tired head. Where…

'Doctor Lightman.' It hit him. Guy Ward.

'Doctor Lightman.' The rough tap of metal against the side of his face. Cal swam up from his thoughts. With an effort he raised his head and looked Guy Ward in the face. Yeah, that was him. Looked nothing like his brother, except for the nose. Rounder face, baby face, just like it had been three years ago, except he'd started to go grey around the edges. Premature.

'Remember me, Doctor Lightman?'

'I…' Lightman slurred, letting his gaze flicker. 'Who're you?'

'Yeah, I thought you probably wouldn't. Me, I was just a face in a million, just a little part of one of a million cases. Why should you remember me? Fucker.'

Of course Cal remembered. Ward nearly died in that case, and his partner didn't make it. Cal had been there at the ambush. How could he forget that? But he played stupid. Shook his head painfully.

'Well, all you need to know, Doctor Lightman, is that you killed my best friend. You did, hear me? That's why you're here.'

No, he hadn't. They'd been led into a trap. She'd been shot, critically wounded, died in hospital the next day. They'd never caught up with the ambushers after that -- suddenly Cal understood. When Ward had undergone the grieving process three years ago, when he came to the anger stage, the stage where he needed someone to blame, he'd picked Cal. He hadn't liked Cal, he'd thought he was a fraud, a side show. So it had been no love lost to pick him.

He'd taken grief one step further, though. Now he was taking revenge. Cal let his head fall back onto his chest, tired. He opened his mouth to say something.

That was when the phone rang. Dallas, who had been watching silently, jumped half a foot in the air.

'Are you joking?' Guy stood and rounded on his brother.

'It's not mine!' Dallas yelped. 'Look, it's his!'

The phone rang once, twice. Guy chuckled.

'All right.' Guy took the phone and pressed it to Cal's ear. 'Talk to your girlfriend, Doctor Lightman. And remember this, or you're a dead man: you're in the basement.'

Cal looked at him, confused, for a split second, tried to work that through but gave it up and turned his attention to the phone. Foster. His first instinct was to act like he was completely all right, to keep her out of this, but he sort of did want his captors thinking he was a little out of it.

So. He had the presence of mind to recall the building had been bombed, and as far as anyone knew he was still in it, trapped and likely injured.

'…Gillian.'

'Cal!' The sound of her voice, even tinny and mechanized in his ear, was enough to wake him up completely. 'Cal, where are you?'

'I don't know,' he was acting both for his captors and Gillian, now, talking slowly, with spaces between words as if it took a lot to make his voice work. 'I can't remember. No clues here, everything's wrecked.'

He heard Gillian's breathing on the other end. He could almost see the look on her face. Guilt clenched like a rock in his stomach.

'Cal… how badly are you hurt?' As she spoke he felt his focus fading again. He fought to keep his head above water, and it occurred to him that he might be losing a lot of blood.

'I can't - agh, my head,' He hadn't meant to say that. He struggled. Paused and shook his head to clear it. 'I just got knocked out, Gill, I'm --'

''If you say you're fine, I swear to God, Cal.' Her voice was harsh with warning, and in his state it gave him pause. He thought as fast as he could. Lie to her? Yes, of course. No other choice. Injuries? How bad should he make them?

What would account for the state of his voice?

''I'm… burned pretty bad, Gill.' As he said it he made up the lie in his head. Burned enough to have difficulty talking, he would have had to be very close to the bomb. That was good, the bomb was in the basement, and that would be the hardest place to get at, that bought him some time. And if he didn't survive this, at least it wouldn't come as a surprise to her.

He didn't think about the fact that it would also buy Guy time.

'Cal… Cal, listen to me. Is there any way you could tell me where you are? Any way you could signal us?'

No, there bloody well wasn't. Not if he had any say. 'How?' He asked. He waited a moment, listening to the background noise - shouting, barking; search parties - before speaking again. 'Wait,' he said, as though something had just occurred to him. 'Gill, how much of the building is gone?'

