Two Things (Three Things), for siennavie (part 2)

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Part Two

Sam and Ciaran were at a long table set up just beyond the tennis court, in the shade of the country club awning near the doors that led to the patron locker rooms. They had forms for conference participants to sign up for the doubles tournament, and between them they had a rickety old laptop that, by Sam's estimation, was more better suited to use as paperweight. Ciaran was pale, expression pinched as he prodded at the trackpad and tried to get the thing to work. That left Dean and Anna to hold court on the tennis courts. Anna was holding court. She was like some kind of medieval queen, holding her tennis racket like it was a sword and waiting for the (mostly men) to notice her and worship appropriately. Dean hung back a little, since he was a new employee and also because he couldn't shake the lifelong suspicion he had that cops could sense the criminal in him. Luckily for him, Anna had fantastic legs, and most of these men had left their wives at home.

Dean was less than pleased when that suit who'd been watching him earlier was there, wearing tennis shorts and a polo shirt and carrying a racket. He was even less pleased when the two young suits who'd been lingering around the tennis court were wearing tennis-type clothes and hovering at the edges of the crowd. They looked a little uncomfortable, at least. They were younger than everyone else in the crowd, which might have been the main reason for their discomfort. Maybe those three suits were responsible for this entire tennis fiasco. Perhaps that's why the old suit had been staring.

But Dean didn't think so. There was something penetrating, assessing about the older suit's gaze. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think the man was reading his mind.

He turned his attention to Anna. Her plan was to do a mini tennis boot camp and see how each player fared at basic tennis skills, then pass evaluations on to Ciaran and Sam so they could seed the bracket. Tennis boot camp. Dean knew he was no help on that score. Pretty much all of these white collar law enforcement types were better at tennis than him. They all probably played at their own country clubs back home. Cops and lawyers. Worst combination ever.

Anna cleared her throat, and the tennis participants fell silent.

"Good evening. I am Anna, your tennis instructor for the duration of this tournament. Participants are allowed to consult any one of the club's instructors at any time during the tournament, except in the middle of gameplay. This is Dean, my fellow instructor. Ciaran and Sam are at the table behind you. If you have not registered, please do so before retiring to your rooms at the end of the night. We will be here until ten PM."

Dean smiled, polite and professional. At the end of summer in southern Utah, it got dark late, though not as late as in Kansas, where it was flat and the sky went on forever. He wasn't looking forward to staying out here under the floodlights that late. Afterward, he and Sam would have to go back to their motel and puzzle over Ciaran and Anna some more. Maybe by then Sam would have heard back from his European connection. (Years later, when they'd have to make an emergency trip to Scotland, Dean would be damn glad for Sam's European connections.) So far they had only exhibited signs of telekinesis, but did they have any other powers? For all that Sam had only had psychic visions so far, there was that one moment at the Millers' house when he'd done telekinesis. Was it a proximity thing? Did being around each other give the kids like Sam the ability to borrow each other's powers? Ansem had said he'd had nightmares about the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Sam's only nightmares had been about Jess's death and his psychic visions. Did Anna or Ciaran have nightmares? They were both so pale as it was, it was hard to tell if they were tired or if they just looked like that.

"Also, I have been informed that the tournament participants want to sweeten the deal a little," Anna continued. "The winners of this tournament will not only be able to claim pride of superior tennis skills, but pride of superior profession. Since we will be seeding the brackets with the two teams facing off amongst themselves before facing each other in the final match, we will need you two separate into two groups, because this tournament is...cops versus lawyers."

A cheer rose up.

Dean fought back a shudder. So many cops. So little time to make a good escape. And lawyers, the kind of people Sam had always wanted to be. They couldn't tempt Sam to run away now.

Someone called out, "Hey, Mister Profiler, who's a cop and who's a lawyer?"

Laughter sparked in the crowd, but heads turned, and Dean saw people were looking at the suit who'd been watching him earlier. The suit was in his forties, tall, lean, with black hair and serious dark eyes.

