Jack hurtled out of the Metro station, the beat of his heart thundering in his ears. He squinted and oriented himself, trying to block out the percussive beat. He found the direction of WKSB and headed that way. The video had to get on the airwaves. Now. He considered it his life insurance.

He bolted into the building. Less than a dozen feet away, a young, pretty brunette sat at a desk. She raised her eyebrows, and he realized how ragged him must look.

"Can I help you?"

"I have breaking news. You need to get it on the air." He knew he sounded like a crazy person.

The woman raised one perfect eyebrow. "Regarding?"

"CIRAS."

She pursed her lips at him. "One moment, please. Sit over there." She lifted her hand in a frustratingly casual and condescending way, gesturing toward a group of chairs to her right.

"I think I'll stand." He crossed his arms and waited. The back of his neck prickled with fear.

"If you prefer." She picked up the phone and said, "Yeah, there's a guy here who says he has some breaking news about CIRAS . . . Okay . . . Okay, I'll tell him." She regarded Jack. "They said to tell you to wait in the seating area." She pointed to the chairs she had shown him before. "Over there." She pointed again. "In case you were wondering." She flashed a quick, false smile.

He waited. Standing. The receptionist kept on glancing up as if to see if he was still there. When he caught her eye, she smirked. The woman was stepping on his very last nerve. Wasn't she supposed to be friendly? Didn't they want to be the first one to break a story? They did. They should. Wait a minute. How long had he been here?

He glanced at his phone. Fifteen minutes. Too long. All of a sudden, everything snapped into a clear picture. Energy tingled through his limbs and into his stomach, where it stayed and started to turn to acid.

"I can't stay any longer," he told the brunette. Before she could reply, he walked out the door with fast strides. So much for his life insurance.

Outside, Jack started to run. Even though it was a cold night and he wore only Elvis's T-shirt and jeans, sweat cascaded out of his pores. His perspiration chilled immediately when it met the air.

He ran a couple of blocks, heading in the general direction of the Metro when he saw flashing lights up ahead. He reoriented to the right to avoid them. It seemed like more popped up whichever way he turned. He couldn't be sure he was the target, but it sure felt like it.

Ducking into an alleyway on his immediate right, he waited there to catch his breath. He pulled out his phone, punched a few keys, and posted the video on five different social media sites. There. He should have done that first.

Jack crept out of the alleyway. He felt exhausted, the weight of his limbs doubled. Stopping must have drained his adrenaline. There were glimpses of red and blue lights in every direction he looked, and he wouldn't be able to get past all of them. The only alternative was to walk right by. Maybe if he tried to look casual, they wouldn't notice.

Jack coursed briskly down the street. As he neared a Metro entrance, a group of cops emerged. One of them ran toward him and held out a badge shouting, "Jack Kerwin, you're under arrest . . ."

There was only a second for Jack to decide what to do. Fight or flight. Or give in. Jack sprinted in the opposite direction, willing his legs to go faster as he fled around the corner.

Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed that his pursuers had fallen back. He broke a quick left and pumped his arms hard. His legs flew. He ran past several blocks without thinking. It felt like those last few minutes of a soccer match when the score was tied, and it was imperative to make a crucial play.

Jack placed his foot down on the curb of the next block and chanced another look backward. They were even further away. Thank God. He slowed his pace and turned forward.

Damn. There was a whole new set of cops in front of him. He had nowhere to go. Jack blinked rapidly as if that would change reality. It didn't.

A different one held out his badge. He and three others approached. There were no alternatives. He held his hands up in a pose he'd only ever seen in the movies.

"Jack Kerwin, you are under arrest for the murder of Ellen Standis." He positioned himself behind Jack to handcuff him were ready to restrain him if necessary. Jack's mouth gaped open. He was too shocked and to resist.

The cop continued. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . ." They read him the rest of the Miranda rights,

"I didn't murder her. Dr. Scott Maxwell did. I was trying to rescue her. I can prove it."