'All of it, Cal… the whole building collapsed.' Cal closed his eyes. The whole building. He'd known that already, of course, had gotten it right from Dallas, but…

'The bomb… was very close. Wherever it went of, it took out the whole building's supports. Wherever those supports are, Gill, that's… that's where I am. Blueprints. Tell the s--'

He didn't see the flash of the knife until it sheathed itself in his leg. He bit off his cry of pain before it tore out of him and for a second he reeled with the effort of keeping it in. Sparks took over his eyes, white sparks that danced about like dust in a column of light. He kept his breath, knowing instinctively that if he let it out it would come as a scream. When the sparks began to clear he stared doggedly at the dark smear spreading over his jean leg, trying desperately to keep hold of his thoughts. Keep up the lie. He had to keep up the lie.

'Cal?' Her voice was distant, though he knew she was practically shouting. 'Cal!'

Keep up the lie. Keep up the lie. Cal's breath choked out from between his teeth and he sucked in a new one. Another. 'I'll be fine, Gillian.' He managed. 'Just… blueprints… Tell them blueprints.'

'Cal --' He saw the knife coming this time and cut her off.

'Gillian, I love you. Okay? I love you.' The blade pierced skin again and this time Cal couldn't hold back the strangled noise he made.

+-+-+

Cal's captor snapped the phone shut. Cal let himself crumple against the metal chair and clenched his eyes shut, gasping. He looked at the ceiling of the warehouse as the searing tendrils of pain slowly dulled to a sharp ache around the blade, which Ward had left this time. His hands ached too now, chafed by their rope when he'd jerked from the impact.

'That,' he panted, 'wasn't necessary.'

'No? I don't think you'd have shut up otherwise.' His captor chuckled amicably. Cal looked at him. He tossed Cal's cell phone up and down, casually. As casually as he'd stuck a knife in Cal's leg.

'But that was fun.' Ward continued. 'I knew I would learn something.'

'Yeah?' Cal asked. He'd regained himself now, voice even and face smooth. 'What'd you learn?'

Ward smiled smugly and seated himself in the chair before Cal. He touched the tip of the dagger embedded in Cal's quadriceps. Cal's breath caught and his focus narrowed for an instant before he forced himself to take in Ward's signs. His lip was saying contempt and his eyes were saying pride and his body was saying triumph. All together: I'm better than you at your own game. That was good. Now he thought Cal was both so injured he couldn't think straight and just stupid.

'Well,' said Ward with the hint of a drawl. He traced the hilt of the knife but did not apply any force. Cal struggled to ignore it. 'You're taking me seriously; I learned that from the fact that you lied to your partner about your location and condition. You're also afraid; you told her you loved her, which, knowing you, and I do, you never would have done if you believed you were going to make it through the day. Which was wise; you're probably not.' Through the day. That made it morning. The morning after the bombing?

'Oh, yeah? What makes you --' Cal started. Ward's smugness erupted into glee; he twisted the blade in Cal's muscle and wrenched it out. Cal's words drowned in a roar. His vision blurred to red behind the new sparks. Ward watched him in silent pleasure until his traumatized muscles relaxed into a minute trembling and his breathing returned to unsteady gasps.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I couldn't help it. I don't like it when you talk, Doctor Lightman.'

'You talk, then.' Cal spat brashly. 'What do you want with me?'

Ward feigned surprise. Beneath that Cal could read nothing; Ward's guard was up, and he was smooth as glass. 'Nothing at all. I'm done wanting things from you, Doctor Lightman, because that didn't end very well last time I trusted you. Now, I just want to keep you here, and act as the fancy strikes me.'

'Act how?'

'I tell you, I don't know yet.' Ward smiled complacently. 'I have a few choice weapons here, and my creativity. I'll think of something.'

'Will I like it?' Cal asked sarcastically, because Ward wanted him to. Ward's grin was inhuman.

'No. No, I don't think you will. Unless you're a masochist of the most extreme variety.'

'I am, though.' Cal said. 'I love getting beaten up. Gives me a kick. You'll have to torture me with little girls and lollipops.'

'Lollipops, now there's an idea.' Ward flipped the knife, now gleaming red in the half-light, looking thoughtful. 'And little girls? I don't have any at hand, unfortunately. I suppose I can always make one out of you.'

Cal laughed derisively. 'What, chop my tackle off? That the best you can come up with?'

A flash of annoyance. Ward pointed the knife at Cal casually. 'You don't want me to get creative just yet, Doctor Lightman. Don't tempt me.'

'Cal, please.' Cal snorted. 'I get the sense we're going to be best mates soon.'