"He's both a cop and a lawyer - I think him separating us would be cheating," a woman called out, and there was more laughter.

"Do feds count as cops?" another man asked, and the suit shook his head, the faintest hints of a smile on his face.

But then he reached out to the man next to him, tapped his shoulder, and said, "Cop." He prodded the man to his right and said, "Lawyer." Both men looked startled, but they nodded and stepped apart, and the invisible battle lines were drawn.

A profiler. Damn. Maybe he really could read Dean's mind. Dean forced himself to keep his chin up. He took a step toward the group of lawyers, because they were less likely to sense the criminal in him, less likely to have any profiling training.

Hoots rose up when the sorting was finished and the suit had placed himself in the camp with the rest of the cops, but then an old, fat cop slung an arm around the suit's shoulders and said, "I already called dibs on Agent Hotchner."

"No fair," one of the lawyers called out. "We went to law school together. Guy's a demon on the court."

Dean tensed at the word demon. He fixed his gaze on Hotchner and murmured under his breath, Christo. No response. Dean didn't relax.

Anna clapped her hands. "Excellent! Let's start with serving and receiving serves. Cops stay on this side. Lawyers on the other side. Line up!"

For all that Anna’s job was basically to be a floozy with a tennis racket, the men and women obeyed her without question. Dean thought Sam ought to be helping Anna with assessing tennis players since Sam was an actual tennis player, but Anna put Dean in charge of setting up the pairs - cops serving to lawyers this time around, switching on the next round - and she stepped back and watched the players with critical eyes. It was nine o'clock by the time Anna determined assessments were finished, and the two teams had devolved into good-natured ribbing and name-calling. Dean had never seen cops so okay with being called pigs before. He'd never had occasion to call a lawyer a bloodsucker to his face, and he was faintly disturbed at how the lawyers grinned whenever the cops called them sharks.

Dean headed over to the table where Ciaran and Sam had abandoned the laptop and were huddled over several sheets of paper with pens, rulers, and the registration lists.

"We should probably re-seed after the first round," Ciaran said. "So we get the really good match-ups at the end."

"The formula is pretty simple," Sam said. "Add one to the highest number. Make sure all the other pairings add up to that same number. For the subsequent rounds, assuming there are no upsets, the pairings should add up to the total of the previous round divided by two and added up, and so on down to the final round."

Ciaran blinked at Sam. "What?"

"Look." Sam scribbled on the piece of paper between them. "Assume sixteen pairs. One plus sixteen is seventeen. So your other pairs will be five and twelve - that adds up to seventeen. Eight and nine. See?"

Ciaran nodded.

"Seventeen divided by two and rounded up is -"

Ciaran's eyes lit up. "Nine. So seven would play two and five would play four!"

"Exactly." Sam was grinning the way he had when he was a kid and had broken open a case with a brilliant maneuver of mental gymnastics or research prowess.

Ciaran clapped Sam on the shoulder. "You're a genius." Then he stared down at the lists in dismay. "Bloody hell. This'll take ages."

"I can stay and help," Sam said.

Ciaran shook his head. "No. This is terribly overwhelming for your first day. I'll stay here to make sure everyone gets registered, and then I'll work out the bracket tonight. They plan on doing the prelim games during breakout sessions and the final rounds when the conference has convened for the day."

Dean was impressed that these cops and lawyers would want to run around in this heat after sitting in boring lectures all day, but the ways of the white collars were a mystery to him. Sam glanced up, noticing Dean's presence. He passed Dean's water bottle across the table. "How are they looking?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm just the grunt. Anna's doing the groundwork."

Anna joined him a moment later, flipping through a notebook Dean hadn't even realized she'd been using. She began speaking rapidly to Ciaran.

"Man with the floppy toupée - seed him and his partner at twenty-seven."

Ciaran made a mark on one of the sheets.

"Man who was clearly a blue-collar marine - seed him and his partner at seventeen."

Ciaran pawed through the sheets, made another mark.

