Tulare, California

April, 1978

Tuesday

The last few hours before shift change were pretty boring, but then how much stuff happened between 4 and 7 a.m. in a sleepy burg like Tulare? It wasn't that Michael "Buck" Starnes missed the crime and violence of Los Angeles, but after ten years on the force for LAPD, protecting and serving the citizens of Tulare, California sometimes dulled a little by comparison. The small town, located off Route 99, just south of Fresno, wasn't exactly a hot spot of criminal activity.

Buck sat in his patrol car and took a long drink of coffee. His wife always sent him a big thermos to get him through the night. He smiled when he thought of Teresa and their four kids. It was for them that he moved out here to the sticks. He'd seen so much death and desperation, that it was an easy choice to make. Even at times like this, when he felt that pent up yearning for excitement, he just had to imagine the sweet faces of his darling girls and it didn't matter.

The skyline to the east was just getting light, more gray than blue yet. Buck's eyes moved automatically from the horizon to scan the street he was parked on. A blend of small businesses and private residences, it was the most likely place for any kind of incident. He chuckled to himself at what this town considered an incident - anything from an annoying barking dog to old lady Ross, who always saw prowlers the night after she watched Police Story.

Buck took another swig of coffee, then paused with his hand midway from his mouth. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Someone was weaving down the sidewalk. He'd seen few drunks or bums around in his three years here, and most of them hung out by the train tracks. It was unusual for one of them to wander this far into town.

Setting his cup down on the dash, the officer got out of his car. He knew this was probably no big deal - some local out celebrating or drowning some sorrow, but experience made him cautious. Buck let his hand hover near his gun as he approached the man.

As he got nearer, the officer relaxed a bit. He didn't smell alcohol and the guy didn't have that glazed look someone strung out on drugs wore. He looked more lost than anything else.

"Hey, fella," Buck greeted, keeping his tone non-threatening. "Whatcha doin' out so early?"

The man didn't say anything, and after a time, as if it took awhile to process the question, he shrugged his bony shoulders.

Buck looked him over critically. He didn't recognize him and the officer prided himself on knowing nearly everyone in town. The man was tall - right around 6 feet - lean to the point of looking underfed. In the predawn light it was hard to tell his age, but Buck put him in his mid thirties. His dark hair was long - brushing past his shoulders and hanging in his face. He needed a shave and a bath, and his clothes were ragged.

"Why don't I take ya to a place where you can eat somethin', get cleaned up a bit," the officer suggested and put a hand on the stranger's shoulder, prodding him toward his car.

He came along meekly, and Buck soon realized that what he'd mistaken for a drunken stagger was in reality a pronounced limp in the man's right leg. The stranger seemed used to it, however, like it was an accustomed problem, and got into the back of the Impala without a word. Buck shut the door after him, then climbed in behind the wheel. He glanced at his passenger in the rear view mirror. The man had settled up against the far door, his arms wrapped around himself.

"What's yer name, pal?" Buck asked quietly, as he turned the key in the ignition. He noticed the man jumped a little at the sound of the engine, but that was all. He didn't answer the question.

Guess it doesn't matter right now, Buck decided. He pulled the car into the lane and started toward headquarters.

The ride was uneventful. The quiet stranger never made a sound. When they arrived, Buck saw Jeff Bailey's squad car was already here, anticipating his relief. Tulare was small enough to only require a two man graveyard shift. Their force employed a total of 15 officers and they rotated the unpopular duty between them.

He got his charge out of the car and steered him toward the station house. The bright lights inside made the man flinch, but he didn't put up a fight.

"Hey, Buckie," Bailey greeted from his desk. He looked up, obviously startled to see Starnes had company. "Who's your friend there?"

"Found him over on Magnolia. Not sure who he is." Buck took the stranger's arm and led him down the hall. Bailey must have been bored for he unfolded his lanky frame from behind his desk and followed after them.

"Is he a drunk? A druggie?" Bailey was young, not much more than a rookie, and had much to learn in the way of tact.

"Don't think so," Buck answered. "He hasn't said much though."

"Should ya call the Chief?"

Buck gave Bailey an incredulous look. Though the younger officer towered over him by nearly six inches, Starnes' own sturdy, well-built frame gave him a presence that could cow any of his co-workers. "Yeah, right. I'm gonna wake up the Chief at the crack of dawn to tell him I found a stray."

He stopped when they reached the small locker room. There was a bathroom and a shower for those less pleasant moments of police work. Buck grabbed a towel and then dug through his own locker for something suitable to give the guy to change into. He came up with a pair of sweat pants that looked like they might fit. He was about the same height as the man, though Buck was definitely heavier. He held them out.

"Here, take these and get yourself cleaned up. There's soap and shampoo in there. I'll see about finding you something to eat."

The stranger stared at the bundle for a moment, then reached out a tentative hand to take them. He gave both officers an uncertain look, then shuffled into the shower area. Buck wasn't sure the guy would know what to do, but relaxed when he heard the water come on.

"Man," Bailey whistled. "The guy's a loony, Buckie. You should probably take him into Fresno to the nut house."

Buck shook his head. "Bailey, you don't know jack. He's not crazy. I think something happened to him."

Bailey scratched his short blond hair. "Like what? We woulda heard about anybody runnin' into trouble." He laughed. "You're gettin' soft," he accused.

Starnes just rolled his eyes. "Make yourself useful, kid. Look through any missing persons reports we got in. See if anybody fits his description."

"Aw, Buck, what for? You know we don't get diddly squat through this office."

"Just do it for me, Bailey," Buck asked. "You know you've got the knack for finding things."

The younger man obviously thought it was a waste of time, but he wandered back to his desk. Buck was glad to be rid of him for the moment. He was going over in his own mind the possibilities of what might have happened to this man, and Bailey's yapping was annoying.