"That's what they all say," the police officer replied with a laugh in his voice. He looked over at one of his colleagues so he could share in the joke, too. They sniggered together.

Jack clenched his teeth in a firm line. The tendons in his neck rose up in tight cords that continued to the collar of his shirt. His body was alert and ready for action, but his brain knew there was nothing he could do.

A different officer said, "Don't think we don't know that could be part of your cover. Make it seem like you were the good guy, when you were the one who murdered her all along. It's more common than you think. None of us were born yesterday." The guy had a Boston accent, and it made him sound stupid.

Jack's words flew from his mouth without forethought. "Jesus Christ, is the whole damn city in bed with CIRAS? Do you even know what they do there? Do you have any f'ing idea? Do you guys have children?"

The police officer looked at Jack like he was deranged. "Just trying to solve a murder, sir." The corners of his mouth lifted, but his eyes were hard. "Please come with us."

Jack pressed his palms together, which made the cuffs press into his wrists. "I want to call my lawyer."

"You will be allowed counsel," the officer said. "Now, Dr. Kerwin, let's go." The one who spoke gave him a rough push.

Jack glared back at the offender and had to exercise extreme control not to give him a hard whack in the balls. So much for trying to do the right thing, Jack thought. Nobody around here gives a crap. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, and continued to swear under his breath as they pushed him into the car. He looked out the window, remembering his first day at CIRAS. Who would have known it would come to this?

                                     ~~~

Someone forced Jack into the room with an unnecessary shove. The lighting was miserably low, so he couldn't see much. His hands were still cuffed behind him, which made him feel doubly vulnerable. In defiance, he raised his chin and looked around. He refused to appear defeated.

The room was dingy and dirty. It was so depressing that it must have been intentional. There was no place to sit. He was sure that was also planned. They wanted to break him down. So don't let them get to you, he thought.

In the center of the room was a solitary table. Jack walked up to it and laid a hand on it. It rocked and creaked under his touch. Jack looked back at the man behind him, who shrugged. Something in his eyes hinted of guilt. "I suggest you just wait," the man said. He left the room and locked the door behind him.

Jack stood and waited until his friend and attorney Jimmy Hudson walked in. Jimmy gave Jack an emotional hug, which actually scared him a little, because Jimmy wasn't exactly the hugging type.

His friend stepped away, giving him a rough slap on the shoulder. "Hey, I'd say it's good to see you, but . . ." He smiled with only half his mouth.

Jack finished his sentence. "But under the circumstances, not so much. Yeah, I guess I understand." He cocked his head to the side. "So can you get me out of here?"

Jimmy frowned and didn't answer immediately. "Jesus, what did you get yourself into?" He wheeled his head around to locate some place to sit.

"No chairs."

"They want to make you uncomfortable, huh?"

"Yeah, I think so." Jack looked around the horrible room and then back at Jimmy. "But I have to admit I'm already pretty uncomfortable. I'm being accused of murdering a woman I cared about. I wanted to save her. I tried to . . ." Jack's gaze fell to the floor.

"They say your prints are on the gun, Jack."

"I explained that to them."

"Okay, now explain it to me."

Jack described how things had occurred.

"I know you're telling me the truth, but you have to understand they have another way of looking at it."

"Which is?"

Jimmy swallowed. "They say that you killed Ellen, and Dr. Maxwell tried to stop you. After that, you knocked Maxwell unconscious and locked him up in that cell."

"Where did they get that load of shit?" Jack attempted to lean on the table. It tilted sharply, "Damn it!" he yelled, glaring at the unstable piece of furniture as if it were the source of all his problems. Without thinking, he punched it hard with his bound fists. No sooner had he done it than he realized it had been a very stupid idea. He shook his hands to try to reduce the painful stinging sensation in his knuckles.

"What did that table do to you?" Jimmy tried to joke. When Jack didn't even break a smile, he said, "That's Maxwell's side of the story."

"He's a dirty little prick!"

Jimmy looked at him seriously. "Your prints are on the gun, Jack."