Anna had strange descriptions for every single one of the tennis participants, and somehow Ciaran knew which ones she was referring to, because he put numbers next to each name. How could he possibly know who she was talking about? Dean suspected a psychic connection, one that ran even deeper than twins.

But Sam simply looked amused. "What names do you have for me and Dean?"

"Moose and squirrel," Ciaran said absently.

Sam snickered.

Dean frowned. "Wait, who's the squirrel?"

"The short one, obviously." Ciaran was rewriting the list of names in numerical order. Anna leaned over to point out which individuals were in pre-arranged doubles. Only a handful of the participants were in firm pairs. Everyone else was willing to be doubled up based on their rankings. The one suit, Agent Hotchner, was with that one fat cop, and that other pair of suits were stuck together was well. Gwen Finch and Mark Fletchley. Dean committed their names to memory.

"I'm not that short," Dean protested.

"Compared to him, everyone's short," Anna pointed out. She eyed Sam up and down and grinned.

Dean cast Sam a betrayed look. "But Sam's so - so skinny."

That was a lie. Being back in The Life, away from the cushy comforts of college, had helped Sam pack on the muscle he needed for the rigours of hunting. And he was still growing, the little bastard. Growing taller and broader. It was really unfair. Dad hadn't stopped growing till he was in his mid-twenties, and neither had Dean, so Sam had a couple of years' growing left in him.

Would Sam get even bigger and stronger because the demon had given him powers?

Dean eyed Ciaran, who was skinny and had knife-sharp cheekbones and looked like a sneeze would knock him flat. Nope, demon powers did not confer physical strength. (Later he would learn that this was false.) Andy had been a squirrelly little guy, too. And Max.

"Keep telling yourself that," Anna said airily.

Sam shrugged his unfairly massive shoulders and stood up, stretched. "Are you sure you don't want me to stick around, Ciaran?"

"I've got this," Ciaran said. "When I learned about the tournament I asked Leo to give me a few days off from the restaurant, which is fine, since he's training a new server to take over when Freya goes back to the midwest for her 2L year."

Anna's eyes lit up. "We should ask Freya to moonlight with us for the tournament. If two of us are out there being refs, we'll need a couple of extra hands doing the scorekeeping, tabulating, and re-seeding. For a girl headed into law, Freya's actually quite good at maths."

"Sam's quite good at maths," Ciaran said. "She could help him tab."

Anna shook her head. "Sam's better at tennis than you and Dean - I'll need him as a ref."

"Dean's actually pretty good at math," Sam said, and he sounded defensive, which was both flattering and a little annoying.

"I'm not bad at maths," Ciaran protested.

"I'll want you manning the medic stall," Anna said. "Because you've medic training."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Really? And you're waiting tables and playing golf pro in the back forty?"

Ciaran cast Anna a look, and she winced.

"We emigrated here hoping for better job prospects, but apparently certification over there doesn't equate to certification over here, and the process is monstrous," Ciaran said. "No matter. We'll make do. We always do. So go."

"You must have been good at math," Sam said. "To train as a -"

"He is, but I need him to man the medical stall," Anna said. "He's the obvious choice."

Sam bit his lip. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"

"Go." Anna shoved at his shoulder. "Before your brother drags you back to your place by the hair like a cave-man. See you at the café for breakfast."

Dean scowled at Anna. She smirked at him. Sam nodded and headed for the staff locker room.

"What's the big deal about Ciaran being a medic?" Dean asked. He squirmed out of the stupid tennis uniform and into his jeans and a t-shirt. The uniform went into one of the laundry hampers. It was like being back in high school after gym class.

"In the UK, a medic is a doctor," Sam said. "Back home, Ciaran's a doctor."

Dean sucked in a breath. "Really?"

Sam nodded.

"But he's so young."

"School works different over there. Anyway, that means I'll have to keep an eye on Anna while we ref. And you'll be stuck with Freya."