The water shut off, and after a while the stranger emerged. The sweat pants hung loose on his hips, but they were better than the filthy, threadbare pants he'd been wearing. Without a shirt on, Buck could see even more how skinny the guy was. His ribs were plainly visible, and there were fine white lines across his torso that looked suspiciously like scars. As he came forward, he was having some trouble toweling his hair dry, as if it was too much effort to lift his arms up. Buck moved over to help.

"Here, buddy, lemme give you a hand."

He stepped behind the guy and took the towel, but stopped when he saw the condition of the man's back.

"Good God!" Buck breathed out before he could stop himself.

The stranger jerked away and whirled around to face the policeman, dark eyes haunted with fear. Once more he wrapped his arms around himself protectively.

Somebody sure did a number on him, Buck observed inwardly, but didn't give voice to his thoughts. He studied the man sympathetically.

"Don't be afraid," he soothed. "Nobody's gonna hurt you anymore." He slowly reached into his locker and pulled out an old t-shirt. "Here, put this on." He held it out - a peace offering.

The man regarded it warily, then took the shirt and pulled it over his head.

"There," Buck went on, feeling more and more like he was dealing with a frightened animal. "That's all right now. If you want to come out to my desk, I'll try and find you something to eat."

He started walking, hoping he would be followed. Sure enough, after only a brief hesitation, he heard faltering steps behind him. He pulled a chair up beside his desk and motioned for the man to sit. He rummaged through the small refrigerator, not finding much. He pulled out a lone can of Coke and held it up.

"Okay, we got Coke or milk. What's your poison?"

He wasn't really expecting an answer and shut the fridge, ready to bring the soda over.

"Milk."

He paused, not even sure he'd heard. "What's that, pal?"

The man swallowed and spoke again, not much louder. "Can I have some milk?"

Buck grinned. "Milk it is." He switched the soda for a small carton of milk. He glanced over at Bailey, who was busy flipping through flyers. "Hey, rookie, ya got any of your dinner left?"

The younger officer glanced up and grimaced. "Yeah. My girlfriend keeps sending me these stupid chicken salad sandwiches." He reached into his desk and tossed Starnes a paper sack.

Buck caught it deftly and brought it and the milk over to his desk.

"Here ya go," he offered, pulling a plastic wrapped sandwich out of the bag. He opened the milk and poured it into a paper cup. "Why don't you eat while I start some paperwork here."

He found the right forms and loaded his typewriter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man grab the cup and gulp down half the milk before he reached for the sandwich.

"Okay, here we go. Name..." He glanced at the man. "Sure you can't tell me your name?"

There was no answer, the guy merely kept shoving bread and chicken into his mouth. Buck sighed. Well, one step at a time, he supposed.

"That's okay. I'll just put in John Doe for now."

If he hadn't been looking at him, Buck would have missed the reaction to his words. As it was, the man merely paused in the middle of a bite, looked up in startled recognition, then went back to eating. Buck narrowed his eyes.

"Is your name John?" The man stopped, put the uneaten part of sandwich down. "It's okay, John," Buck urged. "You can keep eating."

He made a point of turning back to the typewriter and in a moment, John resumed eating. Buck typed in John Doe, and approximated the rest of the personal information. When he was done he noticed the food was gone, so he tried once more to get details.

"Do you know where you live?" No answer. "Any friends or family nearby?" Silence. "John... do you know why you were out walking tonight?"

Still no response, and Buck noticed the more he asked, the more stressed John became. He sat stiffly in the chair, twisting his hands nervously. Realizing he wasn't going to get any more at the moment, the officer gave up the report for now. He could always fill it in later.

"Okay, John... relax. No more questions."

"What are you gonna do with him, Buckie?" Bailey piped up. "I still say you need to send him up to the funny farm. At least for a 72."

Buck shook his head. Perhaps Bailey was technically right. That was procedure for people like this - take them in for a 72 hour period of observation. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this guy than a psych case. He also knew the chief would probably rip him a new one for what he was about to do.

"I'm gonna take him home. Let him get some sleep."

Bailey's eyes bugged in disbelief. "Maybe you need to visit Fresno," he stated firmly. "You really think Teresa's gonna just let this weirdo into your house with your kids?"

What Buck thought was that his wife had more compassion in her little finger than Bailey did in his whole soul. But he kept that thought to himself.

"She'll be okay," was all he said. He glanced at the clock. Still another hour before anyone else came on duty. "Call me at home if you find anything. I'll finish my report later today."

"Geeze, Starnes, you could just let him sleep in a cell," Bailey persisted.

Buck shook his head. This guy needed a helping hand and not to be just thrown into a holding cell for the night. He stood up and motioned for John to come with him. The man rose on unsteady feet.

"Keep looking, Bailey," Buck reminded, "I have a feeling about this one."

"Yeah, you and your feelings," was his fellow officer's parting remark, a frown of disapproval darkening his face, but he kept searching the reports nevertheless.

Buck ignored him, and once more helped John into the back of his squad car. He was acting on pure gut instinct here, and Bailey's words kept ringing in his ears. He had confidence in the good nature of his wife, but he certainly hoped he wasn't pushing her farther than she was willing to go.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, the sun was peeking over the tops of the nearby mountains. He glanced at his watch and saw it was 6:30. His family would just be getting up for the day. He turned off the engine and took a deep breath. This was going to be interesting.

"C'mon, John." He got out of the car and opened the back door. He peered inside when no one emerged. His passenger was once more pressed up against the far corner. "This is my house," Buck explained. "You'll be safe here," he promised kindly.

The dark haired man scooted slowly across the seat and finally climbed out of the squad car. Buck placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"The only thing scary here is the number of females," he warned with a chuckle. He led his companion up the brick walkway to the large, wood frame house.

The smell of bacon and the voice of Cookie Monster greeted them as they opened the door. Buck knew his family's routine seldom varied. Teresa would be in the kitchen cooking breakfast. The girls would be sprawled over the furniture in their pajamas glued to Sesame Street, though his oldest, at nearly nine, tried to pretend she didn't watch it anymore. They must have heard the door, for the air was suddenly filled with delighted screaming.

"Poppi, Poppi! Poppi's home!"

Four miniature tornadoes rushed to greet him, and Buck found himself busy trying to make sure each of his daughters got the same fierce hug. Sylvia was first. His princess, all girl, from her carefully painted toenails to her neatly combed hair. Five year old Rosa was the complete opposite of her sister. She'd started kindergarten this fall and was already the queen of the monkey bars and the star of all their outdoor games. No matter how often Teresa combed the child's hair, it never looked neat. She had the fiercest temper of all his girls, but she was her father's gem, his buddy and playmate.

Three year old Kara was the tender heart of the bunch. She found and nursed every wounded creature in their back yard and cried when any of her sisters were hurt or sick. The baby, Maria, was not quite a year old, and mostly just followed Kara around.

Buck loved his daughters and considered them all beauties. Each had inherited Teresa's dark Hispanic hair and eyes, and his fair skin. And while his wife barely measured five feet tall, Buck was certain the girls were going to be taller than their mother when they were full grown. Already Sylvia could nearly meet Teresa eye to eye.

As the girls clamored for his attention, they became aware he wasn't alone and quickly grew quiet. Holding Maria in his arms, Buck glanced over at John, afraid all the commotion may have frightened him, but Buck's guest was standing calmly inside the hallway, a shy smile on his face. It was the first time the officer had seen one grace the man's features.

"Okay, chicas, say hi to John here," Buck instructed. "He's gonna be visiting us for a while."

"Hi, John," three young voices chorused, while Maria gurgled happily.

Rosa, always the bravest, wandered over to hold out her hand to the tall stranger. "Come an' watch TV with us, John. Mama's almost got breakfast ready."

John hesitated only a moment before he reached to take the child's hand.

"Scamble eggs," Kara piped up. Emboldened by her sister's actions, she grabbed John's other hand.

"Easy, girls," Buck urged softly. "John's had some bad times and he needs to go a little slow."

Kara's face immediately took on a look of sorrow. "You git hurted, John?" she asked.

John shrugged, obviously flustered. Buck stepped in to rescue him.

"Go ahead, John. It's okay. I'll be in the kitchen."

The trio made their way into the living room. John sat down on the sofa and was immediately flanked on each side by Rosa and Kara. After seeing his limp, Kara naturally assumed that was where their new friend had been hurt. She patted his leg soothingly.

Satisfied that they were all right for the moment, Buck made his way to the kitchen, still holding Maria. Sylvia stuck to his side, a little shier than her sisters. He saw his wife, busy over the stove, and come up behind her to snake an arm around her waist. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Good morning," he greeted cheerily. "Smells great."

"Hola, querida," Teresa replied with a smile. "You're home early, aren't you?"

Buck nodded. "A little," he agreed, then plunged ahead. "I brought home company."

Teresa regarded him curiously. "Who? Jeff?"

Buck shook his head. "Nah. I left him at the station working on some stuff."

"Then who?" His wife's dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Miguel, who did you bring?"

"His name's John, Mama," Sylvia provided helpfully.

"Juan? Juan who?"

Buck shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know his last name."

"You don't know?" Teresa turned from the stove, brandishing a spatula. "Miguel..." she began.

"Hold on, honey," he advised. "I wouldn't bring anybody dangerous into our home. I found him wandering alone over on Magnolia. He's a little confused, but I think it's because somebody hurt him. I saw..." He paused and glanced down at his daughter, who was listening much too attentively. "Let's just say I'm pretty positive he's been treated pretty badly."

Teresa listened to him, but her face remained uncertain. She wiped her hands on a towel, and set down her spatula. "Well, introduce me, and I'll see for myself."

Smiling at her willingness to at least give the man a chance, Buck led his wife into the living room. There he saw John and the girls sitting on the sofa where he'd left them. The troubled man glanced up, an uncertain look on his face.

"It's okay, John," Buck assured. "This is my wife, Teresa. Honey, this is John."

"Hola, Juan," Teresa greeted.

"He said to call him Johnny," Rosa informed her mother knowingly.

"He did?" Teresa finally smiled. "Welcome to our home, Juanito," she offered warmly. "Are you hungry?"

John's eyes moved to Buck for approval. The officer grinned. "My Teresa's the best cook in town."

One corner of John's mouth lifted in a crooked smile before he turned back to Teresa.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"Okay, what's everybody standing around for?" Teresa waved them all into the kitchen. "Let's go eat."

The girls raced ahead of the adults and took their places at the table. Rosa immediately scooted her place setting over to make room for her new friend.

"Can Johnny sit by me, Mama?" she asked hopefully.

"No, me, me," Kara countered. She turned her big dark eyes on John. "Sit by me, Johnny, please."

"Girls," Buck warned sternly and they fell into a reluctant silence. "John will sit where Mama puts him."

Teresa was shaking her head at her daughters' behavior. She brought an extra plate and set it beside Sylvia, with Buck at the head of the table next to their guest.

"Here you go, Juanito. You can eat in peace."

Looking a little overwhelmed, John limped over to take his seat. He did manage to give the younger girls a self-conscious smile, which went a long way in easing their disappointment.