"Too bad Freya has such lousy taste in men," Dean said. "Else I'd get her to spill the beans."

"Let's see what my European contact has first," Sam said. "And maybe we should expand our search for other kids like me. Check overseas."

"Overseas means other languages," Dean said flatly.

"I have serviceable Spanish. You can check other English-speaking countries." Sam put his uniform in the hamper and closed his locker, spun the dial on the combination with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Now, what about those Feds?"

"I thought they were onto us, but it might just be that they have an unnatural enjoyment of tennis," Dean said.

Sam bit his lip. "I hope so. Let's go."

They'd found a motel about halfway between the café and the country club, on Freya's oh-so-hopeful recommendation. Ciaran and Anna ate at the café every morning, and sometimes even dinner as well, because Ciaran got an employee discount on food and Freya usually gave up her employee discount for Anna. Once Anna had approved Sam and Dean for jobs at the country club, they'd both been given standing invitations to join them for breakfast at the café.

The motel wasn't as bad as some they stayed at. Because it wasn't in the best location to pick up tourists, it had reasonable prices. The desert them - cactus-patterned wallpaper, ox skull mounted on the wall - was a little kitschy, but Sam and Dean had definitely stayed in dirtier and uglier, and since the beds were comfy and there was free HBO, Dean wasn't going to complain. Sam had his laptop open on the table and was hunched over it. In the bright glow of the screen, he looked pale, washed-out. Tired.

"Anything?" Dean sat down on his bed and tugged his duffel bag closer with one foot. Some of the knives still needed sharpening.

"Nothing," Sam said. "I gave her their first names and the additional info that Ciaran went to medical school over there. She hasn't turned up a single thing, which is strange. There can't be that many Irish twins running around. She hit up school databases, college databases, and somehow even managed to worm her way into the immigration databases, and she's got nothing. Something's weird."

"They're twins whose eyes turn yellow when they work their demon-psychic mojo," Dean said. "It doesn't get much weirder than that." He laid out the knives in a row, fished a whetstone out of the bag.

Sam arched an eyebrow at him.

"I don't mean you're weird," Dean amended. "Well, you are, but not because of that. And your eyes don't turn yellow. Did Ava's?"

"No. Neither did Max's or Andy's." Sam sighed and sat back, rubbed his eyes. "People don't have no paper trail. There has to be something - medical records, school records."

"What if you have her just search for a pair of Irish twins about their age, matching their descriptions? But with different names," Dean said. He focused on the rhythm of a blade on a whetstone, making sure he did the same number of passes on each side of the blade.

Sam nodded and set about typing rapidly. "Do you think either of them have nightmares?"

Dean lifted his head sharply. "Like psychic visions like you?"

"No. The nightmares Ansem said he had, about seeing the yellow-eyed demon."

"Have you ever dreamed of him?"

"No," Sam said. "But I don't have to. I've seen him in real life." He finished typing and hit send, then sat back and closed his eyes. "What does it all mean, Dean? Did Dad give you any hint about what the demon wanted with kids like me?"

"No," Dean said. But Dad had hinted enough. Whatever the demon wanted, it had to be bad, so bad that John had ordered Dean to execute his own brother.

"Dammit." Sam closed his laptop and went to collapse on his bed. "Make sure we have some anti-demon supplies for when we're on shift tomorrow."

"You could get it yourself," Dean said, but Sam was already asleep.

* * *

As Aaron wasn't in the particular business of child welfare, he didn't feel all that obligated to attend any of the breakout sessions of the conference. Presenting alone would earn him about half his required CLE credits for the year so he could keep his law license, so he figured his spare time was best spent liaising with Chief Seegmiller and other local law enforcement leaders. They sat together during breakfast and the keynote address, and Aaron noted that the students at the table beside his were looking hungover and unhappy, but a couple of them were gamely attempting to take notes. Aaron scanned the room, and he didn't see Agent Finch or her partner, which was strange. Given their participation in the tennis tournament, he was assuming they were conference attendees as well. Maybe he was wrong. Or maybe they had something more pressing to do than attend the breakfast keynote address. Or perhaps they were presenting and had to get their presentations set up? Most of the presenters were marked with blue ribbons attached to their nametags. Aaron was only presenting at the first two breakout sessions today, and then the rest of the conference was for networking. Out of an abundance of politeness he planned on attending Chief Seegmiller's presentation. He suspected he'd be spending a lot of time on the tennis courts, though. Maybe he ought to go into town and pick up some additional tennis gear. He'd only brought along one set in faint hopes of picking up a casual game, but it looked like the games this time around were going to be anything but casual.