Teresa served up scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits, but Buck knew there would be one more dish. His poor wife never gave up trying to get her family to eat a little closer to her roots, but it was a losing battle. When she brought over the bowl of chili, the older three children groaned loudly.

"Oh, mama, that's icky," Rosa declared, holding her nose.

"Icky," Kara echoed, copying her sister's gesture.

Buck tried hard not to laugh, but he couldn't help it. "I don't know why you keep trying, honey," he chuckled.

Teresa sat down in her place and heaped a big spoonful of the steaming chili onto her plate.

"What can I say, Miguel? I'm the only one in this family who has any taste."

Buck only laughed harder.

Teresa looked offended, but Buck knew it was only a game. Sure enough, a smile appeared in a moment as she rolled her eyes at their lack of culinary spirit. She offered the bowl to their guest.

"Would you like some chili, Juanito?" she asked. "You won't hurt my feelings if you say no."

Buck leaned over to reassure John, not wanting him to take it because he was afraid not to. "It really is all right to say no," the officer said with a chuckle. "She's used to all of us turning her down."

John's eye moved between Buck and Teresa, then he held out his plate. "Marco says chili and eggs are good," he said, softly.

"Is Marco a friend of yours?" Buck asked, jumping at any chance of finding out more about this man.

John didn't answer. He frowned for a moment, as if he was trying to remember something, then looked over at Buck, his eyes bewildered.

"I... I'm sorry, I..." He shook his head. "I don't..."

Teresa stepped in smoothly and dished up a helping of chili onto John's plate. "Well, whoever Marco is, he must have good taste." She gave the dark haired man a warm smile.

Buck met his wife's eyes, grateful for her generous spirit. She winked at him, then turned her attention to her plate.

The rest of the meal went without any problems. Buck watched as John ate his fill along with everyone else, glad the man seemed to be comfortable. The period of calm ended at the same time the food ran out. Soon, Teresa was hustling Sylvia and Rosa to get ready for school. Taking advantage of her sister's absence, Kara slid down from her seat and came over to sit beside John.

"Can you play wif me, Johnny?" she asked, her face hopeful.

Buck glanced over from where he was getting the baby down from her high chair.

"Not now, chickadee," he told her. "John's probably very tired. He needs to sleep."

Kara's lower lip stuck out in a pout, but then she brightened. "Was he working all night like you, Poppi?"

Buck smiled at the three year old. "Something like that. Can you play with Maria quietly this morning like you do for me?"

Kara nodded vigorously. "Okay. I promise I won't let Maria wake Johnny up." She padded over and gave Buck a hug around his neck. "You have a good sleep, Poppi," she instructed him firmly. Buck managed to keep back a laugh and nodded obediently. He then watched as his daughter walked over and startled their guest by giving him the same ferocious hug. "You have a good nap, too, Johnny," she told him. She patted his knee once more. "Make your owie go away."

John gave the child a hesitant smile and Buck was surprised to see a tear running down the man's cheek. The officer decided it was time to intervene.

"Okay, you two, go play now." He scooted his youngest off towards the living room, then placed a hand on John's shoulder. "C'mon, I'll show you around."

The tour was brief, mostly the bathroom and small den that doubled as a guest room. Teresa already had linens set out for the convertible sofa. Buck had the bed made up in no time.

"If you wanna shave, I've got an electric razor you can borrow. You can sack out here," he told his guest. "Sleep as long as you want. Soon as my girls get off to school, I'm gonna hit the hay myself." He paused. John was staring at the bed, his face unreadable. Buck wondered again what this poor guy had been through to make him seem so unsure of himself and others. "It's gonna be all right, John," he said confidently. "You're safe here. Nobody's gonna hurt you." He walked to the door. "If you need anything at all, just ask Teresa, okay?"

John nodded. When he lifted his head, his dark eyes were filled with unshed tears. "Thank you," he managed to get out.

Buck nodded once, then walked out of the room, closing the door and allowing the man some privacy. He stood in the hall for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

"Is he okay?"

Buck looked up to find Teresa standing beside him. She must have seen the turmoil in his face, for she reached out and brushed a hand down his cheek.

"Are you all right, Miguel?"

Buck pulled her into an embrace. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just beat. Let me kiss my girls, then I'm going to bed." He kissed his wife soundly. "Te quiero," he whispered in her ear.

* * *

It seemed to Buck that he'd barely laid his head on the pillow before he felt his shoulder being shaken and someone calling his name.

"Miguel... Miguel, wake up."

"Mmmm... wha..." He opened his eyes to see his wife bent over him. He sat up quickly, thinking something must have happened. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing... don't worry. Chief Pratt is here is all. He wants to talk to you."

"The chief?" Buck flopped back down on the bed and rubbed his hands over his face and up through his short cropped red hair. He blew out a deep breath. "Okay, hon, I figured he'd be here sooner or later. Lemme throw some water on my face." He swung his legs out of bed. "How's John doing?"

"Still sleeping." Teresa shook her head. "Pobrecito, he was having bad dreams. I could hear him crying, but I didn't know if I should try and wake him up."

Buck rose and got himself dressed, trying not to dwell on what could make a man cry in his sleep. He pulled on his shirt. "Just let him sleep," he advised as he walked into the bathroom. "Tell the chief I'll be right out."

A few minutes later, Buck walked into his living room and shook hands with his boss. "Hey, Chief," he greeted. "I was expecting you to show up sometime."

Harlan Pratt had been police chief of Tulare for twenty years. Tall and lean, with a thick head of silver hair, he looked younger than his sixty one years. He was a practical man, ready to listen to his men when he felt they might have insight into a situation, but he could also be hard nosed when it came to things he felt strongly about. Buck had a great respect for the older man, and they had a good working relationship. The chief gave Buck a lot of leeway because of his years of experience in Los Angeles.

"Well, I wanted to let you sleep, but I need to know what's happening with this John Doe you found."

Buck glanced at the clock and saw it was after 1:00. The chief really had let him sleep quite a while, all things considered. He motioned for his boss to take a seat on the couch and Buck settled down into the old wooden rocker.

"How much did Bailey tell you?"

The chief shrugged his thin shoulders. "Just that you picked this guy up this morning and you have no idea who he is." The older man chuckled. "I had to order Bailey to go home. That boy may lack a little in the social graces, but he's like a dog with a bone when you give him something to do. He was gonna sit there and go through flyers 'til he dropped."

Buck laughed softly, knowing his boss was probably right.

"Well, Chief," Buck began. "It's pretty much like Bailey told ya. I found him wandering, but he wasn't drunk. Only thing he's told us so far is his name is John." Buck leaned forward intently. "One thing I'm certain of, somebody's been using him for a whipping post. His back is scarred up something fierce... some of 'em newly healed. He's got a bum leg and he's half-starved... but I don't think he's a nut case. I think he must've fallen into somebody's hands... somebody pretty bad. He's got some scars on his ribs, too, that look an awful lot like they were made with some kind of knife."

Chief Pratt shook his head. "I hope we're not dealing with any of those psychos like that Manson gang." He pulled at his chin thoughtfully. "You know, if anybody local was missing, we woulda heard about it."

"He's not from around here," Buck agreed.

"Can I meet him?" the older man asked curiously.

"He's sleeping right now, but I can let you take peek at him."

Buck led his boss down the hall and carefully opened up the door to the den. John was curled up in a fetal position, his mop of dark hair contrasting sharply with the white pillowcase. He must have shaved, and without all the stubble he looked younger than Buck had first thought.

"Looks like he might be part Injun," Pratt commented in a low voice. "I should check with the Tribal Council down in Porterville. Maybe they're missing one of their boys. You know how closed mouthed they can be."

Buck felt his mouth draw into a tight line. One of the few drawbacks of living here was some of the small town bigotries toward other races. Even the chief wasn't completely without it. Buck pulled the door closed and led his boss back into the living room.

"I'm sure it's worth asking them," he conceded as they sat down again. "But for some reason, I don't think he's from anywhere around here."

Chief Pratt mulled that over for a moment. "Well, you're usually right on with your instincts, Buck. You should probably have him checked out by a doctor, though. Maybe take him over to Visalia."

"I'm afraid taking him to a big hospital might spook him," Buck replied. "I was thinking of having Doc Watson come by and look him over, at least for now."

The chief nodded approval. Glen Watson was a semi-retired general practitioner who ran Tulare's small clinic. For anything serious, there was the bigger city of Visalia, which boasted a hospital and several busy medical establishments, and for major trauma or illness, Fresno was less than twenty five miles away. Most of Doctor Watson's business dealt with children's ear infections and sore throats, the aches and pains of the elderly and the few hypochondriacs who made this town their home, but Glen was a good and caring physician.

"Good idea. Let Glen take a look at him. You think your man will let you take his picture? We can circulate it around the county."

"I'll see when he wakes up," Buck agreed. "I wanna take it slow and easy with him."

The chief nodded once, and rose from the couch. "Okay, Buck, we'll play it your way. Let me know if I can help in any way."

"Sure thing, Chief." Buck walked his boss to the front door. "I'll keep you posted," he promised as the Chief started down the walk.

Buck closed the door and took moment to lean against it, his troubled thoughts focused on the man asleep in his guest room.

* * *

The rest of the day was uneventful. John woke up around the same time as Sylvia got home from school, and the girls claimed his attention for the rest of the afternoon. Buck didn't interfere and didn't make any demands on their guest's time. Being with the children seemed to put John at ease, whereas too many questions only caused the man to withdraw into that frightened silence Buck had first encountered. He even decided to put off calling Doc Watson, at least until tomorrow. He wanted to allow John as much time to feel comfortable with them before placing him in any stressful situations.

By the time they were all gathered around the table for dinner, Buck could tell John was beginning to relax. He was answering more questions, still with one or two word responses, but Buck held out hope that, given enough time and encouragement, John would feel safe enough to open up a little more. At the moment though, Teresa's fried chicken was holding everyone's attention. With the exception of the baby, this was his family's favorite and John seemed to be enjoying it as well. Buck was pleased to see his wife serving their guest second helpings. The man definitely needed a few home cooked meals under his belt.

As Buck was reaching for his third piece of chicken, the door bell rang unexpectedly. Buck started to get up, but Teresa waved him to stay in his seat since she was already up.

"Keep eating, Miguel," she said firmly. "I'll send whoever it is away." She wiped her hands on a towel and kept muttering to herself about thoughtless people who interrupt dinner as she headed to the front door. The bell rang again insistently before Teresa could even get there.

Buck heard the door open and his wife's surprised voice.

"Jeff! What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, Teresa," Bailey apologized excitedly, and Buck had to smile. All his coworkers knew his wife's feelings on family time. He decided to give Bailey a break and rescue him.

"In here, kid," Buck called and could just imagine the look the rookie got from Teresa as he rushed into the kitchen.

"Hey, Buck." Bailey glanced around the table, smiled at the kids, but paused when he noticed John sitting silently at the table. The young officer turned back to Buck. "Sorry to bother you, but I kinda need to see ya... private like." Bailey jerked his head toward the living room.

Buck knew at once by Bailey's behavior, that this was about John. The gangly young man had a barely suppressed air of anticipation about him and looked like he was close to bursting if he didn't get to talk. Buck scooted back his chair.

"Okay, kid." He caught his wife's disapproving look and winked at her. "I won't be long," he promised. Then he followed Bailey into the living room and stood facing the younger man. "What's so important that it couldn't wait til tomorrow?"