The morning presentations went well. Whoever Strauss had sent along to keep an eye on him would only be able to report back the best from SSA Hotchner. Morgan and Jason had both warned him against trying to start his presentation with any jokes, but Aaron wasn't a complete automaton, and he'd done well in trial practice in law school. He could handle an oral presentation just fine.

Chief Seegmiller, he noticed, was present for his first presentation. When he wasn't waxing enthusiastic about tennis, he had a very serious set to his jaw, gray gaze steely, hands clasped in front of him like he was resisting the urge to strangle the nearest cop in a polo shirt and cheesy sunglasses. He had, perhaps, failed to recover a child on a kidnapping case before. The missing child protocol was nothing groundbreaking, but it bore reviewing nonetheless.

Agents Finch and Fletchley were present at the second breakout session. Agent Finch took copious notes. Agent Fletchley stared at Aaron, gaze unwavering, with a focus that was disturbing. For the most part, the session attendees were professional, asked questions that remained on topic, but one or two always gave in to their curiosity about profiling.

"How did you know who was a cop and who was a lawyer yesterday at the tennis thing?" one of the cops asked.

Aaron smiled faintly. "It wasn't magic. Profiling is mostly about observation, noticing behavior and speech patterns. A good profiler notices the people around him. I arrived at the resort early yesterday, and by the time the tennis boot camp rolled around, I'd seen or been introduced to almost everyone there, and most people were kind enough to include their professions in their introductions or by wearing their badges. I remembered."

"So you can't read minds?" The young cop sounded disappointed.

"No one can do that," Aaron said. Agent Fletchley huffed, amused, like Aaron was saying something stupid. It was a rare display of emotion. Agent Finch kicked him in the ankle. After the session, Aaron had expected one or both of them to come talk to them, but neither of them did.

After the second breakout session there was lunch and then the afternoon keynote address by a teen hacker that Garcia would have thoroughly enjoyed. Since Aaron had no obligations for the afternoon breakout sessions, he decided to run into town to pick up some more tennis gear - shorts, shirts, clean socks, and a racket of his own. He'd arranged to meet up with Chief Seegmiller for some tennis practice during the final break-out session, and then they'd have dinner and drinks together.

When Aaron got back, he changed into shorts and a shirt, tied on his sneakers, and grabbed his racket. The tennis courts were, thankfully, shaded partially by the clubhouse and partially by trees even in the heavy afternoon heat, and one of the courts was unoccupied. On the other court, the twins were helping an older couple practice serving to each other.

Aaron stayed under the shade of the awning beside the long tables where sign-ups had occurred the night before and stretched out. It had been too long since he'd played any doubles tennis, and he wanted to warm up on his own before the Chief arrived. Aaron was about halfway done with his stretching when a shadow fell across him. He looked up - and up and up. It was the taller tennis pro. Aaron hadn't realized quite how tall last night; he'd been too busy concentrating on hitting serves from cocky cops.

"Good afternoon, sir," the young man said. Sam, his name was. "Are you looking for some time on the court?"

"Yes, please." Aaron stood up.

Sam turned away and ducked back into the building, then re-emerged with a clipboard and pen. "From when to when?"

Aaron rattled off the times.

Sam scribbled down on the clipboard, nodding deferentially. "Are you interested in any instruction or use of any of the equipment?"