"Geeze, Buckie, when you get a feeling, you really do it up right. I looked through all those flyers at the station, til the Chief made me go home. There wasn't anything there anyway. You know, we never get all the info we're supposed to. So I went home and slept for a couple hours, but I couldn't stay asleep. So I drove up to Fresno to see what they had." The look Bailey gave Buck was full of awestruck admiration. "You hit the jackpot." He shoved a flyer out for Buck to see.

There was a picture of John, but looking far healthier and happier than the man at the dinner table. He was wearing a light blue uniform shirt and a cocky grin on his face. Buck read the info and gave a low whistle. It was satisfying that his hunch had been proven right, but he couldn't help comparing the man in the picture to the poor, frightened soul he'd found wandering the street.

"There's the name of the detective in charge," Buck pointed out, more to himself than Bailey. "Looks like it was still active as of," he checked the date of the flyer, "as of February."

That in itself was a good sign. If there was still somebody working this kind of a case after a year and half, somebody must want this guy back pretty damn bad.

"You call the number?" he asked.

Bailey shook his head. "I didn't think that was my place. You found him. And I didn't know if we should check with the Chief first."

Buck nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess we better do this by the book." He glanced over his shoulder to where his family was waiting for him. "Give me a minute and I'll go down to the station with you."

* * *

When Buck returned to his house several hours later, he found everything quiet. The girls were most likely in bed already, and he knew Teresa was probably upset with him for being gone so long, but there hadn't been any way around it. They'd had to find Chief Pratt, who was at his mother-in-law's house for dinner, then wait for him to come down to the station house, then try and track down this Lieutenant Crockett with the Los Angeles County Sheriff's office. They'd gotten a lot of run around and were finally told the Detective was gone for the day. Buck didn't want to leave a message of this sensitive nature, so they'd had a conference and decided to wait and try again in the morning. All in all, it had been a frustrating evening.

Buck found Teresa watching television in the living room. She had the volume low, and she glanced up and smiled at him as he entered the room. He sighed, glad she wasn't too mad at him.

"Any luck?" she asked as he sat down beside her.

Buck shook his head. "Not really. The guy wasn't in his office. We'll call in the morning." The officer glanced around. "Where's John?"

Teresa's face grew worried. "He went to bed. I know he was tired, but I think he was more concerned that you weren't here. That poor man. I think you were right, Miguel. Someone was very cruel to him to make him so, so..." Teresa struggle to find the words in English, then she shrugged, unable to express herself.

Buck squeezed her hand. "I know, querida. He's a lost soul right now. But hopefully we can help him find his way home.

* * *

Los Angeles, California

April 1978

Wednesday

Joanne DeSoto stood looking out the window into the back yard as she cleaned up the kitchen after their late breakfast. Roy had come home beat after being out most of the night on a fire, and had crashed for a couple of hours before he'd even thought of eating. It was now nearly ten and she was just now finishing the dishes.

Chris and Jenny were at school, though Easter vacation started next week. The weather was mild and they'd made plans to take the kids to Disneyland. They hadn't been in at least two years, it was nearly Jennifer's birthday, and it seemed like a good time to make a visit to the Magic Kingdom.

Joanne smiled at the memory of how excited the kids had gotten when she and Roy had mentioned the possibility. Chris was eleven and a half, Jenny just shy of nine, and both kids had been lobbying to be treated like the grown ups they felt they were. But their newfound maturity had disappeared instantly and they'd talked about nothing else for days now.

The trip would be a first for the newest member of their family. Joanne watched as one year old Melissa tottered toward Roy on unsteady feet, her arms outstretched, her face beaming at her accomplishment. This dark headed bundle of energy had been a complete surprise. Many years earlier, both Joanne and Roy had come to an unspoken understanding that their family was complete. But while she had been unexpected, and a new baby something they had to get accustomed to, Missy was welcomed into their family with as much love as either Chris or Jenny.

Joanne dried her hands, hung up the towel and wandered over to the screen door that opened out onto the deck. Roy was laying back on one of the chaise lounges, his arms holding Missy suspended above him. Judging from the noises Roy was making and the delighted giggles coming from the baby, they were playing airplane.

Joanne felt a lump rise in her throat at the sight of the two of them, and she had to wipe away an errant tear. There was another reason she'd always be grateful for having this little girl in their lives. She'd brought joy back to Roy's soul. Those dark days that Joanne had feared would last forever had lightened. Not that the pain would ever completely disappear, not for anyone in their family. They'd all been touched by the tragedy, but none so deeply as Roy, and Joanne had begun to despair that her husband would ever be able to climb out of the pit of guilt and grief he'd buried himself in. But with Missy's birth, the sun had peeked out from behind the storm clouds and, little by little, Roy's heart had healed.

Joanne knew the children had taken their cue from their dad, and when they saw him smiling and laughing again, they knew it was okay for them to have those feelings, too. After a long, painful year, the entire family was on the road to recovery.

Roy caught sight of Joanne and got up with Missy in his arms.

"Look who's done in the kitchen," he baby-talked as he walked over and slipped an arm around Joanne's waist. "Thanks for breakfast, hon," he told her and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I think I'll see if this little one will go down for a nap before lunch, then maybe I'll put Mommy to bed." He grinned slyly.

"I'll hold you to that," Joanne laughed. They both knew that since the baby had come most of their "naps" never materialized for one reason or another. She reached out and brushed Missy's unruly hair away from her face. "You be good for Papa, Missy Jo, and go night night."

The baby waved her arms at Joanne and babbled "ni ni", her customary response. Joanne kissed her, and Roy started up the stairs.

The phone rang and Joanne picked it up, almost laughing at the timing. She would have to tell Roy "I told you so" if this was the Department calling him in to cover for somebody.

"Hello, DeSoto's," she answered.

"Hi, Joanne, it's Ron."

The smile vanished from Joanne's face and her throat grew tight. It had been over a month since he had called and she had begun to hope they would never hear from him again.

"Hi," she greeted dully, trying to cover her emotions. The situation wasn't this man's fault. He just happened to always be the messenger. "I guess you want to talk to Roy."

"If he's there."

"Sure, I'll get him." Joanne set the phone down and walked slowly to the bottom of the stairs. Roy was just coming down. Joanne had to resist the temptation to ignore the call. She knew that as soon as she told her husband who wanted to talk to him, the light would leave his eyes. But she couldn't do that. Roy would never have forgiven her.

"Phone's for you," she told him.

"Okay," he acknowledged. He started to breeze past her, and she grabbed his arm.

"It's Crockett," she stated softly and cringed when she saw that look come into his eyes. One word - one name, and all the pain was there again.

"Oh." Roy paused for a beat, then continued over to pick up the phone. He took a moment to collect himself. Joanne knew how hard this was on Roy and for an instant she hated the man on the other end.

"Yeah, Lieutenant. What's up?"

Joanne watched as Roy listened, wondering what bit of trivial nothing the man had called to tell them this time. What update of absolutely no worth had he disrupted their lives to give them. She hated the bitterness she'd developed over the months and months of the investigation, but she couldn't help it. It was Crockett's choice to carry on a one man crusade and never give up, but she wished with all her heart that he didn't feel the need to take Roy along with him on these hopeless quests.

That this phone call was different from the countless others was apparent to Joanne the minute she saw the color leave Roy's face. She reached for him as he fell back against the stairs, sinking down onto them as if he had no strength left in his legs.

"Roy? Honey, what is it?"

He didn't answer. He sat in silence for a long time, the phone still clutched in his hand.

"Roy? Roy... tell me," she begged, silently pleading not to hear the words she knew Crockett must have said. After all this time, there could only have been one end.

The voice on the line was saying something, and Roy suddenly came back to himself. He straightened up and spoke into the phone again.

"Yeah, I'm here. Yeah. Okay, I'll see ya then."

He tried to hang up the receiver, fumbled and finally got it on straight. When he at last turned his gaze to Joanne, she could see a myriad of emotions in his blue eyes.

"Roy?" As much as she didn't want to hear it, she knew he would have to tell her, and that maybe, after all, it would actually be a blessing to finally have some closure.

His face was unreadable for the longest time. He tried to speak, had to clear his throat before he could get the words out.

"They found Johnny."

There it was. The news they'd dreaded for so long. Joanne felt tears well up in her eyes, the grief raw, even after all these months. She reached for her husband's hand, ready to give him whatever support he would need.

"Oh, Roy," she whispered, then stopped.

Roy didn't look sad. In fact, the faint traces of a smile were lifting the corners of his mouth, hesitantly, as if he was afraid to let the expression loose.

"Roy? Roy, what is it? What's happened?"

Roy looked at her and she could see his eyes were filled, but not with the tears of sorrow she'd expected.

"He's alive," he whispered softly. "Jo... he's alive. Johnny's alive." His voice broke and he grabbed her into an embrace, giving in at last and letting the smile and the tears come.

* * *

Roy hung his arm out the open window of Lieutenant Ron Crockett's '69 Mustang and drummed his fingers nervously on the side of the car door. It was already warm, and would get warmer as they neared Bakersfield and headed into the Central Valley. Shortly, the wind whipping through his hair would no longer have a cooling effect. Already Roy missed Carson and its proximity to the ocean. It kept even the hottest days of summer to a bearable level. He didn't know how anybody lived out here.

He leaned back against the headrest. The detective had stopped by the DeSoto home around noon to pick Roy up for the trip, and the couple of hours between receiving the phone call and when Crockett had pulled into the driveway had seemed the longest of Roy's life. He did manage to call Dr. Brackett and alert him to what was happening and to make arrangements to bring Johnny in for an examination, but apart from that, most of what he'd had to do was sit around and wait. He'd thought it was bad then, but now his patience was being tried even more. There was absolutely nothing he could do to make this trip go faster. He couldn't get to Johnny any sooner than Crockett's car would take him.

Roy glanced over at his companion. The black detective kept his eyes on the road ahead, but Roy knew he had to be feeling a lot of different emotions, not the least of which was probably vindication for all those months of sticking to the case and not caving into pressure from the brass to close it and mark it unsolved.

Roy's own emotions were all over the map: from disbelief to joy to anxiety, and even anger. Anger at the sick bastard who caused it all, who took Johnny and hurt him in ways Roy was afraid to find out. Their information was sketchy. The police in Tulare hadn't gone into particulars, but Roy didn't have to be told to know that his friend wouldn't come out of this ordeal unscathed.

No matter how hard he tried not to, Roy couldn't help wondering what might have happened to Johnny during the last year and a half, what hell his best friend had suffered through because of Johnny's personal sense of loyalty and willingness to sacrifice himself to save his friend and partner.

Roy closed his eyes. They had at least two more hours of driving on this trip. Two more hours of doing nothing but sitting and thinking, thinking about the events that led up to that day - that horrendous day.

* * *

Los Angeles, California

August 1976

The summer sun beat down mercilessly on the clean up crews from L.A. County Fire Stations 36, 10 and 51. The fire had been a stubborn one, ending up claiming two large industrial buildings before it was beaten. The only good thing about the incident was that because it was Sunday, there had only been a few security personnel on the property and no one inside the buildings themselves. As a result, no one had been injured. Now, after several hours battling the blaze, most of the companies had been released. The three crews remaining were mopping up.