Aaron looked Sam up and down. "I could use someone to serve and return service against," he said. "When my doubles partner arrives, I wouldn't mind a refresher game, if that works for you."

Sam studied the clipboard for a moment, nodded. "Of course. Would you prefer to practice against me or Dean? Both of us will be available if you need doubles opponents." He was polite, respectful without being obsequious. Aaron appreciated that.

"Which of you is better at tennis?"

"Me," Sam said automatically, then ducked his head, blushed like he'd said something rude.

"I appreciate your honesty," Aaron said. "Let me finish stretching out and I'll join you on the court." He offered a hand. "I'm Aaron."

"Sam." His handshake was firm, confident, brief. "Let me fetch a racket and some balls, and I'll meet you out there." And he ducked back inside.

Aaron was on the court and giving his racket a few test swings when Sam reappeared with a pail full of tennis balls and his racket.

"Would you prefer to serve first or second?" Sam asked, hefting the aluminum pail.

"First," Aaron said, and Sam trotted around the net to give Aaron the pail. Then he returned to the other side of the court and waited for Aaron.

Aaron preferred to serve out of deuce court because usually Haley was in ad court, and sometimes he just liked to be contrary. While he practiced serving against Sam, he learned a couple of things about himself he wasn't sure he liked - he wasn't as young as he used to be, and he hadn't factored elevation into his stamina. He was going to run out of steam faster than any of the local conference attendees. He also learned a couple of things about Sam. Sam was a naturally gifted athlete with quick reflexes and graceful movement, but he wasn't nearly good enough a tennis player to be working as a pro at a country club. His technique was good but not great, and he survived against Aaron by sheer dint of youthfulness and natural skill. Against a true tennis pro, he probably wouldn't survive a game. Aaron might have been more suspicious about why someone like Sam was working at a country club, but he'd seen the tension in Anna's shoulders last night during the tournament assessments, and he figured she needed all the help she could get for this conference. Maybe Sam was just a temp to help get Anna and Ciaran through the tournament. Or maybe this was a retirement town, and most of the seniors who frequented the club were less serious about tennis and more serious about feeling youthful and vigorous again, and a little eye candy helped that along. In fact, the entire staff at the country club saving senior management was young and attractive. Aaron was willing to bet none of the staff were over twenty-five.

Sam, observant in his own right, recommended a break after Aaron was done serving, and he handed Aaron a bottle of water before drinking from one of his own. There were benches beyond the tramlines on either side of the court where the ball kids sat, and Sam sank down on the one in the shade, taking another deep pull from his water bottle. He was sweating profusely, and he used a small towel to wipe himself off. He offered a clean towel to Aaron, who accepted it gratefully.

"So, how long have you been playing tennis?" Aaron asked.

"About six years," Sam said.

"What got you started?"

"College. Friends played." Sam was almost as laconic as Agent Fletchley, which wasn't surprising, given that Aaron was essentially a customer. He shouldn't have expected the familiarity he'd overheard on the terrace yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

"And do you enjoy any other sports?"

"Running," Sam said. "It helps me relax."

Aaron nodded. "I understand. I'm the same way. So, are you looking to compete professionally, or is this as pro as it gets for you?"

Sam was eyeing Aaron a little warily, but he was new to this job, and also most patrons - especially male ones - probably didn't bother to talk to him like this.

"Competing professionally isn't really an option," Sam said. "But I'll enjoy this while it lasts." He took a final pull from his bottle, emptying it, and then stood up, shook out his limbs. "So, my serve?"

Aaron nodded and stood up, set his bottle and towel on the bench to stay as cool as they could in the shade. "Please."

Sam was ten times more vicious at serving than he was at receiving service, and he kept Aaron scrambling all over the court trying to return service. Aaron had the sneaking suspicion that Sam was even going a little easy on him. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or embarrassed.

They took another break, during which both Dean and Chief Seegmiller arrived.

"Aaron!" the Chief said, jovial. He wore a pale pink polo shirt and white shorts and was twirling his racket with casual expertise. "You overachiever. That's why you have your own jet and I'm just a small-town police chief."

"It's not such a small town these days," Aaron said, smiling. "And you have achieved plenty on your own. So, are you ready?"

"To smack down a couple of teenagers? Hell yes." The Chief looked Sam up and down and smirked.

Dean and Sam were engrossed in a brief, intense conversation, which involved Dean darting several glances over his shoulder at Aaron. Then Dean trotted over to the fence separating the two courts and beckoned the twins over. There was another brief, intense conversation, and then Ciaran stepped through the gate. Dean went to join Anna, and Ciaran trotted up to Sam.

"So, doubles game?" he asked.

"Lemme stretch real quick," the Chief said. "And then you're on, Limey."

Ciaran's eyes widened at the epithet, but he bit his lip, said nothing. Sam cast him a glance, sympathetic, but they stood back and waited for the Chief to warm up.

The game began with Aaron's team serving. Ciaran wasn't nearly as good a player as Sam, and Sam ended up doing most of the leg work, dashing back and forth across the court to return volleys. The rhythmic thock, thock of the ball as it bounced back and forth was familiar, soothing. But Aaron was right - he became winded too early, and Ciaran, who had been hanging back to let Sam do most of the work, came alive.

Dean and Anna ended up keeping score halfway through the match. Anna cheered vociferously for her brother. Dean called out useless advice that mostly amounted to him comparing Sam to a girl. Anna looked ready to slap him. And Sam - Sam turned his game up another notch. The game ended with Sam and Ciaran just barely edging out Aaron and the Chief. Sam had been going easy on Aaron earlier.

Aaron reached across the net to shake hands with his opponents. "Good game," he said.

"Thank you." Ciaran's tone was brusque but not quite rude.

Sam smiled tiredly, sweat dripping into his eyes. "You too, sir."

The Chief's handshake was perfunctory. "Good game for a couple of skinny emo kids."

Ciaran nodded briefly. Sam met the Chief's gaze for a brief, bold moment, and then he was herding Ciaran to the sidelines where their siblings were waiting.

"Kids these days," the Chief said. "Were we ever like that when we were their age?"

Aaron said nothing.

"Nah. At least they're here doing something constructive instead of hanging around nightclubs having sex and smoking dope." The Chief sighed. "I wonder about that little skinny one, though. Seem a little...off, to you?"

"Off how?" Aaron asked. "He seemed a competent enough tennis player."

"Something about the way he was watching the other guy. A little too interested, if you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," Aaron said. The Chief wasn't speaking very quietly. Over by the tramlines, Ciaran had his back to them, but his shoulders were taut like piano wire.

Anna started forward, but Ciaran caught her wrist. She hissed something indecipherable and tried to pull away. Ciaran stepped toward her, hissing back, and Dean put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off. She lifted her head glaring right at the Chief, and for one instant in the fading sunlight, her eyes blazed gold.

There was a yelp, and Chief Seegmiller toppled backward like a felled tree.

Anna froze, eyes wide. Ciaran shoved her aside and dashed across the court. Aaron dropped to his knees beside the Chief.

"What happened?"

The Chief was holding very still, eyes wide, breath coming in rapid pants. "My back. I felt something give in my back. There was this popping sound and --"

Ciaran was there on the Chief's other side. He took over, speaking rapidly. "Where does it hurt?"

"My back." Pain drained the color from the Chief's face.

"Upper or lower?"

"Lower."

"Wiggle your toes for me."

The Chief nodded. Ciaran was staring at the man's sneakers. Aaron followed his gaze.

"Did you do it?" Ciaran asked.

"I just did."

"Do it again."

There was no movement in the man's sneakers. Ciaran cursed under his breath. "Spinal injury." Then he lifted his head. "Dean, call 911. Sam, take Anna and go find someone in management." He turned back to the Chief. "Who is your next of kin?"

"What? What's wrong?" The Chief's gaze darted wildly, but he wasn't moving his head.