John Gage paused in his work and wiped an arm across his sweat-streaked forehead. His and Roy's paramedic services hadn't been needed this run, although if everybody was sweltering as much as Johnny, he was positive they'd be summoned to treat a few cases of heat exhaustion. The turnouts that were designed to protect him from the flames unfortunately trapped his body heat and perspiration inside and by now were acting like his own personal sauna. Under his helmet, his normally shaggy dark hair was plastered to his head. He wanted to take the blasted thing off, but there were two other captains besides his own on the scene, and Chief McConnike was still hanging around as well. It wasn't that Johnny cared that much about getting barked at about rules and regulations, but he didn't want his actions to reflect badly on Cap. So, he kept his helmet on and went back to sifting through the still-smoking ruins.

"Hey, Gage, you take more breaks than my grandma."

Johnny glanced up to glare at Chet Kelly, too tired to even try and think of a comeback. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

"You're one to talk, Chet. I saw you leaning pretty heavy on your shovel a few minutes ago," Marco observed, and Johnny couldn't keep back a giggle that Kelly had been put down by his own buddy.

"Oh, funny, Marco," Chet retorted. "I'll have you know, I was adjusting the handle."

"Sure you were, Chet, sure you were."

"Hey, I was just pointing out that Gage and DeSoto have gotten soft, man. They almost never have to do any of the real work."

Johnny rolled his eyes at the familiar refrain. Even though he knew Kelly was baiting him, he couldn't keep back a retort. "Oh yeah, Chet, well next time we have to jump into the ocean out of a helicopter, you can do it. See how much you like getting beat up against the rocks."

"At least that'd be cooler than this," Kelly argued.

"Try doing it in the middle of winter," Roy suggested dryly. "You'd be begging to be at a fire just to get warm."

Johnny laughed and high-fived his partner. Naturally more reticent, Roy didn't ordinarily enter into these debates.

"Okay, okay," Chet conceded, "But how often do you guys have to do that? Two, maybe three times a year? All I'm saying's that real firefighters work a lot harder than paramedics."

The banter continued as the men all continued working. Johnny took some consolation in the fact that everyone else looked as bad as he felt; hot, tired, covered with soot and sweat. They all probably smelled awful as well, but so far the acrid odor of smoke and charred wood was all his nose could detect. The thought of standing under a cool shower back at the station served as an added incentive to get this mop up job done.

Johnny wiped his arm across his forehead again and stuck his pike pole into the nearest pile of rubble. He paused when he felt the soft resistance to his probe and stooped down to see what he'd found. He lifted a long piece of scorched drywall and shoved it aside.

"Aw, damn." The paramedic's shoulders slumped wearily. Sticking out from under the debris was part of a badly burned human leg. "Roy?" Johnny called, and motioned for his partner to join him.

Roy picked his way over, the parts of his fair face that weren't streaked with soot were flushed with the heat. "Whatcha got?" he asked, then didn't need an answer as he saw what Johnny had uncovered. Roy's tired face grew somber as he pulled out his HT.

Johnny began uncovering the rest of the victim, only half listening as his partner notified Cap that they had a Code F. As soon as Roy was done, he bent down to give Johnny a hand. Marco and Chet had noticed something was going on and made their way over.

"Damn," Kelly muttered at the grisly sight. "They told us nobody was in here." He stooped to help with the soggy debris.

"Maybe a vagrant," Roy offered as he hefted aside a half burnt timber. "Some poor guy nobody knew was here."

With the four of them working, it took only a few minutes before they had the lower half of the victim uncovered. Most of the clothing had been burned away and from the condition of the body, Johnny didn't think they'd have much chance of making an ID on the poor guy.

"John? Roy? You get him out?"

Johnny looked up to see Captain Stanley standing over them, a concerned look on his lean features. Stoker was with him as well, carrying a stokes and a body bag. They had both been out with Big Red, packing hose and getting her ready for the trip back to the barn.

"Not yet, Cap," Roy answered. "There's a lot of junk that came down on top of him."

"I notified headquarters and the police. I'm sure they'll have a forensics team out here. They said to try not to disturb the scene too much."

"Yeah, right, Cap," Chet snorted. They'd already moved aside a large amount of rubble.

Johnny shook his head. "They'll have to just try and... Shit." His eyes had caught sight of something he didn't want to see. He leaned forward and reached under a piece of wall board, pushing it aside. His hands could reach the torso now, and he felt the tough canvas material that had managed to survive the fire that had killed the man wearing it. A knot suddenly formed in his gut as he recognized what it was. He sat back on heels, swiping his arm across his forehead.

Roy leaned closer to his partner. "Johnny... what's wrong?"

The dark haired paramedic pointed at what he'd uncovered. "Turnouts," he whispered, cleared his throat and spoke louder. "Turnouts. Cap, he's one of ours."

There was a long moment of disbelieving silence. Finally Cap spoke, his voice quiet, but firm.

"Let's get him out of there, guys."

They resumed their work with grim determination. This was no longer some unknown drunk or bum, some poor guy who wandered in for a warm place to sleep it off. This was family, a brother, and though they didn't know his name or what company he was from, he deserved their best effort and respect.

It didn't take long for word to spread, and the men from 51 were joined by the other crews. They talked quietly among themselves as they pitched in to help, wondering who it was and why they hadn't heard someone was unaccounted for. Johnny listened to their questions, wondering the same thing himself. No engine company would have left the fire scene with a man missing. It didn't make sense.

One last piece of ceiling was lifted off, freeing the fallen man completely.

"You ready to move him?" Cap asked quietly.

"Yeah," Roy answered in a weary voice. "Johnny, you got that end?"

The younger paramed