Ciaran's tone was professional, calm. "It seems like you pulled something in your back. Don't move. We'll call an ambulance so you can get seen at the hospital, all right? Nothing to worry about. Better safe than sorry."

Aaron raised his eyebrows. Ciaran sounded like he'd done this before.

"My wife," the Chief said.

Ciaran met Aaron's gaze. "Will you ride along with him? I'll make sure the others put a bye in for you on the tennis tournament. A familiar face till his wife arrives at the hospital will help."

"The tennis tournament doesn't matter," Aaron said, because it didn't, but Ciaran kept on speaking.

"We'll find you another partner as well, just in case." Ciaran hollered over his shoulder at Sam, demanding he run and fetch the first aid kit from the locker room. Sam nodded and dashed away. Dean took Anna by the arm and hauled her toward the locker room. She was staring at the Chief, ashen-faced, horrified.

Guilty.

Why?

Sam returned with the first aid kit in a blink, and Ciaran set about administering to the Chief with all the efficiency and skill of a trained EMT. Either he had real EMT training, or the country club had gone above and beyond with the first aid training required of its staff. Given the average age of the club's patrons, additional medical training was probably wise.

Sam responded to Ciaran's orders with calm. His hands were steady as he handed over whatever medical supplies Ciaran asked for, and he was unflinching when the Chief writhed at Ciaran's hand at the back of his neck.

"That's pretty bad," Sam said.

Ciaran flicked Sam a look, nodded. "You'd know, then?"

"Enough." Sam handed Ciaran an ice pack.

"What can I do to help?" Aaron asked.

"Go out to the front gate," Ciaran said. "Guide the ambulance here."

Aaron nodded, hoisted himself to his feet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd run so fast, so hard. Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder and louder. Aaron paced back and forth along the driveway at the open gates, breathing hard. He couldn't believe what he'd seen. Twice, now. A flash of gold in one of the twins' eyes, followed by something impossible, like time slowing down, a glass righting itself, a man being thrown off his feet by an invisible force.

No. It must have been the heat. He must have been hallucinating, or imagining. His mind was in overdrive. Strain in his relationship with Haley, stress at work with Strauss, and this desert heat - it was enough to make a man mad.

Aaron closed his eyes, swallowed hard. He couldn't think like that. He was a profiler, an investigator. He had to be able to trust his senses, his perceptions. If those were untrustworthy, he was finished.

The ambulance klaxon grew louder and louder, and when Aaron opened his eyes, the ambulance was barreling straight at the gates. He waved his arms, and the ambulance screeched to a halt a hair's breadth from him.

"Which way?" the driver asked.

"Tennis courts. This way." Aaron turned and dashed back to the tennis courts, the ambulance on his heels. Heads turned, but few people actually followed or stopped what they were doing.

Sam and Ciaran had rigged the Chief onto an improvised backboard and brought him outside the fence around the tennis court. The ambulance halted just beside them, and the EMTs spilled out the back.

"What's the status?" the female EMT asked.

Ciaran rattled off a string of medical terms that left Aaron's head spinning. The EMTs looked surprised, but Sam did not. He stepped back obligingly when the EMTs swarmed the Chief.

"You did well," the female EMT said to Ciaran. "Would you like to ride along?"

Ciaran shook his head, lifted his chin at Aaron. "He's a friend of the patient. Familiar face might help."

The female EMT nodded. "Of course." To Aaron she said, "Climb in, sir. What can you tell me about the patient?"

"He's the chief of police," Aaron said, hoisting himself into the back of the ambulance and scrambling to get out of the way of the EMTs and the stretcher. "I have his wife's phone number. Which hospital are we going to? I'll have her meet us there."

The EMT told him the information, and Aaron nodded, committing it to memory. Just before the ambulance doors closed, he saw Dean and Anna, standing in the doorway of the staff locker room, watching grimly. Neither of them seemed to have noticed that Agents Finch and Fletchley were behind them.

Continued in Part Three